Back at the Port of Spain airport this morning, I was checking in for the hop over to Tobago. After fifteen minutes of fussing with the computer, the agent walked off to find her manager with nary a word to me. All I could think was, "What now?"
Several minutes, lots of questions (on my part) and innumerable fights with the computer later, I was sent off to play Windows- the ever present third world game where one is sent from one window to another in ping-pong fashion in desperate search of someone, anyone, who is willing and able to help.
"You have to go to counter number two."
"Why?" I asked naively. "I have my confirmation here. I've already reserved and paid for the ticket. Isn't that all you need?"
You'd think, but no. Apparently, the airline I'd booked through hadn't 'released' the ticket. Whatever that meant, the outcome was that my reservation (and payment) didn't matter. I wasn't getting a boarding pass until I ping-ponged around the airport. In all of my travels, I've never heard of such a thing. It just goes to show that the more time passes, the more complicated airlines can and will make our lives.
After bouncing around a few counters, I found relief at window number one. It took the agent there all of five seconds to solve the problem, then I had to run back to the original check in counter to get my boarding pass. "Do you have any luggage to check?" Not today.
Through security, across the tarmac and onto the puddle jumper. Sorted, seated and breathing a sigh of relief, I tried to look forward to my expedition. It didn't work. Without dive gear, the next two weeks are looking pretty bleak.
But twenty minutes later (including flight time), as I walk out of the Tobago airport, I feel a breath of hope. The island air hits me. One deep breath and life's starting to feel good.
Due to someone else's foresight, the small group of volunteers converging on Tobago today has been in touch, and I had a welcome party of one waiting for me. We introduced ourselves and quickly set off for the nearest beach. She'd arrived a few days before and had scouted out the area. I followed her lead.
Settling in, I rolled up my pants, shed my sweatshirt and got as beachy as I could. The balmy eighty-five degrees, slight wind and relaxed atmosphere went a long way to chilling me out.
A few hours later, we wandered back to the airport to meet the next of our party to arrive. A stop in the office to check on my luggage yielded nothing, so we sat outside the arrival hall and lamented on past trips gone wrong. Funny how there are so many.
Our small group swelled, we tried out a new beach, then traipsed back to the airport one last time to meet our final group member and catch our ride to the expedition site.
An hour and a half of twisting, winding roads later, we pulled up to our new home. Located in Charlotteville, the Coral Cay Conservation field house is a cottage smack on the beach. A holiday property, the Man O' War Bay Cottages, lets out a cottage for Coral Cay's use. We were introduced to the volunteers and staff already on site, given a quick tour of the premises, and then shown the 'bar'.
Much needed drinks in hand, we chatted a bit with our new housemates. My lost luggage brought out the best in people: before I went to bed I had a bikini, shorts and a tank top in hand, and the promise of a spare wetsuit, mask and snorkel for tomorrow.
With luck, I'll be able to rustle up some shampoo, too.

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