Borth, Wales

The perfect stone, my father always told me, was neither too heavy nor too light. Too heavy, the arc would be severe and the stone would quickly dive into the water. Too light, the arc would lose its parallel plane and the stone would turn onto its side. Neither should the stone be too flat nor too round. Too flat, the first skip would invariably catch an edge and the stone would tumble. Too round, the skip would be a splash and the stone would sink like -- and I always laughed when he said, sink like a stone!

So what was the perfect stone? I asked him one day. He stooped down to pick one up that seemed ordinary, barely flat. The perfect stone, he said with his smile, is the one that gives you the perfect toss. And with that, he turned towards the ocean and threw the stone low across the water, skipping it so many times I could not count, until the stone and the ripples it left behind finally merged with the horizon, above or below it I could not tell. That, he said, was a perfect stone.

The next day he left. I would see him twice more. Once at my wedding, although not a word was exchanged. And finally at his funeral, where no words could be exchanged.

***

"Is there some significance to this town, this Borth?"

I smiled but did not turn towards Pip. Driving on the wrong side of the road made me nervous, and sitting in what should have been the passenger seat, holding onto a steering wheel, made me doubly so. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Pip's sleepy smile, as she brushed her blonde hair out of her face and snuggled for a more comfortable position.

"Yes," I replied, concentrating on the M1 traffic. "You'll see, I guess."

The talk in Oxford had gone well, the crowd respectable and the faculty charged full of spirit, always a good sign. I had surprised Pip by asking her to come on this trip. She had expected London, she was getting Borth, Wales, instead.

The next hour passed quickly. We reached the coast at Aberystwyth, turning north for the short drive to Borth. Pulling up to the inn, I gently shook Pip awake. She turned to look outside, across the street toward the ocean, peering into the darkness, looking for some clue, some reason, we had driven west from Oxford instead of east. Slipping on her cap, she turned back to me.

"It's dark, James," she said.

"Sharp," I said. "Nothing escapes you. Come on, let's check in and find a pub before they close."

Morning came and with it a calm. A good day, I thought, as I got out of bed. Pip's eyes were closed, her breathing deep and slow. Sleeping was one of her hobbies.

My too-small bathrobe wrapped tightly around me, I padded down the hall on the way, I hoped, to the bathroom. The inn was nearly empty, as few tourists came to the coast during November. But the weather had been mild for the past few days, the innkeeper said when we checked in, an extended pause between storms. Ye gods, I thought to myself, what if I've remembered wrong? I shook my head as I headed back to the room. No, the name was there in my mind, Borth, why else would it be there?

As we sat down for breakfast, Pip eyed her plate with suspicion. "Did I oversleep? Is this dinner?" she asked, as she tallied the protein and cholesterol on her plate. "No, my dear," I replied, "it's the U.K." We counted our lucky stars we were only tourists, but that didn't stop us from cleaning our plates with the pleasure of a feast.

"So why are we here?" Pip asked, as we crossed the road and headed for the beach.

"Remember my famous trip in college, with Charles and the killer sheep and the bagpipe music and the broken camera?"

She tilted her head, her eyebrows squinting. "No," she finally decided, "I don't. Remember I didn't know you then?"

"When we get back, I'll show you the photographic evidence," I said. "If it hasn't turned all yellow and green, the camera, you see . . . "

Pip grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the waves. What wind there was came from the southwest, and so the waves fell on the beach at an angle. A good day indeed, I thought, as Pip danced at the water's edge. We had dressed in layers but the sky boldly promised no rain, so we had left our parkas in the room.

"James, why are we here?" Pip exclaimed as we resumed our walk along the beach. "It's a perfectly charming Welsh town, but where are the castles? And we're miles from the Roman steps. And we can drink warm beer in London. Is it the killer sheep, or pigs, or whatever you found with dear Charles?"

I stopped and slid behind her, reaching around to cover her eyes with my hands. "Okay, turn this way," I said, gently rotating her to the left. "Now this way," as I tilted her head downward.

"Here!" I said, taking my hands away.

"Yes. I see - - James, I see sand and driftwood and rocks --"

"Stones, Pip, you see stones. Take a close look at these stones."

"They are . . . stone-like?"

I bent down and picked one up. Oblong, about two inches along its widest diameter, smooth on both sides, thin but not too thin. "It's flat! They're all flat!" I said, bending down to pick up and toss away another dozen or so stones. "We are in the flat stone capital of the world!" I picked one up and stepped down to the water's edge. Like a pitcher shaking off the catcher's first few signs, I let several waves go by. Finally, a lull brought a placid surface to the water and I let the stone fly. One, two, three, four, five, six - - and seveneightnineten in rapid succession, and then the uncountable number at the end as the skips turned into a skid. A final splash ended the stone's run.

"We have come to Borth," Pip said slowly, "to throw rocks in the ocean."

"Stones. They are stones, and not just any stones." I retreated from the water's edge and started to hunt. I always began with a variety of stones, testing the water for an advantage of one type over the others. Pip silently looked on as I threw and watched, threw and watched, threw and watched. My breathing grew heavy as I wondered how much I could try Pip's patience. Planning this had been so hard - - exorcizing demons always is. If I had read it in a book, I would have laughed, but I had to lay my father's ghost to rest. And so I threw and watched. And threw some more.

"I think I know what you're doing," Pip said quietly. I waited for the humorous retort, but her look was serious. "It's about your father, isn't it?"

I stopped. "I was going to tell you a story, but later. You would have thought me crazy."

"But I've already heard it, I think."

"When? What story? Heard it from whom?"

"Your father, of course, at our wedding. I didn't tell you, it was so brief, I didn't want to spoil that night, and then later, any other night. But it makes sense now, seeing you throw those rocks, I never understood what he was talking about, it was such a strange thing to talk about. He took me aside, while you were dancing with your mother. It was so uncomfortable, this man I had never met, who just showed up, but it was your father!"

I bent to pick up more stones, waiting for Pip to go on, the tension inside me building along with the old furies. "What did he say? What did he tell you?"

"He said I was so lucky, and he was so sorry. I wanted to punch him, hit him, where had he been for the last ten years? He told me he had to stay away, he couldn't come back, but he had watched and had known about you. He said he was so proud, all the things you'd done. I barely listened, I was so mad."

"Watched? Known? How could he . . . ?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask. I wanted him to go away, but he was your father! And then he said something I didn't understand but maybe it makes sense now. He said you and he had loved to skip stones, and he said stones, not rocks. He said again how he was so proud, that you had turned out to be the perfect stone, and everything you had done was the perfect toss. I thought, what is he talking about? But it means something to you, doesn't it?"

I looked at the stone in my hand. Neither too heavy nor too light. Neither too flat nor too round. I studied the ocean. A lull in the waves invited me to find out, Was this the one?

The stone dropped from my hand, as I sat down heavily and began to cry. He had watched, and he had known, I thought, as sobs wracked my body. Pip wrapped her arms around me and waited until the grief finally let go.

Silently, she stood and picked up a nearby stone. She took the few steps down to the water and let it fly. It hit the water with a single splash and was gone.

"How was that?" she asked me, as we started to walk back to the inn.

"It was perfect," I told her.