Most people have a general fear of being trapped, be it on an airplane or under an avalanche. Few of us could ever imagine a scenario in which a beloved booth is our captor, but that was the situation I found myself in at a recent transportation-industry show in San Francisco.

As a freelance exhibit manager, I travel constantly for work but rarely for pleasure. So when a window of time opened up right before this show, I jumped at the chance to work in a quick jaunt to Muir Woods National Monument just north of the city. I could set up my client's booth in less than one hour, so if I hit the show floor the minute it opened, I could also squeeze in some wandering time in the gorgeous California forest.

The morning of setup, I sprang out of bed and was literally tapping my foot outside the convention center when it opened. I then beelined to my booth space, which was on a main aisle near the loading-dock doors, where I discovered everything but my rented carpet had been delivered.

So I speed-walked over to the convention-services desk with a bag full of breakfast sandwiches, which I'd picked up just in case I needed a little "leverage." I explained my looming tour to the service-desk personnel and offered my delectables as tokens of appreciation for all of their hard work. Granted, they hadn't done anything yet, but they seemed thrilled by my gesture nonetheless. And lo and behold, within 10 minutes the carpet for my 10-by-20-foot space was laid. Score one for breakfast "sammies"!

With the necessary elements in place, I spun into action. The booth was mostly fabric with a collapsible frame, along with huge top-to-bottom hard-panel graphics that attached to the fabric. It also featured a cutout area into which a freestanding audiovisual stand, monitor, and DVD player were inserted. All of those components came together in record speed, and to ensure nobody later bumped into the fabric frame and knocked it off center from the AV unit, I attached the frame to the stand with some zip ties.

Now it was time to set up the new backlit logo that ran across the top length of the booth. I'd only installed this a couple of times and wasn't sure which slots in the lower frame were supposed to accept the pegs on the logo. But after a few failed attempts, the slots aligned. Voila! My booth was up in only 30 minutes. I turned to face the exhibit hall, folded my arms over my chest, inhaled a satisfying breath, and inwardly deemed myself an installation ninja.

Just then a big gust of wind from the dock doors hit my back, blowing my hair out in front of me. At first I thought it was the universe urging me toward my little travel adventure, but then something hit me – hard – on the back of my head. I don't know if I actually lost consciousness, but one minute I was an upright exhibiting ninja, and the next I was facedown on the carpet. And thanks to my cable ties, the entire booth, along with its heavy AV unit, was now on top of me.

I did a quick mental body scan to see if anything was broken or bleeding. The back of my head hurt like the dickens, but generally speaking, I was fine. I soon ascertained that the gust of wind had knocked over my somewhat top-heavy booth, and maybe, just maybe, I hadn't installed that heavy header correctly. Nevertheless, I figured if I could set up the booth in 30 minutes once, I could do it again – and still make my tour.

I tried to spring back into ninja mode, but springing was impossible. In fact, I could barely move under the weight of the booth. I tried to wiggle forward, backward, and sideways. Nada. My ninja juju evaporated, replaced by feelings similar to those of a smooshed fly struck down by an enormous flyswatter.

Still holding on to a sliver of hope for making my tour, I started yelling. "Help! Over here! Lady down! Woman trapped!" But since I'd arrived at the convention center so early, nobody was around to hear my calls. Plus the sound of the show-hall machinery drowned out my cries anyway.

I was starting to feel a little panicky, especially as the effects of three cups of coffee set in. So I began bargaining with God. "Hello, Lord. It's me. Please don't let me croak under here in a puddle of pee. I will forever be known as the woman who peed herself to death on the show floor." I was still praying to the almighty when I spotted a set of feet through the debris. They seemed to be an aisle or two over, but I commenced screaming in earnest – just as a scissors lift roared by and drowned me out. The feet vanished.

I settled into a hopeless state of dejection. I couldn't do anything but wait until someone came close enough to hear me scream – or somebody eventually noticed the smell of urine or my rotting corpse.

After what seemed like an hour, another set of feet entered my view. Hope swelled in my chest. While carefully constricting my bladder, I bellowed, "Help! Under here! I'm trapped!" Thankfully, the feet hurried over in my direction. "Hello?" said a male voice. "Is someone under there?" Tears welled in my eyes as I whimpered, "Yes! Yes, I'm here, and I'm stuck. Please get this off me."

Ultimately, the fellow was able to lift the structure enough for me to wriggle out from under one side. After he helped me to my feet, I thanked him profusely and then dashed to the ladies room. Relieved in more ways than one, I returned to my space to resurrect my exhibit.

My tour had left without me by this point, so I took my time. I discovered that I'd inserted the logo into the wrong slots, causing it to act like a sail when the gust of wind came through. And rather than detaching from the frame, it helped bring the whole shebang down on top of me.

To better secure the entire exhibit structure, I pulled out some twine from my tool box and ran it from various points on the frame to a nearby venue column. At least until the show opened, this would hold my exhibitry in place if the wind-tunnel effect kicked in again. I also cut the cable ties, so if the structure did topple over once more, the heavy AV unit would likely remain stationary.

As for lessons learned, there's nothing I could have done to control that freak gust of wind. And minus the twine and column support, I think my booth might have toppled over no matter what. But if I'd have taken just a little more time while installing that heavy logo, I might have spent my morning strolling through Muir Woods with a song in my heart as opposed to buried on the convention center floor with a full bladder.