If you ever find yourself sprinting through Miami International with a suitcase in one hand, a handbag in the other, and your entire life’s belongings scattered behind you, then congratulations—you’re basically living my nightmare. This is the true story of how a simple family trip turned into a full-blown adventure involving moving walkways, lost passports, near-death experiences, and prayers whispered at 30,000 feet. Buckle up—it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
So, to set the scene: I’d just turned 30. My parents decided to take me along on a trip to the States—four of us in total: me, my parents, and my Aunt Betty. The three of them had planned a longer vacation, so I was joining them in Miami about ten days after they’d left.
Fast forward to me, fresh off a 19-hour journey from Durban, South Africa to Miami, my long legs folded into origami in economy class. By the time we landed, I was basically 70% jet lag and 30% airplane pretzels.
After surviving the terrifying gauntlet of U.S. customs (where every officer looks like they’re auditioning for a crime drama), I strutted into arrivals expecting a warm welcome from the family. You know—smiles, hugs, maybe even one of those cheesy cardboard signs.
Instead… nothing. No familiar faces. Just me, my giant suitcase, my handbag, and a travel envelope crammed with my passport and tickets—an envelope so big it deserved its own boarding pass. Why I didn’t buy a bag that could actually fit it is a mystery for the ages.
I stood there looking like an abandoned extra from Home Alone 2, when suddenly my name echoed through the PA system. Now, here’s the thing about being South African with the name “Carol Liquorish”: when an American, especially one with a syrupy Southern drawl, says it three times, it takes a while for your brain to catch up.
On the third announcement, my ears finally tuned in—something about going to the nearest payphone. Which was odd, because back home, payphones were basically museum pieces. Still, I wandered over and picked it up like I’d been doing it all my life.
A voice on the line asked, “Are you Carol Liquorish?”
I said yes, still unsure if I was about to be recruited for a spy mission.
Then she launched into a long, molasses-slow sentence I had to mentally translate from Southern into English. The gist? My father was in the hospital in Tampa, and I was booked on a flight leaving in the next FIVE MINUTES.
She added—loudly—that I needed to get to that terminal NOW.
Cue my internal monologue: Father in hospital? In America? Oh no. How bad? Heart attack? Stroke? Wait—five minutes?!
Adrenaline kicked in. I grabbed my bags and bolted into a dead sprint.
Then—hallelujah!—I spotted a moving walkway. You know, the magical conveyor belt for tired travelers who can’t bear the thought of walking like peasants. Brilliant idea, I thought. I’ll run on it and get there even faster!
Great plan… until it wasn’t.
The first moving section went perfectly. But in my frazzled, panicked state, I forgot about the gaps between walkways. My foot hit the stationary floor, and physics took over.
I wasn’t just airborne—I face-planted with such force that I slid, like a clumsy penguin, right onto the next moving belt. I lay there, winded, riding it like some tragic piece of luggage until it unceremoniously dumped me at the other end.
Only then did it dawn on me: all my worldly possessions—suitcase, handbag, duty-free snacks—were now scattered in every direction back at the first intersection. Which meant I had to walk back – this time on terra firma, to gather my belongings before continuing my so-called sprint to the gate.
Ten minutes (and the probable loss of both lungs) later, I stumbled up to the check-in counter, drenched in sweat and clinging to consciousness.
“Passport, please,” the agent said.
I reached for my travel envelope.
It wasn’t there.
Panic hit me like a freight train. My passport, my travellers cheques (remember when we had those to deal with), my entire identity—all sitting exactly where I had left them. On top of the payphone.
The check-in agent took one look at my face, pointed down the terminal, and said, “I’ll hold the plane. Leave your bags. RUN.”
I didn’t ask questions. I dug deep, summoning some mysterious reserve of energy (possibly borrowed from my future grandchildren), and sprinted back like an Olympic hopeful in the 100m dash. My heart pounded with a singular fear: If my envelope was gone, so was I.
Miracle of miracles—it was still there. Right where I’d abandoned it in my shock. What can I say – America in the 90’s!
Back I ran, lungs screaming, legs staging a mutiny. The gate staff practically shoved me onto the plane, where eleven other passengers were glaring at me for delaying departure by a neat half hour.
As if that wasn’t enough, Miami had apparently been under tornado warnings all day. I’d ignored them, of course—because the sun was shining when I landed, and clearly I control the weather. But now? Dark skies, howling wind, and rain hammering against our tiny aircraft.
And when I say tiny, I mean tiny. The flight attendant was casually seated at the back, passing around a box of peanuts and juice like it was a picnic in the sky.
I had a window seat right behind the wing. We took off at what felt like a 90-degree angle, and I was still trying to recover from my airport marathon when—
CRACK!
A blinding bolt of lightning lit up the sky. I was convinced it had hit the wing, because suddenly the plane tilted. One second we were flying normally; the next, the wing was pointing straight at the ground.
Below me, the city lights looked like a miniature toy set—tiny cars, tiny buildings—growing bigger by the second as we plummeted. People screamed.
I didn’t.
I was too busy accepting my imminent death.
In that moment, I did the only thing I knew how to do: I prayed. Not some deep, poetic, soul-stirring prayer. No. I defaulted to the one I’d learned in school assemblies:
“Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…”
I figured if I was about to meet God, I should at least say hello. And maybe apologize—because honestly, my life choices so far hadn’t exactly been pointing me in His direction.
Just as I reached “Amen,” the pilots somehow leveled us out. The city dropped out of sight, and the captain’s voice came over the intercom:
“That was a little rough, folks, but we’re now on our way to Tampa for what should be a nice flight.”
A nice flight. Sure.
I let out a shaky breath, convinced the worst was over. Then I heard it—sobbing.
I turned around.
It was the flight attendant.
The woman whose job it was to reassure us. Ugly crying!
And just like that, my relief evaporated.
I didn’t die on that trip. Neither did my dad. Turns out, he’d always suffered from weak kidneys—and because he’s too proud to use an airplane loo, he hadn’t had a sip of water for almost 24 hours. That little stunt earned him a few days in the hospital.
A lovely man showed up 45 minutes later and opened my car in three seconds flat like it was child’s play. I cheered. He did not. But I cheered anyway.
): as much as it felt like the enemy of my soul was doing everything in their power to steal my peace, my joy… maybe even my life—they didn’t win.
Tales from the Tangled Trail 