The three of us have had a breath of fresh air and a welcome escape to the beach. The harsh buffeting winds of the last few days have dropped and we find we can amble, rather than fight our way, through the weather today.
Tiddler clambers over rockpools, and giggles at the brown flapping seaweed that sticks to her fingers. Someone walks a dog over to our far right, the beach reclaimed by the dog walkers for the winter months, but enigmatically distant. The sky is a brooding grey, and the sea is the same chalky colour, but we are content.
Digger hunts for stones for skimming, and philosophises on his criteria. Thrifter asks if there is a perfect stone.
‘It needs to be smooth and balanced, small enough yet weighty enough, and you need to tip your fingers up as you throw it to keep it flat’. Thrifter attempts to heed this advice, whilst Tiddler simply goes for the biggest rocks she can carry and dumps them in the surf simply wanting to hear the ‘plop’.
No matter how suitable the stone, no matter how you throw it, the ebbing and rolling flowing of the waves can change just as that expected ‘home-run’ pebble leaves your hand. A twist of fate perhaps, whether you get a bouncing three or four, or a single plunge into the depths. ‘A bit like life’, muses Digger.
We can’t control the forces of the sea, that is true, as Canute himself failed to do so. But we can perhaps take the time to practice our throws, and to hunt for the right pebble, amongst the thousands, that just might work for us.