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One Reason You May Need Trip Cancellation Insurance

Stanford R. Doe and his wife Jane were about to board the plane, Southwest Flight 6754, at Gate 3 in LAX when they heard the news. Up until that tense moment, they’d figured that buying T.R.I.P. insurance had been one of those purchases performed out of prudence in case of the unthinkable. But in that instant, they knew.

“Mr. and Mrs. Doe wait!” the urgent voice had shouted.

Because of what had happened, the couple had no choice. They walked as if in a daze, but unassisted to the airlines ticket counter to cancel their flight to Tunisia, where Stanford and Jane had long dreamt of celebrating their second honeymoon, although their first one had occurred a mere six months earlier.

They drove the rental to inspect the ruins. A gas explosion had gutted their home and all their belongings. They stopped the rental, a Rambler station wagon, in front of what had been their front yard. “All that grass seed wasted,” Stanford told his grieving wife with tears pouring down his cheeks, “and the automatic sprinkler system, it’s b-broken,” he sobbed, his voice choked by emotion and by the odor of charred dandelions in the fetid air.

“What will the neighbors think?” Jane cried out, as if she were a wounded self-conscious beast without a split-level, which she now was.

They still had a cell phone that worked. It was purple, a sad color. She put in a call to California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard, as if to be reassured like the small homeless child she’d so suddenly become in her now infantile mind. He’d been expecting

a call from the forlorn Does, after reading about the explosion in yesterday’s news. Hearing Matt answer, all she could do was sob into the receiver.

“It’s activated. Don’t worry about your trip cancellation. You have full Patriot T.R.I.P. coverage. You and Stanford wouldn’t have enjoyed Tunisia under these circumstances. The travel agent will understand about losing his commission. He won’t be angry at you for canceling,” Matt spoke softly into the phone, realizing that a couple’s dreams had been shattered, both in the sense of where they were going, and where they’d been. But at least T.R.I.P. had saved them from what might have added insult to their injury.

“Thank you so much Matt,” Jane managed to blurt.

“Just doing my job as a California Health Insurance agent,” he replied self-effacingly. “I reacted instinctively when I sold you that policy. It’s what I do.”

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Thirteen relatively pretty girls traveled down for spring break on February 2nd from their familiar territory on the beautiful if frigid campus of the University of Alaska at Fairbanks, completing the first leg of their economical journey by dogsled. From Spokane where each said mournful goodbyes to their sled dogs, “Bye Blitzen, Bye Rudolf, Bye Lassie,” the emptied sled pulled by the canine trio trudged back valiantly through the Canadian wilderness, while the baker’s dozen of vacationing Alaskan girls boarded a 747 to LAX. Once they had deplaned, the delicate skin of the relatively pretty girls began to redden. “We’re way too pale,” said Irwoota, in her pronounced valley girl accent, albeit an Arctic Circle valley, voicing the first warning. By the time they’d all stripped down to their bikinis on the gray-sand beach in Santa Monica, and had soaked up about fifteen seconds worth of brilliant California sunshine, the astute Ig voiced a remark that included them all. “I’m really starting to blister now,” she cried mournfully through sun-cracked lips. Back in Fairbanks, they got two hours of very dim diurnal sunshine this time of year, if that.  A few minutes later, the chastened group of relatively pretty Alaskans had acquired a hue bordering on crustacean. Collectively thumbing through a local Yellow Book, the baked baker’s dozen had decided to head en masse for the nearest hospital emergency room, when Irwoota suddenly considered the huge bills they’d be bestowing upon their parents back home. “Wait,” said the so sunburned Valley Girl, “let me call a California Health Insurance Agent I know who used to live in Fairbanks. He’ll know what to do.” He did. Instead of the nearest emergency room, the sunburned girls were re-directed to an urgent care facility as a cost savings measure.

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A week later, they were able to leave their darkened motel suite, the drapes closed the entire time, in relative comfort. Luckily they met gray skies and a pleasant cold rain upon their return to LAX.

The man was traveling to Andorra and Botswana and needed coverage in the worst way.

Andrew P. was like the Sir Richard Burton of Littlefield, Ohio, except that he wore a trench coat and a glass eye like Colombo. He traveled every chance he could, especially internationally. But his wife Morticia, herself actually an actuary, insisted that he get travel medical insurance this time.

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“I’m not going to spend two months worrying while you’re gone,” she said in her shrill Arkansas twang that Andrew had long found annoying.

Andrew had gone to several California Health Insurance agents already. A few carried medical plans for travel, even worldwide plans, but there were always exceptions relating to the coverage in the fine print. One agent covered travel to Europe, but not to Africa during the same excursion. Andrew needed both continents in his itinerary. He was in search of fossilized giant earwig remains. He’d already been to the most likely hunting ground, Saint Helena Island in the South Atlantic, but hadn’t found as much as a single carapace during that marvelous journey.

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It was only by fortuitous chance that he stumbled upon Matt’s California Health Insurance Services as a walk-in, just a few weeks before he was to embark on this latest journey.

Matt Lockard swiftly sized up the walk-in customer with the disheveled “scientific researcher” cast to his red-bearded angular face, and knew almost immediately what he wanted. “Travel insurance, a worldwide medical plan. You’re going on a trip,” he guessed astutely, “to Botswana and Yemen.”

“Wrong,” corrected Andrew P., world traveler, “Botswana and Andorra.”

“Need a plan?” Matt queried after being properly chastened.

“You betcha,” replied Andrew, with a glimmer of happiness in his left eye.

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