We were driving north from a long finger of the Atlantic -- Amelia Earhart's long ago runway
and the locked up museum that had her left-behind comb and plates from the Titanic.

The sign off the highway was easy to miss, but we caught it just in time even though we didn't have bathing suits and we had been told it was a bit of a hike from the parking lot.

By the time we reached the water, our fingers were stained with blueberries.

The water was shallow and then suddenly not shallow, the waterfall quieter than we both expected. A dad insisted his kid wear a life jacket. A pair of teenagers didn't stay in for long.

We slid on the rocks until the sun disappeared behind the trees and had to dry off with T-shirts. We soaked the seats of the rental car, blueberries ferried north in carefully cupped palms.