Skipping stones is an inherently frivolous and boyish pastime. As a child, I remember the frustration of learning how to skip stones and the eventual excitement when I got a stone to skip three times. Regardless of where I go, skipping stones brings me to a familiar place. The challenge of finding the perfect rock and perfect stretch of beach and throwing the perfect toss consumes my attention and I forget where I am. I focus on how many skips I can get.
On Friday, my dad and I found the perfect stretch of beach on the Maine coast and skipped stones for an hour.
Good stones are an obvious necessity. This beach was littered with palm sized pieces of slate.
The weather was perfect; minimal wind interference and warm enough that you felt the rush of being outside without gloves for the first time this year.
After skipping stones for an hour, my dad grabbed a piece of grass and started chewing on it like Huck Finn. I guess being a boy has more to do with a state of mind or attitude than your age.