In between naps on my flight from New York City to Seattle, I refreshed FlightAware to get the latest ETA for my landing.
I was finally flying across the country, racing to make it onboard Virgin Voyages' Brilliant Lady for the line's cruise to Alaska.
It was never originally going to be a race, but after more than three hours stuck on a plane at JFK Airport during a storm, my original flight to Seattle had been canceled. Then there was a failed attempt to get on a standby flight the next morning after just four hours spent at an airport hotel. The flight I finally made it on was going to cut it really close.
I'd have just one hour and 10 minutes between landing and the gangway going up at the cruise terminal at 4:30 p.m., according to FlightAware.
The drive from the airport to the cruise terminal was going to be 35 to 40 minutes, which I'd determined after frequently refreshing the coordinates of the drive on Google Maps throughout my flight. And I'd be landing at a terminal that requires a tram to access the airport exit.
My calculations left me with anywhere from zero to 15 minutes to spare, depending on how quickly I'd be able to deplane, how quickly my legs could move through the airport and whether the traffic gods were in my favor.
My host from Virgin Voyages, already on the ship with my mother, texted me saying she'd told the terminal about my predicament. The best they'd be able to do is get me on a few minutes after 4:30 p.m., she said. In their words, I should "haul ass," she texted.
Not born to run
Let me pause here to share a bit about my running abilities. Prior to 2024, I truly could not run. But after excruciating experiences trying to catch buses and one too many news stories about people escaping life or death circumstances with their legs, I committed to acquiring it as a survival skill.
I have still never run a mile faster than 11 minutes, but as I waited to arrive in Seattle, I was thanking myself for the years of torturous runs that had prepared me for this moment. One variable was accounted for.
About two-thirds of the way through the flight, I convinced a flight attendant to let me off the plane with the 12 passengers who were gunning to make a tight connection to a flight to San Francisco. Another variable accounted for.
As we prepared to land, I felt the way I'd imagine runners do before a race, my feet eager to start the journey but not yet authorized to do so.
Brilliant timing
Then, finally, I was running through Seattle-Tacoma Airport, my backpack bouncing as I dodged human obstacles.
Once I found my driver, we ran together to the car, though he had no idea why I was in such a rush. I caught him up on the last 24 hours of my life, and he promised to drive as efficiently as he could.
Throughout the drive, our ETA fluctuated between 4:25 p.m. and 4:29 p.m., but somehow never went past 4:30 p.m. I could see the Brilliant Lady in the distance and felt optimistic but didn't dare let myself get overconfident.
If my memory serves me correctly, I think we arrived as early as 4:22 p.m., but it was a blur from that moment on as I got checked in and cleared security. As I wheeled my luggage through crowded elevators onboard, everyone was already headed up for the sail away party.
I joined them, never happier to hear the opening notes of Nina Sky's "Move Ya Body." It was official: I was going to Alaska.