The first time we visited the Caribbean, our plans were to go to St. John, USVI, for a week, then head over to Tortola for another week of sailing in the British Virgin Islands. Liz and I were living in London, George and Cathy in New Orleans, and we were to converge on St. John from two different countries, at three different times. I was the latest, heading over after the other three had been there for a few days.
It was 1989, the year that Hurrican Hugo ripped its way up the eastern Caribbean, and laid waste to San Juan, St. Thomas, St. John, and a good part of the BVIs. We were to arrive one month after Hugo did his thing. None of us had ever been in the Caribbean before, but we felt that all that Jimmy Buffett music we listened to had prepared us for anything we might find there.
When Liz was making the arrangements, she presented me with an intriguing option for the flight from San Juan to St. Thomas - a company was still flying old DC-3s, would I like to take that? I couldn't think of anything cooler riding in a 50 year old, twin prop tail dragger. I still remembered when I was a teenager, seeing my dad waving from the door of the Frisco Railway company plane, also a DC-3. I asked her to book it for me.
When I arrived in San Juan from London, I was alone, jet-lagged, tired, and just wanted to board my antique airplane and head south. It was not to be. I looked around for listings for my airline, nothing. I asked around. No one heard of it.
Feeling like I might be the victim of some international airline rip-off, I started calling around. Finally, after several calls, I managed to find someone who had actually heard of the airline.
The voice on the phone reported, "De plane is in de shop, mon."
Sigh... I stood in line to buy a ticket on another, more conventional, airline. As the line inched forward, it seemed that everyone was trying to make alternative arrangements due to the failure of one airline or another. By the time I got to the front of the line, I had already heard that there were no more planes tonight to St. Thomas - the landing lights at the airport had not yet been fixed, and planes couldn't land there after dark. I booked my flight for the next morning.
As I made my way to the conveniently-located roach-motel in the San Juan Airport, I thought vaguely about my shipmates standing at the St. Thomas airport, not knowing where I was or what had happened to me. I didn't have a way to contact them. I had no idea where they were staying. I was just going to have to fly to St. Thomas in the morning and hope they would be there waiting for me.
Around midnight I was roused from much needed sleep by the phone. Who would be calling me here? Had to be a wrong number. I picked it up and mumbled a greeting.
"Whooo hoooo! What's going on, Mr. Andy?".
My friends had found me, somewhat easily, it turned out, by finding a friendly San Juan operator who listened to their tale, and immediately connected them to my roach-motel. Still in shock that we had actually made contact, we made plans to meet in the morning.
The next day, landing at St. Thomas airport, I gazed on a real Caribbean island for the first time. The airport terminal gleamed in the morning sun. The palm trees swayed in the breeze...
...and there, off the end of the runway, was a DC-3. In pieces. It looked like Hugo had just wadded it up and thrown it there.
I still don't know if was my plane, but I prefer to think it was. It's more romantic.