Free

First stop Aruba. 

On a muggy June Baltimore evening, my husband sat in our family room in front of our television, impassively watching his favorite science fiction programming.

"Destination Aruba is canceled," he said mechanically, almost as robotic as the show he was viewing. "I love going yearly, but we can't afford to go this year."

An eerie white noise filled the room, only to discover a programming disruption, perfect timing. I couldn't reply to his announcement since his words were muted by the pressures of life, sandwiched between parents and grandkids, among whom, without knowing, clipped my wings. Aruba was our haven that we traveled to every August.

I prepare for all vacations at least three months in advance, but not this year. This was a strange year. I couldn't work because of caring for my parents, thus forcing me to take money from my savings to pay bills. I kept saying to everyone, "I have to get away, or I will lose my mind," though no one heard me; they were too busy pleading their cases of despair. It seems the year was acting strangely for everyone.

Months went by, and I tried to convince myself that time spent at home was just as pleasant as being on vacation in Aruba, but it wasn't. I avoided phone calls, read books, and wrote stories, yet felt nothing. I couldn't find the feeling of pure comfort and the effervescent spirit that Eagle Beach, Aruba, provided.

In September, I screamed again, "I have to get away, or I will lose my mind."

My husband heard my desperation and said, "You know what, Honey, let's go."

Last-minute plans were made for November travel at the peak of hurricane season. No worries, Aruba didn’t experience hurricanes. However, the connecting flight in Florida did. Hurricane Nicole canceled everything, destroying all possibilities and clipping my wings again. Tears fell. My husband, concerned about my misery, though no doubt was experiencing something similar, stayed up all night devising an expensive flight to Aruba as everything economy had been booked or canceled. He managed to get first-class flights to Aruba with a layover in New York. We were both thrilled, although feeling somewhat strange. I don't know if it was the exhaustion of fighting for time away or the discernment of what may come because sometimes trouble travels in a pack.

Once on the plane, the pilot announced that several airplanes, including ours, required de-icing. Five minutes later, the pilot announced that the machine that de-ices the aircraft had broken. 

"Why would our plane need de-icing? It's not even cold outside."

Getting another machine and departing from the runway took at least fifteen to twenty minutes. While in the air, I looked at my watch and noticed that it was 6:50am, and our flight to Aruba left JFK airport at 7:20am. 

"We are pushing the time."

We arrived at JFK Airport at 7:05am. 

"Good. I think we have enough time to get to our gate. We are only two gates over."

Then the Flight Attendant said, "Anyone flying to Aruba, no need to run."

My husband took her statement to mean the plane was going to wait for us. But I insisted we should hurry, so we ran to the boarding area. Our flight left.

Consequently, there was no need to run.

But I did run; I ran to the desk in the boarding area.

"Good Morning. Can I help you?"

"Yes, I think my flight may have left?" I was breathless from running.

"Can you provide me with your ticket, please?" Cool, calm, she put out her hand.

I handed the Agent the ticket. Her eyes never met mine. If the description of an airline agent was a person who gave no eye contact and showed no emotions, this person excelled at their job.

"That is correct; your flight just left.” She continued to look only at her screen and not at me. “I can get you another flight tomorrow morning. There is nothing available today."

"Wait… nothing today. We've paid for a seven-day resort, and we can't get there until tomorrow?” My tone did not match hers, for I could feel heat rising, my heart fluttering, and my voice deepening. “You cannot be serious?" I closed my eyes and breathed in, intensely remembering what it took to get this far. "Are you at least paying for our hotel?"

"No, I'm sorry. We don't pay for a hotel stay if the cause of you missing your flight was because of the weather." Still no emotion.

My husband walked over to the desk, angry but trying his best to be calm. "I need to speak with a manager because the weather didn't cause our delay. The machine that de-ices the plane broke down."

After a long conversation with the manager, they decided they would pay for our hotel stay. Still, we lost a day at our resort in Aruba.

The next day was early. The flight was at 6:15 am. We were comfortably seated on the plane, anxiously waiting to fill our thoughts with the ocean, sand, and sun that would make up for the lost day.

Then.

"Babe, what is that smell?" 

"I can't smell anything. Wait…there it is. What is that?"

The most heinous odor was filling the aircraft. Directly behind me, a woman began screeching.

"I cannot believe you would take a laxative before a flight. Now you've crapped your clothes and the seats. Why would you be so stupid."

The elderly gentleman who sat behind me had to change clothes, and we had to leave our first-class seats because the odor was shocking. The poor flight Attendants had to clean the chairs.

Finally, Aruba.

It was a stunning ocean getaway, especially Eagle Beach. The waves of teal and aqua mesmerized as the waters flowed gently. Its sands were milky and soft on the toes, with bonsai-looking trees growing out of the sand. The November rains prevented nothing from changing. The morning set intentions: its creative process inevitably occurred when I enjoyed its beauty. There were lessons to learn in the water; it didn’t ask permission to relax me. Its glory followed deliberately. Six days and every day served a purpose. I thought, "How do I keep these intentions and the purpose?"

On the second day, I went for a run early in the morning. It had rained the day before (pretty hard for Aruba), which left huge puddles on the street.

Cars and buses would drive by, honking their horns slowly to avoid splashing water. For the first time, while running, I didn't need to listen to music. I didn't need a diversion. At home, I blocked all of the world's sounds, smells, and pleasure interference. In Aruba, I'm free; I could fly.

Six days went by very quickly.

The flight coming home was late, complicated, and tiresome. We flew into Dulles, VA, airport and decided to stay at a hotel in Virginia before driving back home to Baltimore, Maryland.

While at the hotel, I woke up early and went downstairs to the gym for a quick run. Upon returning to my room, I showered and got dressed for breakfast.

We sat down in the dining area. There was a family with a mother and four kids. The youngest looked around three or four years old. A long ponytail pinned up in a bun, beautiful brown eyes beaming like daylight. To be honest, I thought he was a little girl because of his delicate features and long curly locks that surrounded his face. He looked at the breakfast plate with waffles, eggs, sausage, bacon, and fruit. After he scarfed down his entire meal, he leaped on top of his chair and began to dance. He danced freely with no music playing in the background, just to whatever was playing in his head. His siblings watched curiously and tried to get him to sit civilized like everyone else in the room, but he was appreciating his life. The long, arduous flight had not bothered him.

I walked over to the coffee machine, looked at whom I presumed to be his mother, and stated, "She is so adorable."

The mother said, "Actually, he's adorable."

I quickly apologized for assuming and grabbed another cup of coffee.

A gentleman stood beside me and said, "You are right; he is adorable. I was on the elevator with them, and he put his arms like the wings of a plane. ‘I'm a helicopter…brrrrrr…. brrrrr., I’m free!’ His mother told him, ‘No, you are not.’"

I looked at the joy presented before me, the freedom of a child, and said to the gentleman who spoke to me, "It was a strange year, sometimes… just sometimes, you gotta be a helicopter."