The pontoon
We're a few days into a holiday on Turkey's Aegean coast. A bit of autumn sun, and our last holiday as a family of three: a new Hart will arrive in February.
There's a pontoon out on the bay. I kept meaning to swim out. It looked inviting, and it really isn't too far.
But I had a toddler to watch, I was tired, it was windy. I was enjoying building sand castles. So I didn't swim out.
Yesterday, I was paddling. Then I told my boy and my wife I was going.
There was a brief toddler protest - but I soon managed to convince him it'd be fun: he could race me there along the jetty.
So I swam out.
It's shallower than it looks, surprisingly warm - the sea has been warming up all summer. I glided along to the ladder.
My son met me there, panting, thrilled he'd beaten me as I hauled myself up. Then we did it a couple more times.
The next day, I went for a run and finished up at the beach. The pontoon was closed, the loungers put away for the season.
I sat there with a coffee and a water and looked at the sea, and the mountains beyond.
You should always find a way to swim to the pontoon - whatever the pontoon is for you, right now.
Because these windows of opportunity close, and they close without warning.
So act. Do. Swim. Go and swim to your pontoon.