“Who goes to Florida in July?” my friend Beavis texted, as mockingly as one can via text.

“It’s just for these events,” I replied. “It’s not like a long vacation or anything.”

(Dark, foreshadowing music swells …)

I’ve survived a number of GoRuck events, which are famous for their physical and mental intensity, but I’ve not attempted any quite like these. Our weekend would feature a pair of tactical sessions: The first, Self Responder+, centered around active shooter response and first aid for trauma, and the second, Constellation, posted a description that read like a training session for stunt people seeking a role in the next installment of Die Hard. Disaster prep. Restraint escape. Vehicle thievery. Build-your-own gas mask arts & crafts.

Given the unsettled nature of our world, all of the above did not seem like bad skills to develop.

We arrived in Panama City Beach on Thursday, right on schedule. The temperature was in the mid-90s – with full sun – and the air was redwood thick. Within seconds of emerging from the terminal, we had a shimmer.

We wouldn’t shake that shimmer for, well, I won’t ruin the surprise.

We changed into sandals and sauntered along the beach, which was crowded with vacationing families, blue Igloo coolers, and bright striped canopies. And, on this night, it was downright pleasant, despite the weighty air. I thoroughly enjoyed dodging sand castles and buried older brothers as the sun descended below the water line. The sun was setting, and the mostly cloudy sky was streaked with soft pastels.

Back at the room, we crashed hard … until, well, 2 a.m.

When CrowdStrike struck.

My (hot) husband is in IT, and, after the first phone call, he was just … up. And, well, so was I, as his phone was buzzing and beeping nonstop. I wasn’t clear what was going on, but based on the few words I could pull out from the Charlie Brown teacher drone leaking from the bathroom, it was not good.

“Global outage,” he muttered once the issue was finally solved, well after sunrise. We had requested late check-out, so we settled in to (hopefully) take a nap.

(Dark, foreshadowing music returns …)

There was a knock at the door. Housekeeping. We politely let them know we’d requested late check-out.

Then the phone rang.

We politely let them know we’d requested late check out.

Knock.

“Late check-out.” Still polite.

Phone.

“Late check out.”

Knock.

Phone.

“Look, we requested late check-out!” I implored, voiced raised, no longer feigning patience or politeness.

CrowdStrike had affected the records at the front desk, too – understandable, but was there zero communication among staff members after, say, the 4th call or knock?!

Exhausted, we finally gave up on the nap idea, and headed out into the 90/90 heat and humidity. We had a few hours to kill before our evening challenge, a Self Responder first aid & situational awareness session. There had been some confusion on the start time, which had moved from 5 p.m. to 9 p.m. and finally settled on 7:40.

The training – both our weekend trainings, in fact – were held at the Florida State Patrol training grounds, a sprawling compound with several classroom buildings, shooting ranges, a rappel tower, a jailhouse, a fire tower … a smidge intimidating. We had a small group: Us; a retired, dark-haired, and heavily tattooed officer from Texas, and an officer from Orlando with giant biceps and a crew cut, reminiscent of the Beavis & Butthead gym teacher.

Our cadre was an easy-on-the-eyes, slim-fit 40-something who worked for Homeland Security and had laid out the active shooter protocol used by federal agencies. He walked us through situational awareness, response tactics, and several scenarios where we treated wounds and (literally) dragged people to safety. We tried out tourniquets and chest seals on each other. It was all a giant downer – it’s so unfortunate we need to think about this! – but overall, I found it practical and useful.

It was late when we departed, so we settled for a gas station snack before returning to our hotel to prepare for our 8 a.m. call for the 12-hour Constellation.

In the writeups and beta reviews I’d found, Constellation was painted as an adrenaline-soaked LARP where all social systems have broken down and the team is simply trying to survive. We’d rappel from elevation, steal a car, surveil a bad guy, evade capture, craft a gas mask from a 2-liter bottle, and, eventually, evac to safety through the chaos.

It wasn’t that.

It was good, and we learned some of those skills, but it wasn’t that.

We spent most of the day in a fire ant-infested classroom talking about disaster preparedness, essential supplies, MREs. and CB radios. My favorite part was probably learning how to escape zip ties with my all-powerful quads and a loop of paracord.

We got back just after 9 p.m., and found our way to a little beachside shack serving mahi-mahi and shrimp tacos on fresh corn tortillas. We toasted to our weekend, and looked forward to getting home the next day in plenty of time to unpack, do laundry, and reset. Oh, and get to my seventh graders’ cast setting, as he had suffered a broken tibia returning a fumble at football practice a couple of days before.

Yeah, kind of a big deal.

We woke a little after 6 a.m. – plenty of time to get to ECP for our 9 a.m. flight.

My dear friend Ragnar had given me a heads-up about the lingering Delta issues the evening prior, connecting me to a Reddit thread crammed with horror stories about delays, cancels, and four-hour customer service lines. Perhaps it was that always-protective reaction, denial, but I assumed all would be well. It had been two full days plus since the CrowdStrike incident, and the rest of the world, from the Panama City Beach Embassy Suites to Wells Fargo, was back in action.

Plus, this was Delta. The most consistent and overall best airline out there. They knew enough not to rip out the seatback screens and force consumers to squint down at their phones for entertainment. They handed out Sun Chips and Biscoff cookies. They boasted an aesthetically beautiful brand and created funny safety videos in 80s and 90s themes, even featuring a Teddy Ruxpin. Delta got it.

What’s more, I’d never had issues flying Delta. American? Absolutely: just last year, an overnight delay. United? Yup: a dramatic and traumatic 18 hours in the Atlanta airport, 2011.

Yeah, if anyone would have it together, software outage be damned, it would surely be Delta.

Upon arrival at the baggage counter, blue screens greeted us at the self-serve kiosks, but it wasn’t a big deal. Lines were short. We cruised to the front of the security line, though I was stopped due to my foil-lined tuna packet.

As we ascended two flights to the terminal, however, the vibe took a turn.

There was a sense of … not panic, exactly. (Not yet.) More like … trepidation. A wary sort of hum in the air that went over and beyond the usual frustrated fatigue.

The lines to speak with a gate agent were long, growing in front of our eyes like those 4th of July snakes. A family of five, including twin girls in glittered “I’m a Princess” tees, dragged a matching set of fuschia carry-ons – yes, even Dad – with them as they inched forward.

My eyes crept up to the departure & arrival board.

Surprisingly, it didn’t look awful. A handful of yellow delays. No red cancellations.

I exhaled, slowly. What did these people know that I didn’t?

“It’s 7 a.m.,” said TT. “That’s a terrible board for 7 a.m.”

An excellent point.

ECP is small even by regional airport standards, with a scant seven gates scattered along a single corridor. There are two quick-serve restaurants, along with a coffee counter that also served liquor. And, of course, there’s a sundry shop with snacks, Panama City Beach clothing emblazoned with shells, sharks, starfish, and the like, and gifty items like berry-scented bath bombs.

In front of the caffeine and alcohol establishment, there were three small, round tables, each with a pair of oak chairs. One was empty, save for a paper coffee cup and a couple of crumpled napkins.

“Grab it!” I implored in a hushed voice as to not draw anyone else’s attention. If we were in for a long morning, having a table and chairs to spread out on would be downright luxurious.

“There’s even an outlet here!” I squealed as we claimed our territory. Now that was a major score.

When waiting at a major international like MSP, we usually spend our time getting in steps. Here, we had only the single hallway to traverse, and we switched off doing so, one staying put at our high-value table.

The first delay rolled in quickly.

30 minutes. OK. 30 minutes is fine. But I’ve spent enough time flying major carriers to know that 30 minutes is generally a ruse.

30 turned to 60. 60 turned to 120, which meant a missed connection from Delta’s largest hub, Atlanta, to Delta’s second-largest hub and our ultimate destination, Minneapolis.

Shit.

I kept the table. Tom joined the growing line at the gate.

“She shifted us to the next flight out of Atlanta,” he said when he returned. “Good news.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “We just need to get to Atlanta. There will be lots more options in Atlanta.”

We waited. We walked. I discovered another business, a counter-service spot with three beer taps, a hot dog roller, and hummus and chips in a cooled case.

“There are hot dogs down the stairs and around the corner!” I declared. My husband has a huge weakness for roller-grill hot dogs.

Spoiler: They would come in handy.

I saw another delay flash right before my eyes. The board was looking more and more like a USC tribute. We were now six hours beyond our original departure time.

Still, as it stood at that very moment, we would still make our connection. I could still be there for Mini, though it was shaping up to be quite an abbreviated night’s sleep before his 5 a.m. ortho call.

We walked. We snacked on a passable hot dog, along with oily hummus and cold, stale pita chips. We read. (I had gotten lucky and snagged The Economist and Rolling Stone from the rapidly dwindling stacks at the sundry shop.)

The next time I scanned the board, the flight was … gone.

“It disappeared,” mused TT. “What the actual …”

We gave up our table and walked to the gate.

The scene had deteriorated since the last visit. A man with a watermelon bellies straining the capacity of this heather gray Under Armour flag tee was ranting at the blameless gate agent. A teen girl was sleeping under the floor under a Christmas themed fleece blanket. A twentysomething in $150 joggers was fighting with another twentysomething in $150 leggings over a charing port.

Lord of the Flies could break out at any moment.

We politely asked the beleaguered gate agent what our options were.

“Yeah, I’m so sorry, the flight was cancelled,” she said. “No pilot.”

(We’d eventually learn a lack of staff – or, more specifically, Delta not knowing where and when staff were coming or going – was the crux of the problems.)

“Everything is full,” she said. “The best we can do is get you out Wednesday morning.”

It was Sunday.

“Even to Atlanta?!” I squeaked. At this point, I still felt getting to Atlanta, at least, would be a win.

“Even to Atlanta,” she said. “It is a mess.”

Clearly.

TT and I met eyes.

“Well,” I said. “I guess Wednesday it is.”

Three more days in this jungle-humid, tacky, Dells-with-a-better-view.

“We’ll make the best of it.”

And, well, we tried, though this was not a place we’d have chosen for a seven-day vaca. Generally, we are out hiking, hiking, hiking, covering 15 or more miles a day on any given trip.

It was simply too miserable outside to do so.

We did senior citizen yoga in a Lutheran narthex from a 60-something German woman with an impressive butt. We visited our favorite chocolate franchise – discovered in Michigan and again in both Madison and San Antonio – no fewer than four times for caramel and coconut-jacketed shortbread cookies. We did laundry (we’d packed for three days. We needed to). We found a cute breakfast spot. We doubled up on Orangetheory. We got athlete’s massages. Because it was there, of course we did take sandy strolls along ocean, to the point of sweat dripping down our backs and into our cracks.

And we ate more fish tacos. So, so many fish tacos. Three more times at Diego’s, and here.

I spent hours on the /delta Reddit thread. Hundreds were camping out in Atlanta, waiting in line for seven hours, and, well, some of the stories were worse.

As Wednesday morning approached, the Reddit reports were not reassuring. (Seriously – if you want a gasp-worthy read, give /delta a scroll.)

“I … I think we should look at a different airline,” I hesitantly suggested after watching yet another video from an embittered, exhausted Redditor.

He didn’t need much convincing, and, after some brief nosing around, we locked in a reasonably timed and priced flight from Southwest.

And went ahead and, at long last, gave up on my long-beloved Delta.

At the airport, things were better, but not normal operations. Continued, though fewer, delays and cancellations. Picked over shelves. Messy restrooms. Zero hotdogs.

Our Southwest flight departed right on time.

A solid experience. Tasty pretzels. Flight attendants with a sense of humor.

No screens. I had to go retro and actually read a book.

Eighty hours after our initial arrival at ECP, we landed at our beloved MSP, and headed east to home.