The Skip

A good skipping stone is flat and about the size of a cookie. You throw it low, flick the wrist, and after that, I'm told, it just happens. My grandfather got nine. I get one, and the one is a plunk.

I spent forty minutes at the lake picking stones. Side arm. Wrist. Knees bent. I tried the left hand once to even things out. The water takes none of it personally.

A boy of about nine was skipping stones from the next rock over. His were fine. He looked at my first throw and said, “Zero.” He wasn't being mean about it. He was counting.

My second throw: “Zero.” Third: “Zero.” He kept it up for half an hour, steady, like a man reading a meter. Then one of mine seemed to lift for a moment, which was probably the wind, and he said, “Almost.”

His mother called him to the car. He started to go, and then he turned around while I was mid-throw.

“One,” he said.

I have no idea what he counted. I didn't ask. I'm taking the one.