Traveling with Del Griffith

Yesterday marked my last workday of the school year. While other teachers spend weeks reacquainting themselves with their sofas before travel, I’m more of a “get out of Dodge by sundown” type—though in our case, sundown usually finds us hunting phone chargers and stashing Imodium—just in case.

Our schedule always revolves around one immovable obligation: dropping our seventy-pound, loving middle-linebacker of a dog at the kennel. He absolutely loves the place—no coaxing required. The only real challenge is holding him back so we don’t get tackled in the doorway ahead of him. When the crate door opens, he bounds outside and into the back seat of our car, tail wagging like he’s headed to doggie Valhalla where there’s a Little Debbie’s buffet.

As veteran cruisers, we’ve got terminal arrival timing down to a ritual: not so early we have to battle legions of departing passengers, not so late we’re stuck outside in lines with a horde of travelers, all yearning to breathe free. Our version of a perfect embarkation day always begins with a seamless arrival—and sometimes that actually happens.

With the car packed and the sky starting to look like a scene out of a Jim Cantore tropical-storm special, I naively bet I could beat the downpour to Galveston. Six minutes later, we’re rolling south with the wild optimism of people who ignore local weather. Five miles on, traffic drops to school-zone speed, then a car-wash crawl. The rain is coming down faster than my wipers—or my patience—can handle. I sneak a peek at my watch: we’ve been on the road longer than my usual 45-minute jog to the terminal, and we aren’t even halfway there.

Every time I think the rain is finally slacking off, another vengeful torrent backhands us for good measure. An hour and thirty-six minutes after leaving our driveway, I arrive—frazzled—at a terminal that looks like controlled chaos on a bad day. Just then, the downpour kindly dials back to a gentle sprinkle, giving us a chance to ditch our luggage with a porter—one of a dozen sporting matching Hawaiian shirts that look straight out of a K‑Mart liquidation.

Leaving my wife safely under the terminal’s wide, covered concourse, I pull out into the sea of cars inching toward the exits and head for my prepaid parking spot—a “short walk,” or so I’ve been led to believe. I’ve barely put the car into drive before the skies open up yet again, unleashing a fresh deluge on every poor soul still outside.

When I finally arrive at my designated spot—already missing my usual, closer lot—I discover it’s in an auxiliary lot a full block farther away. As I’m contemplating my luck, an attendant in a battered golf cart appears and offers me a lift to a sidewalk across from the terminal. I gratefully hop in.

As I climb out, the driver tries to reassure me: “Looks like you’ve finally got a break in the rain, buddy.” He sounds optimistic, which is impressive given my shirt and shorts are already damp enough to qualify as pre‑wash. I thank him, step onto the sidewalk—and, naturally, the heavens open again. If this were a car commercial, the next shot would show me drenched by a passing wave, just for emphasis.

Gazing up through the blinding rain, the Carnival Breeze blurs in sheets of water—transformed in my mind into a massive acacia‑wood vessel. I can almost make out a long‑bearded man on the deck, directing giraffes and zebras up the gangway.

By the time I get to the covered terminal, my lightweight shirt feels as if I’ve been wearing it during a wash cycle—minus the spin cycle.

I spot a restroom, hoping I might dry off and salvage a little dignity. But once inside, I’m greeted by a sign on the paper-towel dispenser: Out of Order. Vandalism crosses my mind purely as a theoretical exercise—I mean, who’d blame a soaked traveler for raiding a roll of those budget towels the schools use? One glance inside, though, and I decide not to add “petty criminal” to today’s résumé.

Looking around and seeing no other option, I duck into a stall, take off my shirt, and wring it out over the toilet. Over and over, I twist with all my waterlogged might, but it somehow feels just as soaked as before.

Next, I pull what seems like miles of micron-thin toilet paper from the roll—but it soaks up about as much water as a used tea bag.

With as much dignity as I can muster, I make my way upstairs to the check-in counter and beg the clerk not to take a “vagrant who won a cruise” photo of me for my room card. She offers to use my passport photo instead—which, for the record, looks like it was snapped just as I was being booked into San Quentin. For once, I’m thrilled to have that awful picture. It’s the first time a mugshot felt like an upgrade.

We’re directed to take our seats and wait for our embarkation group to be called. As I sit there, I feel water dribbling off my hair and rolling down my face. I’m more than a little embarrassed at my appearance, but I attract about as much attention from my fellow travelers as the ceiling tiles. Everyone is already lost in their own dreams of the wonderful cruise that awaits them. Proof that hope really does float, even in a downpour.