By Mel McConaghy
The shuttle drove us from the airport, to where the cruise ship was docked, and then sat there.
A lovely young lady got on the bus at 12:30, and told us that there’d be more of a delay, so we sat. After an eternity, they finally unloaded us.
Now, the last time I’d seen the little old gray haired lady with the cane, she had gotten her bag from the cruise ship, and was sprinting toward a big building. She was trucking along at such a rate of speed, with that cane viciously held forward like a jousting lance, that I am sure I saw smoke coming off the little wheels on her suitcase. I don’t think they were engineered, or even designed, to travel at beyond Mach One. At the cruise ship building waits yet another lady with a clipboard, who once more asks for our names. Finding our entries on her cruise ship manifest, she said, “I see that you’re Canadians, and that you have sailed with us before.” I said, “Yes,” and then had to darn near drag Barbara away, as she commenced telling the poor lady all about our cruise ship adventure to Alaska. That lady quickly pointed over at another lady, and said, “You’ll need to go see that lady over there.” So we did.
The next lady said, “Hi folks. Are you latitudes?” I said, “No ma’am, we’re Canadians.” Somewhat indignant, she said, “Yes, but are you latitudes?” Narrowing my eyes, I looked at her and said, “No. Like I told you before, we’re Canadians.” Growing frustrated, she asked, “I know that, but have you sailed with us before?” I growled, “Yes we have, but what has that to do with us getting on that cruise ship? Do you people speak a different language, or what?” I was just about to share the dictionary’s definition of latitude with the gal, when Barbara pulled me away, as the lady glaringly pointed to yet another line. This went on for most of the afternoon, and finally, at four o’clock, after going through another security search and customs, we got on-board. By now my new passport was starting to get a little dog-eared.
Once aboard the cruise ship, we found our cabin, but there was only one bag outside the door. Cringing inside, I said, “They have to bring a lot of luggage on board, it’ll be here,” as I almost gave myself a hernia lifting the bag into the cabin. The day had almost done me in, so I lay back on the bed to have a rest. I was just about to doze off, when Barbara said, “Mel, see if our other bag’s here yet.” I got up, opened the door and looked out. No bag. I repeated this procedure a ‘few’ times before the bag fairy finally showed up, and then we unpacked.
A limerick for Mel, written by author John Bell:
Mel McConaghy’s first name is Lester.
Local politicos he just loves to pester.
From his days on the road, he still loves to goad.
No offense. He’s simply a jester.
Barb And Mel’s Wondrous Adventure Part 1
Barb And Mel’s Wondrous Adventure Part 2
Barb And Mel’s Wondrous Adventure Part 3
Barb And Mel’s Wondrous Adventure Part 4
Barb And Mel’s Wondrous Adventure Part 5
Barb And Mel’s Wondrous Adventure Part 6
My Life Through a Broken Windshield by Mel McConaghy
Mel McConaghy is a retired trucker and author from Prince George, British Columbia. Mel’s tales are his views of life “through a broken windshield”. They are entertaining and humorous in a folksy style.
Visit Mel’s website at www.melmcconaghy.com