There is an ancient, unspoken truth passed down from muddy riverbank to grubby-handed child for generations. A primal whisper carried on the wind, rustling through reeds, that says:

“Find a flat one. Then let rip.”

This, dear reader, is the sacred rite of skimming stones - a subtle and noble art practised by lunatics, dads, and philosopher-kings in equal measure. If you’ve ever stood at the edge of a lake where the shoreline is littered with perfect, palm-sized, pancake-flat beauties just begging to be flung, you’ll know the pure, childlike thrill I’m talking about.

If not, you may be dead inside.

Skimming stones is one of those rare outdoor activities that seems like it was designed purely to showcase your dominance over physics. You, a mere mortal, harnessing spin, angle and swagger to create magic on water. But this isn’t some brutish hurl-it-and-hope scenario. No no. We’re dancing with gravity here. This is ballet in Birkenstocks. 

To truly master the art, you must know thy stone.

Now, for the closet nerds and over-involved dads (hi, we see you), here’s what’s actually happening when you nail a 12-skipper across Loch Wherever:

And yet we try. Again and again. Why?

Because in that moment, when you line up the throw and feel the whip-crack of a perfect release, time stands still. Dads enter a deep, monk-like flow state. Nothing else matters. Just you, a rock, the great watery abyss, and the chance (however slim) that you’re about to perform a physics-bending miracle worthy of pub-table legend for the rest of time.

Every dad has a skimming stone origin story. Mine? Lake Vyrnwy, aged seven, gripping a stone so flat it looked like a Pringle that had seen things. Standing beside my expectant father and three brothers, I launched it with all the coordination of a drunk squirrel. It plopped like a dead pigeon. I cried. My dad clapped anyway.

Fast forward thirty-three years. I’m standing on the banks of Loch Oich in the Scottish Highlands, my own son beside me. He’s gunning for a triple-bouncer. I’m chasing the holy grail of the twenty-skipper.

The gentle Spring breeze paused. A stillness settled. Something shifted in my loins - hard to explain, but deeply ancestral. The miniature ripples vanished into a perfect millpond hush.

It was time.

I closed my eyes. Took a deep, deliberate nostril breath. Entered what can only be described as an out-of-body experience. I watched as my left leg lunged forward like a CrossFit champion while my right arm cocked back in blissful synchronicity.

There was a faint sonic boom (probably imagined, definitely majestic) as my arm whip-cracked towards the loch. The stone was released with a flick of wrist that would’ve buttered a crumpet flawlessly. At the final millisecond, my index finger gave it a subtle, decisive tweak. The kind of tweak only a seasoned skimmer knows. A farewell. A blessing. A promise.

It spun.
It danced.
It dared to dream.

Then dive-bombed like a dead pigeon. Again.

Some things, it seems, never change.

My son looked up, eyes wide.

“Cool,” he said, before throwing his stone directly at a duck.

Progress.

My good mate Dan was with me on the trip too. I’ve known him nearly twenty years, and I’ve seen him launch many varieties of projectiles in that time. Let’s just say he’s not exactly known for his throwing prowess, which made it especially soul-destroying when I watched him pick up the nearest stone and casually unleash an exquisite 22-bounce pearler.

My son looked at me again and said, “You gonna let him beat you like that?”

I told him it wasn’t about winning.

He didn’t buy it.