I have passed many holiday afternoons standing beside a body of water - a lake, a river, the sea – throwing stones. If you don’t know me, you may imagine this is just a way of killing time. But from my childhood, throwing stones into water has been far more than this. I have a photo from further back than my memory will take me showing me throwing stones beside my father and older brother, completely outclassed but with a look on my face that said I was loving every minute of it.
This was our shared relaxation: water, stones, and family. We competed to throw the stones as far as we could: beyond the breaking waves, or across a river; if there was a cliff face opposite, we tried to reach the top of it, or to dislodge a boulder weathering out of the face. That led to a quest for accuracy: could you land a second stone in the ripples left by the first? If you threw in a stick (or a piece of pumice), could you hit it before it drifted out of sight?
Throwing stones works perfectly well on your own, too. There is a deep satisfaction in competing with yourself for greater distance or greater accuracy. And once I mastered the art of skipping stones, there was a whole new challenge for these afternoons: how many skips can you do? Anyone can skip a smooth flat pebble; but what about a knobbly rock? Can you choose one with a concave lower face, and get the angle just right so that instead of burying itself in the first ripple, it seems to skim like a hovercraft, barely touching the surface?
Throwing stones is not without pain. There was the routine pain of worn out shoulders and aching chest muscles the next day. Sometimes it was more acute: I remember a famous afternoon when I was ten; on a visit to New Zealand, standing by a lake or a river in the Southern Alps. I was a stronger thrower by then but still error-prone; and one fast-flung stone failed to roll off my finger tip, instead being sent with deadly force to my left and striking my father full-tilt on his temple. I remember because he shouted, clasped his hand to his head, and stood up threateningly in a single reflex move, badly wounded and wanting to lash out; then mastered himself, and said something about having to be more careful. It was scary for a moment, and I was deeply upset at the pain I had caused (but also, if the truth be known, a little shaken at the anger I had provoked).
Over the years there has been no shortage of innovation. I am most proud of my version of clay pigeon shooting; you choose two stones, one larger than the other, and hold one in each hand, the larger in the hand you throw better with. First you toss up the larger stone, as far away as you choose, and then follow it up by transferring the smaller stone to your throwing hand and trying to strike the first in midair. The unmistakable sound of a hit sends a thrill through your body; if one or other explodes into fragments, it is even better; and even if some of the family have lost interest and wandered off to beachcomb, the ‘snick’ in the air and shout of triumph brings a smile and a nod of approval.
As my children have picked up their own stones, you realise the different intensities of concentration that throwing stones provokes. My daughter the gymnast had a strong and accurate throw, easily able to cross rivers or hit a target. The middle son had less strength but immense patience, and he would calmly stand at my side, tossing stones endlessly into a river and chatting about whatever was on his mind. And the youngest has proudly raised the bar: there was a famous teenage holiday where he was frustrated at the contrast between his right arm, able to outstrip my furthest throw, and his left, unpredictably launching stones with clumsy inelegance. Nothing daunted, he set himself to practise every day of the holidays as we travelled up the East Coast beaches of the North Island, using only his left arm, and in just a couple of weeks his strength and accuracy developed to the point where he could hurl a stone beyond the breakers or skim one far across the smooth seaward slope of a freshly broken wave.
Throwing stones is simply what we do in our family. It provides challenge, competition, almost an art form; and a deep, shared contentment. I am one of those people who are convinced that we have a loving Creator who has put us here to care for this part of His creation. I am confident that when I die a part of me will continue to live on, somewhere better and more beautiful than this already glorious world. I have no idea what we will do there but the deep need to achieve that I may have revealed above makes me think that there will still be work to do. But I am also quietly confident that there will be time off; time to spend by whatever passes for water in that next world; and I have a hope that I can barely bring myself to name. It is the hope that when I die, and stand by some heavenly river with a pile of perfect stones at my side, I will be with my father – and my other two children, who died at birth – quietly filling up a river with stones and enjoying each other’s company.
This was our shared relaxation: water, stones, and family. We competed to throw the stones as far as we could: beyond the breaking waves, or across a river; if there was a cliff face opposite, we tried to reach the top of it, or to dislodge a boulder weathering out of the face. That led to a quest for accuracy: could you land a second stone in the ripples left by the first? If you threw in a stick (or a piece of pumice), could you hit it before it drifted out of sight?
Throwing stones works perfectly well on your own, too. There is a deep satisfaction in competing with yourself for greater distance or greater accuracy. And once I mastered the art of skipping stones, there was a whole new challenge for these afternoons: how many skips can you do? Anyone can skip a smooth flat pebble; but what about a knobbly rock? Can you choose one with a concave lower face, and get the angle just right so that instead of burying itself in the first ripple, it seems to skim like a hovercraft, barely touching the surface?
Throwing stones is not without pain. There was the routine pain of worn out shoulders and aching chest muscles the next day. Sometimes it was more acute: I remember a famous afternoon when I was ten; on a visit to New Zealand, standing by a lake or a river in the Southern Alps. I was a stronger thrower by then but still error-prone; and one fast-flung stone failed to roll off my finger tip, instead being sent with deadly force to my left and striking my father full-tilt on his temple. I remember because he shouted, clasped his hand to his head, and stood up threateningly in a single reflex move, badly wounded and wanting to lash out; then mastered himself, and said something about having to be more careful. It was scary for a moment, and I was deeply upset at the pain I had caused (but also, if the truth be known, a little shaken at the anger I had provoked).
Over the years there has been no shortage of innovation. I am most proud of my version of clay pigeon shooting; you choose two stones, one larger than the other, and hold one in each hand, the larger in the hand you throw better with. First you toss up the larger stone, as far away as you choose, and then follow it up by transferring the smaller stone to your throwing hand and trying to strike the first in midair. The unmistakable sound of a hit sends a thrill through your body; if one or other explodes into fragments, it is even better; and even if some of the family have lost interest and wandered off to beachcomb, the ‘snick’ in the air and shout of triumph brings a smile and a nod of approval.
As my children have picked up their own stones, you realise the different intensities of concentration that throwing stones provokes. My daughter the gymnast had a strong and accurate throw, easily able to cross rivers or hit a target. The middle son had less strength but immense patience, and he would calmly stand at my side, tossing stones endlessly into a river and chatting about whatever was on his mind. And the youngest has proudly raised the bar: there was a famous teenage holiday where he was frustrated at the contrast between his right arm, able to outstrip my furthest throw, and his left, unpredictably launching stones with clumsy inelegance. Nothing daunted, he set himself to practise every day of the holidays as we travelled up the East Coast beaches of the North Island, using only his left arm, and in just a couple of weeks his strength and accuracy developed to the point where he could hurl a stone beyond the breakers or skim one far across the smooth seaward slope of a freshly broken wave.
Throwing stones is simply what we do in our family. It provides challenge, competition, almost an art form; and a deep, shared contentment. I am one of those people who are convinced that we have a loving Creator who has put us here to care for this part of His creation. I am confident that when I die a part of me will continue to live on, somewhere better and more beautiful than this already glorious world. I have no idea what we will do there but the deep need to achieve that I may have revealed above makes me think that there will still be work to do. But I am also quietly confident that there will be time off; time to spend by whatever passes for water in that next world; and I have a hope that I can barely bring myself to name. It is the hope that when I die, and stand by some heavenly river with a pile of perfect stones at my side, I will be with my father – and my other two children, who died at birth – quietly filling up a river with stones and enjoying each other’s company.