I’m standing in a crush of commuters crowding the ferry dock, searching for our youngest daughter in the steady stream of bobbleheads disembarking the 4:35 p.m. from Vashon. I spot her in a gaggle of grade-school kids skipping down the concrete-and-steel apron, and as they frolic past, I reach for her hand. We embrace awkwardly in the swirling tide of impatient commuters.

As we follow the crowd lurching up the dock, she confides that she was really nervous about her first solo ferry ride. She’d joined a group of walk-on kids, explaining that walk-on kids go to school on the island but actually live over town and ride the ferry everyday. You mean commuter kids, I interject. She coolly corrects me; they’re walk-ons. That’s what the ferry workers call them.

A couple of weeks ago my wife Maria decided that we should schedule weekly one-on-one dates with each of our kids — one parent, one kid, multiple credit cards. We’ll take orderly turns and rotate through the ranks. This afternoon, I’d left work early to pick up our youngest daughter at the dock.

Last week, Maria’s evening with our oldest boy was a brilliant success. He’d eaten a progressive dinner at three glitzy chain restaurants — restaurants that I’ve refused to patronize. They’d shopped for hours, joking, laughing, sharing confidences, bringing home swishing red and blue bags full of trendy teen clothing — clothing that I’ve refused to purchase.

Earlier that afternoon while discussing logistics, Maria offered a number of helpful suggestions for our first father-daughter night out: bowling, museums, shopping for summer clothes, maybe a walk on the beach because the weather’s so nice. I countered impatiently that I saw nothing at all wrong with dinner and a movie.

After more discussion, I found myself promising that I wouldn’t simply let her eat as much dessert as her stomach will hold and call that a night out. Perhaps concerned that we’d have nothing to talk about, she outlined several possible topics for healthy father-daughter conversation. Before she hung up she rattled off her shoe, pants and blouse sizes. I may have pretended to write them down.

Our youngest daughter shyly asks if we can stop for snacks; she’s missed her after-school yogurt. She’s thrilled when I suggest Starbucks.

Standing in front of the strategically lit pastry case, our youngest girl cautiously asks for the glazed old-fashioned donut. Sure, I say, magnanimously. It’s our night. Emboldened by the easy donut, she requests a strawberry smoothie. Nobody’s patsy, I cut her off completely after the three-pack of Madeleines. I ate the last one myself.

An hour later, at sea in a cavernous Naugahyde-and-chrome booth that could seat a high-school football team, our youngest daughter explains the rather simple process at this sushi place.

Small, brightly-colored plates of sushi chug along what looks to be model railroad track that snakes around the airplane-hangar-sized room. Perfectly suited for 10-year-olds, one simply grabs appealing plates as they promenade past, while a pair of grimly efficient sushi chefs fill empty plates with California rolls and sashimi, positioning the plates carefully on the track for a five-minute voyage around the room.

I learned that our youngest daughter is fond of California rolls, and that she is not fond of raw fish or anything that looks like it could be made of insect parts. And tater-tots apparently count as sushi.

Later in the hushed and darkened theater, we take our seats in the second row next to a pair of beefy guys in T-shirts. They look a little old for this animated feature. I cry at the end when the purple cartoon alien learns the true meaning of human friendship. She pats my hand in the dark.

We pass several women’s clothing stores on our way out. I suggest some shopping, but she’s reticent. I try to kindle interest in a pale-yellow lacy-cotton skirt when an officious sales clerk marches over, asking if I need some sort of help.

The store has apparently installed a silent dad-clothes-shopping-with-his-youngest-daughter alarm. Another sales clerk shows up as backup. The clerks, condescendingly polite, know that I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing. I can’t even remember her size. The store quietly closes on us.

Halfway home, our youngest girl blinks twice and yawns; her eyelids droop. I cover her with my green Filson vest Maria gave me for Christmas. Apparently Filsons last forever. Good thing Maria got the bigger size.

We miss the 9:20 and have an hour to wait on the empty dock. As she sleeps, the western sky curdles orange and grey, then purple and China red, and finally fades to black.

— Kevin Pottinger lives on Vashon with his wife Maria and four children.