Ah, summer! Is it finally here? Well, it is today; let tomorrow take care of itself. Lie back in your wide and sturdy hammock, a pitcher of lemonade within reach. In your hand, perhaps, a dogeared copy of Joshua Slocum's ''Sailing Alone Around the World,'' ready for its 25th annual reading. Or perhaps your taste runs to something like ''The Confidential Agent,'' Graham Greene's spare, classic thriller that proves spies are only ordinary guys (like you) forced into extraordinary circumstances.
Just as you're about to disappear into the fog-shrouded English Channel or brave a squall in the Strait of Magellan, a muffled, rhythmic pounding intrudes, and grows. You raise up, carefully so's not to spill your glass of lemonade or do a ''hammock roll,'' just in time to see Charlie from down the street steam by in his $90 running shoes and $35 shorts - bathed in sweat, blowing like a whale, and euphoric.
Ah well, to each his own. You're just getting to one of your favorite passages when Junior's 280ZX screeches into the driveway. Strapped atop the car are his wind-surfing board and sail. Junior is not a replica of Dad. He's a foot taller, four shades tanner, and just as heavy - but in the right places.
You scrunch down, hoping he won't notice you and make some remark like, ''Hey , Dad, grown any moss yet?'' He spots you, but passes up the chance for a jibe to inform you: ''Mom said dinner may be a little late. She has to make up a sailing lesson after she finishes her aerobics class.''
That's when the phone rings. It's Fred, calling from the tennis club: ''Did you forget our grudge doubles match with Doug and John?''
So much for indolence.