Mike Smolskis is a native of Kensington, Maryland, and a four-year member of the Puget Sound men's tennis program. This is his D3 Week story. 

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    When I was little, a Razor Scooter and I took a tumble down my next-door neighbor's driveway. I broke my leg as a result. Now, I don't remember much of the fall, the sudden aftermath, or if it even hurt or not. But what I do remember is, when I went to the beach that summer, I learned my favorite thing to do. 
           
    The beach town of Black Point, Connecticut is and was one of my favorite places to be. As a kid, I stayed by the shore all day building sandcastles and paths that led the crabs my cousins, sisters, brother, and I caught back to their homes in the water. We'd splash and swim and poke our parents to go out to the raft anchored far in the water until they literally couldn't say no for an answer. My brother and I threw seaweed at each other, dodging and ducking, till one of us heard the ice cream truck coming. I loved it. Being in the water here was what I waited for all year. But after I broke my leg, I had no chance of being in the water with my siblings, family, and cousins for the summer.
          
    I was put in a cast from my waist down, meaning I'd have to keep dry. To make things a little more difficult, my swimming days were even more so suspended due to a wheelchair being my temporary way of transportation. I couldn't go in the water, and I couldn't even really sit on the shore because I couldn't get my cast too sandy! 
My parents each day, though, made the most of it for me. Each morning and each afternoon, they strolled me and my cast down the concrete pier, so I could at least sit alongside my siblings and cousins who spent all day in the water. On the pier next to me, my ma put down a sand bucket full of rocks. She'd throw them with me, and after I got the hang of it, she'd leave me be for a while. I spent all day every day for two weeks throwing rocks into the water–sometimes trying to throw many at a time, sometimes trying to skip them. I'd be by myself for a lot of the time on the pier, probably imagining I was a QB and the rocks were footballs, or that I was my cousin who, in the eyes of a three year-old, skipped rocks the way Hercules must've thrown discuses.

    I spent much of the time with my rocks and my imagination, but my brother always, always came up to the pier to make sure the bucket would be filled. He'd grab the bucket when it was almost empty, tell me he'd be right back, and hopped down the rocky edge of the pier to collect more stones. Today, our parents tell me he scoured the beach, up and down nonstop, looking for throwing rocks. Again and again, climbing up the pier's rocks and down them, he'd do this for me. I can only imagine it was tiring because, dang, when I say I threw these rocks all day, I mean I threw them all day. He made sure that I enjoyed my time up on the pier no matter what, and in that he succeeded. He and my family turned a dry beach vacation into an enjoyable experience that led me to an obsession with the most simple yet useful hobby in my skill set–skipping stones.

    Years after my summer sidelined by the scooter, I developed my rock skipping talent. By my creek near my home in Maryland, I'd find the longest stretch of smooth water coupled with the rockiest patch of beach, and I'd skip rocks for what seemed like forever. I always wanted to out-skip my dad in Black Point, so I'd "train" all year at the creek. Instead of going on long distance runs for high school tennis like I should have, I ran halfway to the creek to catch the sunset while skipping some rocks. Overtime I figured out my particulars–which rocks I liked for long skips, fast skips, or high jumping skips. I knew to never skip a wet rock, I learned that the flattest smooth stones aren't always the best, and I even developed a scale to determine how impressive certain skips were. I coupled the nature of the water's waves with the weather to create a degree of difficulty scale, and if the Olympic committee ever needs a set of rules for a future skipping competition, I'm game to give em. 

    Skipping rocks became something I looked forward to. Not only because I wanted to be, and became, the best darn rock skipper in the family, but because it was something I could take anywhere for anytime. Instead of going to a baseball stadium in every state or going to every state capital, my cross-country goal is now to skip a rock in every state. I can skip rocks with friends; I can throw 'em by myself. It's a hobby I can admittedly show off, but it's also something that I can keep hidden. Finding some water with rocks is both a time with others and a retreat for myself. I've had some of my greatest memories when skipping rocks at college, and it's also been one of the greatest ways to be with myself, resetting through tough times to get past adversity. It's part of how I operate now, and it's made my appreciation for the calmer, simpler things so much stronger during a sometimes chaotic student-athlete schedule. 
           
    Over my four years at Puget Sound, skipping rocks before practices and after tennis matches is a pump up and a cool down. Being out on the Sound, whether at Titlow Park, in Gig Harbor, or Point Defiance, relaxes me and keeps my game loose. Physically, it loosens my wrist and my shoulder. I tend to serve better after a trip to the water! Mentally, it puts me in a good mood no matter what's going on with schoolwork, or if I'm ever in a tennis slump. The simple act of throwing a rock paired with looking out towards Mt. Rainier, the Olympics, the Narrows Bridge, and even the trees on Vashon Island makes for one unbelievably peaceful day… like I'm back out on the beach with my family.

    Those peaceful days make the hard-working time at tennis so great. It motivates me to do my best in tennis and in school. With the scope of ethics that the athletic and academic Puget Sound community has given me, I'll eventually be by the water skippin' rocks all day long, enjoying myself just like when I was a kid in a cast.