They say a journey of a thousand miles starts with one step; I say a family vacation begins with at least a couple of missteps. But let me start from the beginning…
Early in 2020, a friend clued us in to a spectacular deal online: roundtrip airline tickets to Hawaii for $250/person. The price tag on a dream trip for the family dangled in front of our eyes for a minute, teasing us. Refusal would’ve been foolishness.
We snapped up five tickets, booking our trip for August 2020, and mentally packed our bags. As summer ebbed away, however, pandemic travel bans sloshed ashore, and we learned Hawaii would be closed to tourism as of July 31. We changed our tickets to early January 2021.
Hawaii reopened to travelers in October 2020. We followed The Big Island’s pre-travel requirements for Covid-19 testing and learned we needed to test negative for the virus within 72 hours of our flight. Husband ordered saliva test kits for the family, throwing in an extra for an early practice session on himself. We were set.
On Thursday, December 31, the five of us rolled out of bed to meet a nurse through our computer screens who watched us spit into our respective vials. We packaged our test tubes per the instructions, and Husband drove them to FedEx. Our departure on Sunday, January 3, was so close I could almost smell the salty breezes. I lugged out my empty suitcase, eager to fill it.
Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka scribbled lists and packed, their excitement charging the air. Of my three natural blondies, the two oldest had morphed into brunettes in the fall just for fun, but now, mere days from wheels-up, Ricka needed to be blonde again for her upcoming beach life. The three of them chased her inspiration to Sally Beauty and came back with hair coloring supplies just as Husband returned from sending out our bodily fluids.
“Uh, about those tests,” Husband said, “I just read online that because of the holiday, the lab isn’t open Saturday, after all. They won’t even get our tests until sometime Monday, the 4th.”
But our flight was on Sunday, January 3…
We trashed all hope in the Covid tests from that morning, now sitting at a FedEx in Saint Paul. We needed new tests and favorable results from a Hawaii-approved facility—and fast!—but not one testing location in the Minneapolis/Saint Paul area was available. All required us to have appointments, and all were currently filled. What now?
Husband wrangled five appointments for Saturday, January 2, seventy-three miles away at a CVS in Sauk Rapids, Minnesota, but we would have to make two separate trips to accommodate all our schedules. A pit formed in my stomach. So many variables, so little time.
On Friday night, the girls broke from packing, and Flicka and Dicka stripped Ricka’s hair, ushering in The Crying. I poked my head into the bathroom-turned-lab. Ricka’s previously dark brown hair sat in an orange and yellow situation on her head. Flicka and Dicka, silent and wide-eyed, gazed at their sister. Ricka blurted something about perennial ugliness from that day forward.
“Oh,” I said, swallowing a gasp. “It’s not really that bad.”
But sometimes it is.
Worries churned my stomach on Saturday as our first group made the trek to Sauk Rapids for Covid testing.
“You’ll get your results in 2-24 hours,” the technician at the drive-up pharmacy window said.
I ran calculations in my head. It was already 10:30 a.m., and our flight departed at 7:00 a.m. the next morning. What if it took the full 24 hours for results? And what about Ricka, at work now, who was to be tested at 4:00 p.m.? When would her results come in? And what if only half of us had our results? Or what if we all got our answers in time, but one of us tested positive?
Within two hours, the first batch of results popped into our email accounts: negative, negative, negative, negative. I could almost breathe again. Almost.
My suitcase sat empty. How could I layer in my sundresses and swimsuit without knowing if this trip was happening?
In the afternoon, Husband drove Ricka to Sauk Rapids for her Covid test. I paced the house. One left to go, one left to go… By 7:30 p.m., the final results came in: negative. Relief flooded my everything. We huddled as a family, arms linked, and prayed our thanks.
We split up to pack—only ten hours until our flight now—and the girls headed back into the bathroom for another go at Ricka’s hair—this time to bleach it. I’m no hair stylist, but was it really a good idea, this second stint of chemical processing in only 24 hours? Soon The Crying from the bathroom told me no.
I popped my head back into the lab. Ricka picked at her yellow hair, and a chunk framing her face broke off in her fingers. I gulped down my reaction. Wordless and unblinking, Flicka and Dicka stared at their sister.
“Well, at least the orange is gone?” I said. One of the colorists said something about toning it now, and I held up a hand. “No. Slather on some coconut oil, wrap it in a scarf, and go to bed.”
I wanted to say it would all be fine, but I try hard not to lie to the kids.
My concerns about Covid testing and botched color jobs frittered away the next morning as we boarded our flight from Minneapolis to San Francisco. I nestled into the seat next to Husband. The girls sat in the row ahead of us. With each passing hour, the aircraft winged us closer to paradise. I eyed my second-born, wearing the same head scarf she had slept in.
“Uh-oh,” I whispered to Husband, pointing at our girl’s head. “Check out her hair.” Little fuzzy, broken patches popped out from the edges of her scarf.
He shrugged. “What’s the worst that can happen? She can always just shave it off.”
Soon, my ears told me we had started the descent into San Francisco. A few minutes later, though, the plane’s engines roared louder and we climbed again.
The pilot’s voice came over the speaker. “There’s some fog above the airport, so we’ll make a second pass to see if we’re cleared to land then.”
I tipped my head back, resting my eyes. Might as well enjoy the ride. We were on vacation, and nothing could hold us back now. The airplane looped a second time and attempted a landing. Then came the third pass before it accelerated, gaining altitude once more. Our connecting flight to Hawaii was boarding in only an hour, and I imagined our reward at the end of it: soft sand and aqua waters. Oh, Kona, we’ll be there before you know it.
“We’re rerouting to San Jose,” the pilot said.
*Tune in next week for the second installment of our Hawaiian adventures. Mahalo!
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.