The tide is low. This allows me and Nitro the Two Toned Cavoodle to walk along the exposed rocks at Bondi Beach’s north end without getting swept out to sea. It also lets us do a loop up to the road and back down through the park. The park has a pair of swings. And though I can hear voices as we enter the area, they seem far enough away that, thanks to the night’s sheltering darkness, I feel comfortable in indulging one of my favourite sensations. I have a swing. Of course, I’m a swinger from way back. Like most kids, I was initially pushed by a parent or just someone bigger than me. But oh what a feeling to eventually master self propulsion. Then I could swing for as long as I liked. As it turned out – that was a long time. See, I was also a rocker from way back – silently rocking back and forth in my tiny little rocking chair. So swinging was really just rocking on a much grander scale. Gliding through the air as high as the chain allows. Then letting gravity take over to send my body flying back and up. Then using my arms and legs to continue the wonderful sensation ad-nauseam (and on occasion, nausea would be the end result of repeated swinging) . Obviously, as I grew older, the opportunity to swing waned, though I do recall still doing it as a teenager. So it was one of the fringe benefits of becoming a parent that I once again got swinging. Of course I was also on pushing duty but would eventually get bored with that and jump on the swing next to my son. He wasn’t always pleased with this but, on the upside, it forced him into self propulsion sooner than if I kept pushing. And so, at the rickety old age of fifty-five, here I am having a swing under the cover of darkness. But my bored dog beckons. My feet brush the ground enough for me to stop. I rise from the rubber seat. Until next time.