It was the summer of 1996. My friend Mark Martin and I each got the same enticing letter in the mail. The only difference was the name on the header. Mine proclaimed in bold letters, “RONNIE MINCEY! PACK YOUR BAGS!”
Mr. Martin and I must have taken this as a sign from God or something similar that we both received these letters at approximately the same time. We decided to take advantage of the golden opportunity. As a result of this offer, in exchange for our agreement to view a time-share opportunity, we were invited to take part in a two-part, low price vacation package.
Several years ago I related part one of this adventure, and I take the liberty of plagiarizing myself to repeat it in part here.
First was a cruise to the Bahamas. I decided as Mr. Martin was willing to be my traveling buddy that I would drive us to Orlando, our point of departure. All went well, until the last county in Georgia. That’s when I got the speeding ticket. The price of this low-budget adventure just increased for yours truly. The night of that same day, we stopped to spend the night in a motel somewhere in Florida. Seemingly, I had a lot of my brother J. C. in me, for our motel choice was not in luxury, but economy. I don’t remember the name of the establishment we graced with our overnight business, but I do remember it provided only the most basic necessities.
The next morning I took a shower. One of the basic amenities missing was some form of non-skid material on the shower floor. One second I’m happily taking my shower. The next split second, oops! There went my feet. On reflex I grabbed hold of the shower curtain and discovered another missing amenity—screws to attach the shower rod to the wall. On my way down, here came the shower curtain to embrace my fall and the rod to bang me on the head.
The Scripture says in James 3:10 KJV, “Out of the same mouth proceedeth blessing and cursing. My brethern, these things ought not so to be.” I’m afraid I did not heed to the wisdom of that verse in this situation. A range of emotions and accompanying language quickly went through my mind. From happily “rub-a-dub-dub” or “la-da-dee-dum” to “What the (who knows)?” to “How bad am I hurt?” to “Thank God, not at all, I think.” to a string of thoughts that come to mind upon discovery that there is no injury but insult at the ludicrous ridicule and indignity to which I’d been exposed.
Let’s not overestimate the “exposed” part here. I probably locked the bathroom door (if a door lock was an available amenity). Even if Mr. Martin could have entered to see my state, I had the wet shower curtain swwaddled around me like saran wrap. He gently tapped on the bathroom door and said, “Uh, are you hurt?”
A Christian should be grateful for not being hurt, but my carnal (human) nature was aroused by the incident. Even though Mr. Martin had no real idea of what had happened to me, my sarcastic nature prevailed as I thought, “No. I’m not hurt. I just risked being maimed for life just to take a shower so I wouldn’t smell like a skunk to go on down the road to who knows what next disaster awaits.” It’s amazing how many thoughts can go through a person’s mind in a few split seconds. I yelled out at Mr. Martin, “BLANK no, I’m not hurt.” (You’d really be surprised how mild was the word with which I filled the blank. Truly I say this.)
For the record, Martin and Mincey made the rest of the trip to and from the Bahamas, whether on land or sea, without increased potential to the loss of life or limb.
We hadn’t been on the ship very long before we were situated and on the deck. A very attractive girl approached us. She was possibly Filipino or of a similar nationality. She held a tray of drinks in her hand, and in a very high-pitched voice she asked us questioningly, “Bahama mama?” Mr. Martin started giggling just like a little boy, pointed to her and said to me, “Ain’t she cute?” That girl never offered either Mr. Martin or me any other refreshment the entire time we were on that ship.
The first night out the water was choppy. We were sitting at dinner, and everything appeared perfectly normal. Everything, that is, except for the feel of my body rotating on my hips in my chair, and the level of drinks in the clear glasses swaying from first one side, then the other, a perfect balance that let us know the ship was not “plumb”. This did not bother either Mr. Martin or me, but we watched as many of our fellow passengers turned green and excused themselves from the dining room. The water seemed to get choppier for a while, and as Mr. Martin and I were walking down the very narrow hallway to our very small cabin, we were banged against one wall, then the other. Mr. Martin looked over his shoulder and said to me, “Now you know what it feels like to be drunk, Ronnie Mincey!”
On a later part of the voyage, we stopped at an island that was supposedly the spot where Gilligan’s Island was taped. I’m not sure I believe that, but I did fancy myself as Gilligan as I swayed in a rather comfortable hammock for a few minutes. I found the Straw Market in the Bahamas very interesting. I bought my mother a doll there, and myself a straw hat that I’m still treasuring to wear in my retirement.
I’m not sure we looked at any time-share properties in Florida. We certainly weren’t offered any time-shares in the Bahamas. I remember while in the Bahamas we rode in a very dated limousine, interestingly without air conditioning, I think. We were chauffeured to a few destinations of interest. At each stop the guide let it be very obviously stated that tips were not only appreciated, but expected. This didn’t seem quite American to me, and certainly didn’t reek of southern hospitality. There was one very dramatic guide who would, in a remarkably impressive deep, booming voice that I can hear in my mind after all these years, repeat after every recitation for a point of interest, “It’s in the book!” That reminded me of my dad saying over and over when he made a statement that, at least in his mind, was worth remembering, “You can write that down in your little black book!” I don’t think either book ever got published.
There was a night on the ship that was designated as a formal dinner. Mr. Martin and I dressed in our coats and ties for this affair. The menu had some interesting choices, some that I could not pronounce and would not dare to risk eating. I chose a safe steak, but Mr. Martin was more adventurous. He chose the lobster.
Thankfully, steak is seemingly steak, whether in Tennessee or on the open seas. Mr. Martin’s lobster came in the full shell, looking, just as I had anticipated, like something that could possibly eat him rather than otherwise. Mr. Martin, just as I, had no idea how to penetrate the shell to get to the lobster meat. He looked at and studied the oversized crawfish for some time, and finally worked up his nerve. With a knife in one hand and a fork in the other, Mr. Martin stabbed the shell with the fork and tried to cut into the underside with the knife.
It is amazing how sometimes that your food can attack you, even at times before you get it in your mouth. As if in anger at being so mistreated in its death by boiling, the lobster skidded across the table, knocking over the water glass of the lady sitting next to Mr. Martin. Even now I laugh as I remember the outrage on the lady’s face, the amazed looks of the other diners at the table, and the innumerable shades of red that crossed Mr. Martin’s face as he pitifully stammered out an unaccepted apology.
Luckily, Mr. Martin didn’t starve. One of the great things about a cruise is that food is available at all times of the day or night. Mr. Martin was able to gorge himself a couple of hours later, and you can be sure he chose food that he knew how to attack.
Next week I’ll tell you, Dear Reader, about part two of the Mincey/Martin time-share vacation venture. I leave you with a few thoughts from the world of email I’ve received over the years.

IN DAYS OF OLD
Time-sharing meant time the family spent together
in the evenings and weekends-not purchasing condominiums.

Never sing in the shower! Singing leads to dancing, dancing leads to slipping,
and slipping leads to paramedics seeing you naked. So remember…Don’t sing!