It took nearly two weeks, but Priscilla the Prius finally came home too, slithering off a gigantic truck just after sunrise.
Dealing with car-shipping companies is not for the faint at heart. First you go online and advertise your interest in shipping a car. Almost within seconds, a dozen brokers start emailing and phoning you. Each is offering a different rate.
The higher-rate ones bad-mouth anyone else who might come in with a lower bid, saying that they only want to suck you in, and then they'll raise the rate. They also caution you against paying an upfront fee by credit card, and urge you to check with a registry that rates individual shippers based on customer reviews.
But they all have basically the same shtick: the broker you agree to work with posts your itinerary on a central registry; car shippers (which are not the same company as the broker) then connect with the broker to tell him or her if they want the job. Sometimes they agree to the asking price; more often they want a little bit more. The brokers get a commission -- for coast to coast it's between $100 and $200.
I settled on a broker in California (with a five star review rating) who wanted a $150 commission upfront but said she could ship the car (i.e, she would list the car) for $850 more. She called back in a day to say she had a shipper (based in Eastern Washington) who would take the car, but, sure enough, they wanted more: $925. Since even with the $150 commission this was less than most of the other bidders, I said OK. I also got both from the broker and the shipper an assurance that there would be no problem or extra charge if we threw a few personal items in the car.
Joy and I packed all the clothes and souvenirs we didn't want to take with us on the plane into cardboard boxes, taped them shut, and put them in the back of the car.
On Monday, July 30 (after we were back in Gloucester), the shipper showed up in Bellingham with a flatbed truck to pick up the car and take it to the larger carrier, waiting in Spokane. Tom Jr. was on hand to sign the car over to him. The shipper's agent found and recorded on a shipping manifest every scratch, ding, dent, and rust spot he could find. He also checked a box that said "Overloaded vehicle; extra charges will apply." When I saw a copy of the form I called the dispatcher to plead that we had put at most 50 lbs. of extra clothing in the car; how could he call it overloaded?" To my surprise he was sympathetic; I had the feeling this particular agent had a reputation for pulling this and other stunts on other customers. He said I would not be charged extra; I eventually talked him into saying so in writing.
For the next dozen days we waited, checking periodically with the dispatcher on the progress of the shipment, which seemed agonizingly slow. At last, on Tuesday, I got a call from Spokane: the driver would deliver the car either late on Thursday, or on Friday morning at the latest. Alex, the driver, would call me 24 hours ahead of time.
When Friday morning came and Alex still hadn't called, I called him. He had a strong Russian accent that made comprehension difficult, but I finally figured out that he was somewhere in Massachusetts, and he would call me when he was closer to Gloucester. He would get to me around ten, he thought, but he was having trouble finding the customer he was supposed to be delivering another car to. Where was he? I asked. He told me it was Westport, between New Bedford and Fall River, a good three hours or more from Gloucester.
By ten he still hadn't called, but at 11:15 he finally called me to say he was on his way, and would be at my door at about 1:30 AM. No way, I said. Get some sleep somewhere and be here at 7 Saturday morning.
Joy and I turned in. Sure enough, precisely at 7 AM, a gigantic car-hauler pulled up a few hundred yards down the hill. There were eight cars on board, piled two-deep on their trailer. Priscilla was on top, near the front.
This will take a while, I thought, but to my amazement, the car was whisked off the top level, down a ramp to the lower level, in minutes, as hydraulic pistons lifted some cars up and lowered others; Priscilla was slipped down a ramp that tilted to allow her to slide under another car, which had been raised up an extra five or six feet, and off the back of the trailer. Only one other car had to be removed from the trailer before the Prius. The whole operation was not unlike a skilled blackjack dealer shuffling cards --cards that were 15 feet long and weighed a ton and a half.
So with Priscilla and Carmen (the Garmin) back in our driveway, we are all home at last. The great excursion is officially over. Flying home and having the car shipped was an unplanned-for expense, but considering the risk of another and possibly more severe medical problem, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, it was the right thing to do.
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| Priscilla slides home |
