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⬅️ Previous capture (2023-09-28)
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In our high school days, my friends and I went on walks almost every day. It didn't matter where: the corner gas station was just as viable a trip as a hill five miles away overlooking the city.
A favorite route of mine took us to a nearby park with a trail running through it. The trail followed a small creek that cut through the dense forestry and meandered behind immaculate suburban lawns. We'd often stop along the creek wherever we could find a straight stretch, and we'd skip stones together.
I can't remember what we talked about as we stood by the water. I'm sure whatever it was, it was of the utmost importance to our teenage perceptions. But I can clearly recall the conical rings of ripples left behind by each rock. Some skipped only once, flying high into the air after the first bounce and sinking straight down on the second impact. Others continued gliding across the water horizontally, skidding to a halt on the surface before gently plunging to the riverbed. We'd spend hours just tossing stones one after another, chatting, laughing, and letting our worries go.
I still go to local creeks and ponds to skip stones every now and then. However, with all of us now leading busy adult lives, I almost always go alone.
That's not a bad thing. As a result of my solitude, skipping rocks has morphed into a time to self-reflect. I do it to let off steam; I do it to process heavy thoughts; I do it just because it's something I can do that takes skill but can be done mindlessly, while I let my mind take a break from the pressures of life. I still pay attention to the ripples. I still count how many bounces I get before the rock sinks. And if it hits the water and simply sinks, I still blame the stone--my throwing angle was clearly not to blame, of course.
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[Last updated: 2023-09-13]