I was pissed when my uncle announced at our rehearsal dinner, "You know you're taking your honeymoon during hurricane season, right?" Well, duh! But it was my honeymoon, which meant that everything was destined to be perfect. Unless a certain relative opened up his yap and jinxed it all. Which is exactly what happened. That's right, I'm blaming Uncle John, not seasonal weather systems moving through the Caribbean, for Hurricane Omar ruining my honeymoon.
It all began right after our tour of Peter Island in the British Virgin Islands: gray skies, drizzle, word of a "tropical storm warning," and then the news that we'd be in the path of a possible category three hurricane. That meant the various activities included in our honeymoon package—the drive to the top of the island to watch the sunset, the excursion to the Virgin Gorda to go snorkeling, the trip to the private beach—were promptly nixed.
"It's fine," said Steve, as I started to whine. "I'd rather be here in the middle of a hurricane than anywhere else. At least we're together."
Whatever. Nice words, but they weren't clearing the skies—or getting us a refund. I'm usually a real Girl Scout about stuff like this, able to buck up in the direst of circumstances, but my honeymoon was my turf, and it was being peed on by God.
I'd booked the trip eight months earlier and had been anticipating how wonderful it would be. Modern Bride had sent me on assignment to Peter Island several years earlier, and the trip was nothing less than perfect: the location, the food, the service, the privacy, the weather. Peter Island isn't cheap; for our honeymoon, we could only afford the four-day package. Now, the weather was due to clear up the day we were supposed to leave.
But I decided to quit my bitching. What choice did I have? Maybe our honeymoon would be a quasi-wash, but I had to make the most of it for Steve's sake—and mine.
Read the rest on The Frisky.
—Written by Claire Zulkey for The Frisky
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