Gil sat at the edge of the docks, his feet dangling into the cool of the lake. The summer heat hung heavily in the air, and Gil was lonely. Jackson had been dragged off to visit his Aunt Bonnet, who- in Gil's opinion- was so creepy and ornery that her status as a witch was irrefutable. So he decided he'd sit out this trip, since he knew he'd hear all about it when Jackson returned, anyhow. But now, sitting by his lonesome, he thought that even going into the lair of an old hag would be more enjoyable. Then, at least, he'd be with his friend.
A fish jumped out of the water and landed with a splash, distracting Gil from his woes. With renewed excitement, Gil jumped up. He missed Jackson, but even that couldn't keep him down for long. It was summer, and the world was never so alive and full of adventure.
Having finished the required lamenting for his companion's suffering, he hurried off the docks, mind racing to decide upon his next activity. Gil's bare feet clapped loudly against the wood, and he jumped from the end of the dock, landing back on the earth in a massive cloud of dust. The dirt stuck to his wet skin, darkening his legs a few shades. Immersed in a chase of an imaginary Indian war party, he ran along the edge of the lake, loose dirt flying around him.
He leapt off of a small bluff, not looking to where he would imminently be landing. It was a pit full of rocks, which, luckily for Gil, had been smoothed by the rough rains of the season being channeled into the small pit, through which a small stream flowed through, during bad storms. He landed with a heavy thud, abruptly ending his hunt. He got up and dusted himself off, and congratulated himself on his find. He had found a veritable treasure trove of skipping stones! Never had he imagined finding so many stones that met the basic criteria for skipping; he'd have to devise a list of all the most desirable qualities, in order to make sure that he didn't waste his time with any sub-par rocks.
While Gil contemplated, Grant sat on the porch, in his chair, talking to Carla- as per the usual. "Whaddya' figure Gil's up to today, hun?" Grant wondered aloud, removing his pipe from his mouth and blowing out a puff of smoke, before adding, "With that buddy of his being gone and all."
"I imagine he's at the lake; I saw him runnin' off that way this morning." Carla sipped her just-acquired iced lemonade and sat beside Grant, in her rocking chair. The boards of the porch creaked slightly as she rocked.
"Did I ever tell you about the time we went to the beach?" He had, but she shook her head. "Well, one day, a few summers ago, we all decided we were gonna' go to the beach. So we get up, bright and early in the mornin', and make sandwiches 'n' pack drinks 'n' towels 'n' whatnot, and we pack into Gil's dad's station wagon, and we set out."
Grant paused to sip his lemonade before continuing, "It was as beautiful a day as there ever was- perfect beach-goin' weather. The drive seemed to take an eternity, an' the anticipation of those three kids- Gil, Jackson, and Petunia- to go an' jump in the ocean had built up in that car till it was ready to burst. Then, we get to the beach an' unload the car, just as we step onto the sand, the sun disappears, clouds fill the sky, and the sky opens up. Now, I've lived a long time and I've seen me a lot of storms, but I ain't ever seen one start up so fast and so strong as this 'un. We all ran back to shelter of the car, 'cept for- you guessed it-" He paused for effect, as veteran story-tellers so often do, "Gil. With the sun gone and the rain falling in buckets, it's downright freezing outside, not to mention in the water. But Gil, with that indomitable spirit of his, wouldn't let nothing ruin his day at the beach. He ran straight into the surf, and swam around for well near an hour, all of us standing at the shore, drenched from the rain and our voices hoarse from calling him back in. By the time he swam in to the beach, his teeth were chattering like wild." He paused, savoring the moment, "but his smile was as wide as I've ever seen it. 'Course, the next day, he was sick with pneumonia an' in bed for a week, but it's that spirit you've got to admire, y'know? That willpower. I like to think that he gets that from me." From behind Grant's façade of Seriousness slipped a smile, and they laughed heartily together, content.
Gil examined the rocks carefully. No boy has ever been able to define the characteristics of the perfect skipping stone, but that didn't stop Gil from trying. Smoothness was of vital importance, but given how smooth all the rocks were, that didn't help him much. Shape was also vitally important. Unfortunately, Gil, despite his many years of experience skipping rocks, had no clue which shape worked best. There were too many for a decision by coin-flipping to be prudent, along with any of the other usual methods of elimination common to boyhood.
His mind raced, he'd have to find some way to get them back to their stash. Gil cursed Jackson for going away; this discovery couldn't wait for his return to be exploited. Who knew who else could find it and keep it for themselves? He stuffed his pockets with as many rocks as he cou1d, and then piled more into his arms. Despairingly, he had barely made a dent in the lode. Figuring he'd save what he could, he ran back to the pickup truck to deposit the stones in their stash.
Rather, he tried to run. He ended up half-waddling, half-stumbling back, and leaving a pretty decent trail of rocks behind him. He pried open the truck's passenger door and dumped the rocks on the floor, adding sizably to their stash. This cheered Gil up momentarily, but when he thought of all the rocks he wouldn't be able to gather, he frowned again.
Looking out the cabin's back window, he had an idea. He whistled and Copper, who had been napping on the truck's bed, instantly jumped up, alert and ready for action. Gil hopped out of the cabin and whistled again, rushing back to the trove of stones; or at least near to it. A close by weeping willow was his actual destination; he quickly ripped the supple branches from it and began to twine them into makeshift rope. It took him quite awhile, perhaps even longer than it would have taken to make two or three more trips back to the truck, but he at last had enough rope for what his plan required, and hurried to gather, or create, the other materials.
Using nearby sticks, branches and assorted lumber, he crafted what is best described as a raft with runners, much like a sled. It was big, too big for him to pull alone, especially laden with weighty rocks. He fastened two of the willow-ropes onto the front; then he fashioned another rope into a harness for Copper, and looped one of the sled's ropes into it. He loaded rock after rock onto it, creating a precariously leaning pile. The pit was still home to many stones, but Gil knew that it would be wrong to take all of those for just Jackson and himself; besides, they'd never be able to skip all of them by themselves.
Satisfied both with his creation and the large load it would be able to carry, Gil grabbed the sled's other rope, and began to pull. He had marked a path back to the truck, risking that the stones would be discovered to ensure that he would be able to get the sled back- as the problem lay not in being able to find the way back, but in finding the way on which they would be able to pull the sled back. Luckily, or perhaps due to Gil's familiarity with the woods and his adroit path finding skills, he had managed to find a trail that was, in many parts, downhill. So, he figured, the toughest part would be getting started.
He pulled against it, his feet slipping on the loose dirt. He pulled harder, and it moved slightly. Urging Copper on, he tried again. Still slipping, he struggled to regain his footing as he threw his entire weight against the rope. He let out a small yelp, and Copper added his weight to the effort. It started.
In sharp contrast to the moment before, Gil was now struggling to keep the sled from careening too fast down the hill; and he had a hard time working against the momentum. As the sled collided with a few small bushes and almost launched off a log, he thought that it would have been a good idea to clear the path. Not having time to regret his lack of forethought, he guided the cargo around a tight turn, not an easy task. He looked at the load; it was diminished, but not enough so as to make the trip unsuccessful. Thinking about how much of their journey remained; he sighed, caught his breath, and pushed on.
A few hundred feet, a couple near-disasters, and a good deal of hard work later, the two wearily dragged themselves and the sled into the clearing, before collapsing against the side of the truck. Breathing heavily, Copper lay beside Gil, his head on his lap. Gil affectionately petted his head and massaged his soft ears. After making sure that no one was present, Gil removed his heavy hat and wiped the sweat from his brow and hair, before returning it to its accustomed place on his skull. Copper's heavy panting and his parched throat soon roused him from his recumbency, in order to quench their mutual thirst.
He grabbed a half-full canteen from the cabin of the truck- the water was warm, but it served its purpose just as well. Gil eagerly gulped it down, and then poured it into Copper's open mouth until the dog was satisfied. He loaded a few more rocks into their stash, and then his stomach convinced him to take a break. Climbing up a nearby tree, he returned to the bed of the truck- to where Copper had relocated- with two apples. He carved up one, feeding the pieces to his companion as his munched on his own.
When he finished burying the seeds nearby, Gil walked back to the truck. On his way, he treaded on a marble that he recognized as Jackson's. Trying hard to ignore his growing longing for his friend's company, he finished unloading the sled. Admiring his craftsmanship, he put said sled under the back of the truck, as he was sure he would find use for it again.

He was bored for a moment, but an obvious activity soon occurred to him. He looked through the store of rocks, trying to decide which to bring back with him to the lake. It was hard work; he still didn't know what made a skipping stone skip. He was rummaging through when he saw it, glaring out at him. He grabbed the rock and cupped it in his hands, staring in awe. He wasn't sure how he knew- but he did- but this was the skipping stone. Something about it filled him to the brim with excitement, and he couldn't contain himself.
He ran out of the clearing so quickly that he nearly forgot to rouse the dozing Copper with a whistle. Previous fatigue forgotten, the pair made record time to the lake. They ran out on a small peninsula and Gil slipped the stone from his pocket. As he looked at it, he realized the inherent problem of finding the perfect skipping stone: its worth came from its performance, but once it was used, it was gone forever.
Copper eagerly ran around, tail wagging rapidly, as Gil contemplated the matter. He didn't need to think much; what was the point of having the perfect skipping stone if not to skip it? Why wait? As he wound up for the throw, just before he released the stone, he remembered.
As he walked back to the truck, stone in hand, he was thankful he'd remembered in time. Copper barked at him; he couldn't understand Gil's sudden change of heart. Gil smiled to himself. It would be worth the wait to be able throw that stone with Jackson.