The Scot said it best:

The best-laid plans o' mice an' men / Gang aft a-gley, / An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain / For promised joy.

—"To a Mouse", Robert Burns

Is it any wonder the U.S. airline industry is in shambles? I sit here in the Richmond airport wondering at how stupendously easy it is to screw up an entire day's travel plans.

For want of a few hours' sleep, our flight crew was deemed illegal to fly, which killed our chances of connecting in Charlotte, which killed our chances of connecting in Miami, which killed our chances of getting into Honduras.

Suddenly, the ferry schedule seems pretty inconsequential.

"Did you know, young lady," said Watkins to her, "that the Book of Revelation was written on Patmos? It was indeed. By Saint John the Divine, as you know. To me it shows very clear signs of having been written while waiting for a ferry. Oh, yes, I think so. It starts off, doesn't it, with that kind of dreaminess that you get when you're killing time, getting bored, you know, just making things up, and then gradually grows to sort of a climax of hallucinatory despair. I find that very suggestive. Perhaps you should write a paper on it."

—Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, Douglas Adams

So, we've made some adjustments. No sense spoiling a chance to go anywhere. We'll be flying into Fort Lauderdale, and hopefully staying with Amber's dad overnight.