Wheaton’s Way: Travelling in rarefied air

I and a couple of friends (Lynne and Julie) absolutely struck air travel gold a couple of weeks ago, when we got to fly via private jet to Fort Lauderdale.

Now, before all you single men suddenly start looking at me in a different light, thinking that maybe the Wheaton gal can support your future Rolex habit, allow me to clarify. We were basically given the chance to hitch a ride with a Cayman Private Aviation client, like a group of plane remoras.

So, of course, we jumped at the chance.

We’ve all seen the TV shows or films where some man or woman dripping in designer duds gracefully ascends a wee set of stairs into luxurious transport such as this. For once, it was going to be us. From the moment we were confirmed, I started lathering up the soap.

Actually, no – I tell a lie. The first thing I had to do was organise a cat carer for a couple of days and temporarily fix the rust holes in the roof of my Ford Expedition … just as Taylor Swift would. We were given less than 24 hours notice to sort it all, but I was damned if some demanding moggies and heavy rainshowers were going to dampen our trip.

One friend agreed to stay overnight with the animals, and we had another friend who was comfortable testing Leeloo’s blood sugar levels and giving her insulin.

“Tango and Butterscotch are allowed outside, but they must be back in every night. Houdini will try to make a break for the door, so keep eyes on him at all times. When you feed the others, put Millie in another room or she’ll eat everyone’s food. Please visit Chiqui in my bedroom, as she can’t mingle with the rest of the cats; she’ll rip them to shreds. Grumbles will pick up a cat toy and walk around the house, crying at the top of her lungs. She’s fine – it’s just her thing.

“Puntu, the golden-coloured hen in the back garden should get fed at night when the other chickens have gone to bed, and make sure that the white speckled hen in the plant pot by the front door has her little water bowl filled.”

Old MacDonald had a flight, ee-i, ee-i, oh.

Had it been earlier in the year, I probably would have left the Expedition alone, as there was barely any rainfall. However, as luck would have it, we were in a week of thunderstorms so I didn’t dare risk it.

That’s the problem with driving a really big vehicle with a high roof. I had no idea there were a few rusty holes up there until a) I stood on the second-storey balcony of the Red Sail offices and looked down upon my vehicle. I hoped those spots were bird crap – they weren’t; and b) When it rained, there were some mysterious drips around the gearshift and water in the sunglasses holder above the driver’s seat. I mean, c’mon! Gimme a sign!

Too busy/lazy to call around the bodyshop garages with us flying out the next day, I cajoled the gardener working on my neighbour’s lawn to climb a ladder and stick duct tape over any hole he found up there.

Hey – the Expedition is silvery grey and so was the duct tape. Crazy like a fox.

The humour of it all only really struck me the next day, as I threw luggage in the back, ready to head to the private jet terminal. Most passengers booked on those elite, sleek aircraft would be pulling up in a Mercedes, Range Rover, Porsche, Ferrari, [insert fancy schmancy car here] … not parking a 2012 ex-rental Expedition (still sporting ‘$200 fine for smoking’ stickers on the windows) with a roof that was 1/30th waterproof tape.

Nevertheless, I had on makeup, earrings, my hair was neat and I was wearing one of those really swanky tops. You know the ones I mean – where they already have a necklace attached, and the cardigan and tank look like separate pieces but aren’t. Yeah … I knew how to step up for the occasion. Sarah Jessica Parker, eat yer heart out.

What we quickly realised about private jet travel is that the experience starts very much on the ground. The flight would be taking off around 5:30pm so we could get to the terminal for 5pm.

Exsqueeze me? What about at least two hours beforehand, and lineups?

No, no – not necessary.

A lovely gentleman came into the lounge to get our passports, while we sat on the couch and sipped Champagne. Not long after, the paperwork was processed, our possessions went through the X-ray and we were walking to the jet.

I wasn’t as elegant on those steps as I would have liked, but on the bright side, the whole plane didn’t topple over in my direction. The three of us walked into the cabin (snapping pictures all the way) and took our seats in the cream leather captain’s chairs.

One of the crew came around to welcome us, and pointed out the refrigerated drawers of soft drinks, container of ice, receptacle of chilled bubbly, and a basket of snacks. We were the complete opposite of the cool, calm, collected, we-belong-here guests they normally got. I think I opened every drawer about five times, then worked out where the tables were hidden; adjusted the AC vents; stared slack-jawed at the varnished wood; and finally settled with a glass of Champagne. I was like an alcoholic toddler.

Everything was different than travelling commercial. From checking in, to the interior of the jet, and the rush of take-off as we sped along the runway. We took full advantage of the snacks on offer and snapped shots of the clouds along the way. We weren’t going to waste a moment.

Naturally, a few kernels of SkinnyPop missed my gaping maw and ended up on the floor. Lynne had her seatbelt on, so she couldn’t put her empty pretzel bags in the bin.

“Just pass them to me, I’ll stick them in my handbag,” I whispered, straining to reach the popcorn I’d dropped so I could similarly dispose of it. I wondered if the Saudi royal family stepped off planes with Birkins full of chocolate wrappers and empty soda cans.

The arrival in Fort Lauderdale was as seamless as the departure from Cayman. Ask me if we missed the main airport cattle drive to immigration – with feeder crowds from other landed flights trying to get ahead of us – followed by the ‘Hunger Games’ baggage carousel.

Not one bit.

It was a small, personalised private air terminal with no one else around, save the border agents. A quick scan of the passports and our luggage, and we were outside, hailing an Uber.

I don’t think it occurred to me until that day how much extra time is taken up getting to airports early to check in and then the palaver after landing at the destination. In flying private, we’d saved at least three hours with barely any walking or lugging involved.

We spent a couple of nights in Miami, and flew back on Cayman Airways on Saturday. If you can’t fly private, fly KX. We went business class because we needed our extra allotment of checked-in bags. We got raised eyebrows from the ‘Nothing to Declare’ customs agent when we tried to leave Owen Roberts airport. We’d been away for fewer than three days, and had two checked bags each. Had we lost our way?

Nope. They were chock-full of the Fancy Feast varieties we can’t get on the island. Not very expensive, but heavy.

As I loaded my hefty cases of cat food into the back of my duct tape-adorned vehicle, I knew that the private jet moment had officially passed. But that was okay.

When something becomes the norm, you forget the excitement of when it was a real treat; you stop putting garbage in your handbag. And that, my friends, will be a sad day.