By Vicki Brown
I have always been a lousy traveler. I get car sick, air sick, sea sick, and just plain sick when anything is in motion. As a child, car travel caused me no end of grief. My parents weren’t too thrilled either.
So it should have come as no surprise that I began to grow nauseous on the airplane flying me and my brand new husband to our honeymoon location in Miami. Nothing was more embarrassing as far as I was concerned. I had packed everything I could think of for the trip…except Dramamine.
About 10 minutes in the air, I confessed my anxiety to my husband who immediately summoned a flight attendant. I asked if they had any medication on board for air sickness, but she said no with a sympathetic smile.
Just as I was beginning to resign myself to using the “barf bag”, the flight attendant made a suggestion. She vowed that a champagne cocktail would make me feel better and put me at ease. I confess, I had never had one before but was just desperate enough to try anything.
She brought me the adult beverage that was sparkling and had a few pieces of fruit. It looked innocent enough, and even though I was quite the novice as far as alcoholic beverages were concerned, I didn’t think that this one small drink would hurt me.
I quickly gulped down the drink, wrinkling up my nose at the taste. But the fruit was delicious. Since I had no ill effects whatsoever, I ordered another one. And downed that one, too.
In the meantime, the flight attendant became excited when she discovered that we were on our honeymoon. In order to “celebrate” and congratulate us, she asked my new husband to open his briefcase that he had brought with him. It contained our marriage license, hotel information, and a few other things. When he opened it, she dumped an entire bag of mini bottles inside, beamed down at us and said, “Congratulations!”
My poor husband, who didn’t drink either, now found himself the proud owner of about 25 mini bottles of alcohol playfully clinking together as they rolled around the briefcase.
I began to pick each one up, trying to unsuccessfully read the labels and giggling uncontrollably. At this, my husband insisted that I stop and try to go to sleep. I looked at him, ready to argue, when suddenly, I felt so sleepy, I couldn’t hold up my head. I was out for the count.
I need to back up and impart some information to you before going on further with the story. My future husband was 23 and the newest pastor in the Santee Baptist Association. He had just been ordained, and one of the men on the council was Reverend Benenhaley. The Reverend was a role model for my fiance’ and had taken the time to give his blessing and words of encouragement to us as we embarked on this new ministry. Weeks later, I married my fiance’ and we departed on our honeymoon trip…the one that was making me nauseated. The one where I, a teetotaler, had just swallowed down two champagne cocktails.
Now this is where the story gets a little hazy. I had to rely on my husband to find out what happened.
Our plane landed in Atlanta, and when we deplaned, we had to get from one gate to another in one of the world’s largest airports. Unfortunately, I was completely drunk, barely able to walk, and completely unaware of what was happening.
My poor husband juggled a briefcase, my purse, a carryon, and me…with my arm slung around his neck as he dragged my limp body through the airport.
And THAT is when we directly ran into… Reverend Benenhaley. My husband was mortified. What were the odds of that. (Pretty darn good, for us apparently).
My husband began stammering out that I was indisposed from air sickness and was “medicated” to the hilt. Somehow Reverend Benenhaley believed him and said his goodbyes as I staggered by hanging on my husband’s neck with the bottles clinking around in the briefcase with every step we took.
You really can’t make this stuff up.
It was years later that we saw Reverend Benenhaley and I still couldn’t look him in the face. Some secrets are better buried.
