When I can spare a couple of hours, I stroll down to the river and skip stones. It soothes me by feeding my senses and allowing my spirit to flow as calmly and honestly as the river.
Filling my lungs with river-must, that piquant tang of moss, algae and wet foliage, I begin looking for throwing stones, and quickly become absorbed with the cobbley quilt of pebbles and rocks of every colour and texture, punctuated here and there with tufts of vegetation, twigs and bugs. If it’s sunny, I take off my shirt and shoes – sunshine feels good on the top of my feet, and I like it when mud extrudes between my toes.
I fill my pockets with stones until I look like I'm wearing jodhpurs. Or, sometimes I skip them as I find them. Either way, choosing the right one is important. It needs to be flat and round, and fit into the crook of my index finger just so. While I've been known to brag that I can skip a brick, it pays to be patient – the perfect stone is always there. I sometimes save it for last.
Skipping technique is an art worthy of full attention, like that of a Zen archer. It’s important to get low to the water for your casts. Kids know this, that's why they're good at it. In fact, I rarely see adults skipping stones; I wonder why. Anyway, nestle that stone into the crook of your finger, get low, and keep your forearm parallel to the surface of the water.
Then wing it away with a joyful snap.
Keep your eyes on the stone's flight to the very end, until it sinks into the ever-flowing river, a gift to a future stone-skipper.
Kevin Love, c. 2007
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