On a cloudless May morning, Peyton steered the Madame Queen through the pass and into the Atlantic, bound for Anastasia Island. The morning sun threw its golden light onto blue-gray water as a warm breeze blew out of the south. It might rain tonight.
The boat glided past the public beach, where cars and pickups parked right on the sand and a jubilant crowd of locals and vacationing families spread their blankets and set up their volleyball nets. But there was nothing jubilant about the Madame Queen this morning. Her passengers were in mourning.
Peyton steered the boat to a now familiar inlet on Anastasia and secured it at the dock. Then he helped the women climb up. His mother was carrying an urn, delivered by messenger. The three of them left their shoes on the dock and made their way over the dunes. Gentle waves washed the shore at low tide.
Peyton’s mother took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and turned her face to the sun. A salty breeze blew her blonde hair back, and the warm rays brought roses to her cheeks. Whether she was lifting a silent prayer or saying her final goodbyes, Peyton could only guess. At last, she seemed ready. Cradling the urn like a child, she led Peyton and Aunt Gert through the shallow water and onto a sandbar, which glistened with every salty splash from the Atlantic.
She looked at Peyton. “Do you need to say anything, son?”
He shook his head silently.
She lifted the lid and handed it to Peyton. Then she slowly tilted the urn until the Atlantic winds scattered the ashes across the water. When the urn was empty, she looked down at it, kissed it, and tossed it into the sea. She looked at Peyton, who did the same thing with the lid. Then she took his hand and Aunt Gert’s and led them back through the tide.
Staring down at the water and watching it swirl around their legs, Peyton had a flash of memory. He was about four years old, standing between his parents, holding their hands as he jumped the waves on Tybee. It was a happy time, long forgotten until grief called it back.
Standing atop a tall dune, the sea oats dancing in the wind, Peyton, his mother, and Aunt Gert turned to look at the urn, which did not fill immediately with water but instead floated out to sea. Without thinking or even realizing, really, what he was doing, Peyton lifted his hand in a solemn wave goodbye.
Somehow, he believed, his father would make it to another shore.