Last month, I boarded a plane for the first time in eight years to visit my mom at her Florida beach condo. I have to admit I was reluctant to make the trip, especially after hearing so many stories about people being stranded for hours in planes sitting on the tarmac.

Lady Luck was with me on the foggy, Sunday morning I left Portland Jetport to fly south. I even arrived in Tampa 20 minutes ahead of schedule, my checked baggage in hand within minutes of entering the terminal. Even though my reserved transportation was a no-show, the problem was solved with a flurry of phone calls and a quick stroll to the airport shuttle service. In short order, my over-packed suitcase and I were delivered to my mommy, who greeted me with hugs and homemade chicken soup, which was exactly what I needed.

The two of us began our first morning in Redington Shores with a companionable walk on the beach. As we left the condo to travel down six floors on the elevator, I had the sense I was forgetting something of extreme importance. (It took me three days to realize this feeling came from the absence of bundling up in woollies and boots before going out. With the temperatures at a steady and breezy 75 degrees, only shorts, and a T-shirt were necessary.) Once we were off the elevator, our sandals were stowed beside a bench. While my tanned, freckled mother walked across crunchy sea shells without even wincing, I picked my way carefully to the soft, white sand at the water’s edge.

On these strolls we were greeted by friendly vacationers as well as terns, sandpipers, pelicans, and herons. The latter two species stood stoically by the fishermen, not moving a muscle as they waited patiently for the first catch of the day. As we walked with our heads down, stuffing our pockets with shells, I realized Mom and I hadn’t had an opportunity to walk any beach together since I was a teenager.

How did we let that happen?

As the days passed, we got in plenty of beach-time though. Out first thing in the morning and again just before sunset, we clocked about four miles a day, collecting enough shells to fill the extra carry-on I brought for just that purpose. Between these sojourns, we were entertained by Mom’s group of gal-pals – golden girls every one. We played bingo and dominoes, ate ice cream, lounged by the pool, and laughed a lot. I’ve made them my new heroes, and my hope is that 20 years from now, I’ll be just like them.

On several afternoons, Mom’s vivacious friend Patty chauffeured us to lunch in her big Lincoln. I feasted on calamari, gulf shrimp and a local fish, grouper. Platters of fresh fruit, and key lime pie were also included. We walked to the neighborhood pizza joint and even hung out at a beach bar with college students on spring break. Wherever we went, there was music: Jimmy Buffet, calypso, and reggae.

On St. Paddy’s Day, establishments on the boardwalk at John’s Pass Village hosted live bands playing Irish music. Celebrants in shorts and flip-flops, festooned with bright green Hawaiian leis and Mardi Gras beads walked from bar to bar to imbibe in margaritas and pina coladas.

We honored the day by attending a traditional St. Patrick’s Day dinner dance at St. Jerome’s Catholic Church with Mom’s friend, Marie. After the corned beef and cabbage, I danced the Irish jig and polka, as well as the jitterbug and fox trot with partners pushing 80.

I would have missed this particular party entirely if Mother Nature had cooperated, but fortunately for me, a snowstorm hit the Northeast, canceling my flight and leaving me in sunny Florida for three “bonus” days. While I walked the sandy shore barefoot and lazily sunned myself in various beach chairs over the weekend, Mainers were digging out from several inches of snow and sleet. I did have a small twinge of guilt, but not enough to stop me from making plans to visit Mom at her condo on the beach, same time, next year.