This is not to say that women don’t also lie in hammocks. They do. Not, however, with the same frequency and gusto as men (if gusto and hammock can be used in the same sentence together).

Watch a guy enter a backyard that has a hammock. It’s like viewing one of those nature programs that shows a predator stalking his prey on the savannah. Some men race straight for it and claim it as their own for the rest of the afternoon. Others sneak up to it, stealth operators who strike when no one is looking. Yet others employ timeworn distraction methods, such as suggesting to his host that the burgers smell done, then easing into the hammock when the host goes off to check on his grilling meat.

I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift to images of the season. I envision the beach. I picture kids playing in the water. I see women in bikinis. I try to see some other stuff, but I can’t. The women in bikinis are everywhere, stretching out on beach towels, emerging from the ocean foam, walking by me and smiling... .

“Jim.”

It’s my wife.

“You like the hammock?”

Startled from my revelry, I stammer a reply.

“The hammock? Yeah, yeah. It’s great.”

I look up at the leaves.

“Nothing,” I pronounce, “says summer quite like a hammock.”