On Brazen Skipping
I never could skip stones like my dad could; smooth and calm and full of purpose. six or seven skips sometimes, like a jesus lizard.
Mine would always fly off with too much enthusiasm. And it hurt because I'd spent ages finding the perfect one: the perfect pancake-flat and lightly rounded pebble; I'd pick it out with optimism every time.
I'd grin so hard as I made the pull back, I know I had the technique down now. This time it'll work, I know it will. This loving momentum could carry anything to heaven, so to cross water should be a cakewalk.
Release, fly high...
plish plonk and gone.
It takes such skill, such calm... to skip stones. My dad could skip a boulder if he'd wanted.
I found other more childish ways of skipping of course. skipping jolly to the lolly shop at first, (Oh the jiggles I'd add to my skip for the sake of a Witchetty Grub or a thinly-whited Jersey Caramel...) then later on I'd attempt enthusiastically skipping everything I came across; school, meals, acceptable methods of bonding to other human beings...
Sometimes I feel like I skipped over adolescence all together. It's funny because he'd always tell me to do that. My Dad; he'd say "Don't ever be a teenager. Trust me, it's not worth it."
So that's what I did. Skipped adolescence. straight on from onesies to gowns. "12 to 20" Dad'd say. I'd nod in vast approval of the genius scheme. decided I'd spend from age 12 til-I-found-it seeking out the perfect skipping stone.
Then at around age 15 I eureeka'd:
Enthusiastically I picked up my rock; how handsome he was... the stone itself I mean; brilliant colors; a hard thing, solid, heavy... yet somehow callous and smooth simultaneously. Consciousness had weathered him flat as a pancake... the perfect one. perfect.
My heart skipped a beat.
Plish plonk and..... .... .... ....