Sometimes the water finds you before the ship even leaves the dock. A soggy sprint through a Galveston downpour proves that while you can’t control the weather, you can at least try to wring a little humor out of the situation.
Our trip is off to a rough start. The drive to Galveston was a slow crawl through a wall of water; every time I claimed the sky was clearing, another torrent arrived to prove me wrong.
I dropped Becky at the terminal in a light sprinkle, but the moment I pulled away, the clouds opened up in a fresh avalanche. My reserved parking lot is right across the street, and I figured I could mitigate the damage by performing what serves as a sprint for a lumpy, fifty-year-old man. However, the attendant directed me to a lot a block and a half farther away than usual.
The Parking Lot Prophecy
Resigned to walking through a two-block car wash rinse cycle, I accepted my fate—until a kindly young man in a golf cart pulled up and offered me a ride to the crosswalk. As I was stepping off, he gave me a parting bit of hope: “Looks like you’re going to be lucky and get a break in the rain.”
Just as my foot hit the pavement, the sky collapsed.
Through the blinding grey, the massive Carnival Dream seemed to morph into a weathered vessel of acacia wood. I could just make out a long-bearded man on the deck, calmly directing giraffes and zebras into the hull.
The Restroom Spin Cycle
By the time I reached the shelter of the terminal, my shirt felt like it had just finished an extended wash in a Maytag, but without the spin cycle. I ducked into a restroom to wring myself out, only to find the towel dispenser broken. I briefly considered tossing the dispenser in the trash, but didn’t have a Phillips screwdriver with me. So, I settled for going into a stall, ripping off my shirt, and twisting it until my arms ached. The maneuver removed a few tablespoons of rainwater from it. Even the miles of low-bid, half-ply toilet tissue I pulled off the roller did little to absorb my moisture-rich humiliation.
Every step toward the desk was accompanied by a rhythmic squish-squish from my sneakers that announced my arrival before I even opened my mouth.
Mugshots and Moisture
At the check-in counter, I begged the clerk not to take my photo. She kindly offered to use my passport picture instead—an image that reminded me of a hardened felon’s welcome photo when entering San Quentin. For the first time in my life, I was grateful for that mugshot.
After checking in, we were given a high boarding group number, which allowed me to drip-dry in the Galveston terminal’s cold, Ellis Island-style seats. By the time I finished writing this on my phone, I looked no wetter than the average cruiser. Despite it all, I was excited to begin vacation with my girl at my side.
Just as we stood up to head for the ramp, the music was interrupted by a cheery announcement promoting a special: “Seven days of unlimited wash and dry service for only $99.” Since I’d already had the wash, I wondered if I could get the dry service for half price.
