Read this extract from a personal account.

My cousin’s advice sounded simple: find a flat stone, crouch and throw it low across the lake. I chose a smooth grey stone and balanced it carefully on my fingers. For a moment, I felt like an expert preparing to demonstrate an easy trick. Then I threw it. The water seemed to open its mouth and swallow the stone without a splash.

The second stone struck the surface once and vanished. My cousin did not give me another speech. Instead, she turned her wrist slowly so that I could copy the movement. “Watch the edge of the stone,” she said, “not the other bank.” I tried again: bend, turn, release. Each attempt travelled a little further. On the fifth throw, the stone tapped the lake three times, leaving a row of silver commas behind it.

I shouted before the final ripple had disappeared. Naturally, my next stone sank immediately. This time, however, I laughed. I had stopped treating the lake as an opponent that I had to defeat. Before we left, I found another perfectly flat stone. I put it in my pocket instead of throwing it. Not every good stone needed to pass a test.