This afternoon, Dad and I set out for a simple mission: picking sea buckthorn berries. What started as just another foraging trip turned into one of those small but memorable moments I’ll hang onto.

The bushes were heavy with bright orange berries, but of course, sea buckthorn never makes it easy. The thorns kept catching my fingers, and no matter how careful I tried to be, I ended up pricked over and over. Dad just chuckled at my struggles, tossing in one of his yarns every few minutes—stories from back in the day that seemed to flow as naturally as the berries clinging to the branches.

At one point, Dad stopped to demonstrate what he called the “proper technique.” He carefully picked all the leaves off the branches around the berries so each one was easy to reach and pluck without bursting. Meanwhile, my strategy was much less refined: squeeze as many berries off the bush as possible and hope they’d tumble into the bucket. It was efficiency versus precision—and I think Dad got the better of me on that one.

Between the thorns, the laughter, and the buckets slowly filling up, time slipped by quickly. What stood out wasn’t just the harvest, but that shared rhythm of working together. Dad telling stories, me groaning about my fingers, both of us comparing techniques, and both of us enjoying the moment in our own way.

It wasn’t just berry picking—it was another chapter in the kind of memories you can’t plan for, but you’re glad to stumble into.