Stone Skipper Paradise

Saturday 6 August 2014

4:19 PM

The isle of Papa Westray, Scotland, UK

I've left the kirk of St. Boniface. There is a fair bit of time to kill before the ferry back to Westray, but I don't really care. I'm still partly reeling from my time in the kirkyard. I just need to pedal hard until it's out of my mind.

I haven't even made it back to the shop when I spy a field of puffins, or at least I think they're puffins (my ornithological knowledge base is seriously lacking). They're tiny! also exceptionally adorable for birds...

This was the best photo I could get. The iPhone has it's limitations.

                             

The wind is starting to get to me and the puffins won't come any closer, so I press on. The pier is on the southern tip of the island, and I'm in the middle. So it's a long ride back to the pier. Most of it is down hill, but the wind is so strong that I have to pedal anyway just to keep moving forward.

I've been quite fortunate in Orkney. I almost always seem to miss the rain, but for some reason I'm always biking into the wind wherever I go.

All that said, I'm able to make it back to the pier with over 30 minutes to spare. There are people congregating around the shelter house, assorted bikes laying alongside buildings and cars with multi coloured helmets strewn about. Families and little children and elderly couples. 

I don't really feel like being social, nor do I feel like being the anti-social person ignoring everyone while listening to an audio book. So I choose option C, go to the beach.

I'm glad I did.

This is the beach that lay before me.

A collection of skipping stones so good that the ones I discard would have been considered 'perfect' on any other beach.

And it's like this, as far as the eye could see.

I make my way down by the water, where I notice some peculiar round purple blobs. I think they're beached jellyfish, but I'm not about to touch them and find out.

The bay before me is glassy calm, so I shrug off my jacket and set it on the ground next to my hat and bag. Then I begin to skip stones.

3 skips

7 skips

4 skips

16!

I stop counting. The reflexive rocking of my torso and the sling of my arm all falling into rhythm.

Eventually, my first collection of stones runs out and I have to get some more. When I return, arms laden with perfect skippers, I notice that several of the people waiting on the pier have turned to watch me.

Truthfully, my right arm is getting sore, but I skip anyway.