Rock Skipper

I have an affinity for water. It soothes my soul somehow, makes me feel safe. It entices, bewitches and beguiles. In the quiet, when the water is smooth as glass, it pleads a silent invitation. The endless stillness calls to me, begging for something. I have been called like this since I was a child and there was only one consistent solution.

Rocks. Now, I am a great skipper of rocks.

There is something about walking along the shore, searching for beautifully flat rocks. The joy of the hunt, the thrill of such a simple chase is magic. My eyes scan and peruse the tan sand grains, searching for perfectly flat-sided rocks. Running constantly in the back of my mind is the thought of beating my record of eight skips. I accept or reject on that basis. The water invites, the wind whispers. I stoop and smile, sandy fingers searching, while dark hair flies around my eyes.

One thought persists: all I need is one flat side. Color matters not, size matters not (not really, I'm that good of a skipper). Searching, I collect and place the workable rocks in my right pocket. I like to skip a bunch in succession, so I make sure I have at least half a pocket full before I begin.

When the weight is sufficient and anticipation full, I walk to the edge of that inviting water. Standing there I begin to wonder many measureless things, as I stare out at the gentle waves or endless blue. I force my brain to stop so I can enjoy this simple pleasure carried over from my youth.

My hand sneaks into my pocket and I pull out a triangular gray stone. For some reason, bittersweet thoughts filter in and I question if I should skip such a beauty. Perhaps I should place this one in my left pocket as a keepsake of the day, a quiet memento? Twisting and flipping it back and forth, I ponder. With a deep breath, I finally decide to skip it.

Placing its cool weight between my thumb and index finger, I curve my wrist. With the back of my hand facing the water I pull towards my body and then with a quick efficient motion fling my wrist forward. I release the rock out to the liquid depths and wait with held breath. One. Two. Three, yes…keep going! The ripples get smaller…four. Drops of water slip from the stone as it flies through the air, almost as if in slow motion. Five…and then nothing. Five. That was good. My rock was on the smallish side.

And so it goes, competing against the wind and water and one's self; tossing and counting. It is a solitary competition of the finest sort, with bare sandy feet and wet toes watching. A sliver of a moment, in an almost perfect day.

Some days the conditions for rock skipping won't be found nearly as perfect.
Sometimes there are waves. The water already has purposeful motion, it already has a song.
But, I don't give in that easily. I can take risks.

I go into the game knowing I won't get that many skips out of my rocks, no matter how perfectly flat they are. Because everyone knows, you can't skip rocks well over waves. Not really.

But the waves will invite you to try, taunting with their repeated caresses. You fling the stones and hope for the best. If you are lucky, those rocks will sail, flying high into the sky as they hit the water in-between crests. If you get two skips, you are happy.

Another, more serious problem often creeps up while skipping rocks.

Eventually, in any given frame of time on that beach or shore, you will run out of flat stones and then what? Are you going to quit? Leave? Or are you going to look again at the rocks you passed over the first time. Are you going to dig a promising something up out of the dirt, spend your time and energy taking a chance, looking to see if the side pressed into the earth is flat enough?

That is what I do.

I dig around in the dirt and sand, knees resting on the ground, hoping to find a rock I can use for skipping.

Because you see, it doesn't matter the color, it doesn't matter the size. I am just that good at skipping rocks and giving water a rippling voice. Even if it only lasts a fraction of a second, in that moment I have left my mark.