The clouds push back for an hour, and the sun drops light through everything. On a green bench on the top deck, I nibble carrot sticks and cucumber slices. Gulls swoop over Puget Sound. Soon I'll roll my suitcase off the ferry and walk to the light rail station off Marion Street.

Mom and I spent three days around the mild summer rain and breezes of Indianola, a teensy coastal town with a general store, a post office and a church. I walked up the hilly roads. Heard the crows caw through the evergreens. Everyone I passed smiled with a genuine hello.

One afternoon I held Mom's hand to steady her as we descended stone steps to the beach. Near the sea she changes into a girl. Her eyes brightened. Her face flowered with delight.

Our previous days' grumbles drifted off like smoke. Mom found the fishy scent divine. She was captivated by strings of seaweed draped against the shore. We stared out at the miles of water, truly content for the first time all summer.