An Anti-Summer Guy's Pro-Summer Turn

Why dorks hate summer and appreciating things while they last

Katharine Hepburn in ‘Summertime’ (1955)

The summer solstice is now behind us, which means the summer of 2024 has scientifically begun. I’ve never been a summer guy. I grew up in Vancouver, which mostly just rains in the summer, just like in all the other seasons. My memory may be a bit foggy since it’s been exactly half a lifetime since I’ve spent a summer there. But I remember mostly warm overcast days interspersed with rain, with a couple of weeks of genuine hotness and humidity. Many of the beaches we had were rocky with cold waters.

But weather and geography aside, bookish kids who enjoy school have a natural aversion to summer because it takes away home field advantage from us. With no classrooms to shine in, our days become disconcertingly unstructured as we find ourselves with too much free time and no idea how to spend it.

As we enter our teenage years, summer also feels like the exclusive domain of six-pack-havers, the enviable few who look better the less clothes they have on and who accomplish things like making the cut on sports teams. And sure, in high school, I was on the football team. But I was unquestionably one of the worst players on the squad and only there due to a combination of my doggedness and a teamwide policy of no cuts (healthy bodies were always needed for starters to practice against). My varsity career stats: 1 reception for about 7-8 yards during garbage time in a playoff game as a senior. But no matter. At our senior year end-of-season reception, our head coach praised me not for contributing some generic hustle, but for being a such a “character” that every locker room needed. I may have been inept at catching footballs or outrunning cornerbacks, but nobody could come up with devastating shabooyas on team bus rides like I could. Huge linemen were petrified I’d find something to rhyme their names with. Thank god there weren’t phone cameras back then to capture my Superbad­-esque teenage sense of humour that may have gotten me in trouble today.

All that to say, I was definitely no jock. And summer is for jocks. And as a result, many of us non-jocks may develop a proud, even smug, aversion to summer. It’s too hot, so you can’t do anything fun except bake yourself in the sun, which gives you cancer anyway. And because of the weather, everyone kind of ends up dressing the same, like out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. Sunscreen smells and feels awful. So if you’re actually thoughtful and deep and interesting, summer is the enemy, you tell yourself.

But how much of that is simply sour grapes? One of my favourite summer memories is from the one between high school and college. By then, even dorks like my friends and I were partying regularly, or at least regularly by our standards. On some uneventful weeknight, we were bored and in eager search of something to do with our semi-freedom. Calls were made, info was shared, and a bunch of us somehow ended up at a party on Spanish Banks, a beach on the west side of Vancouver. Until then, all my memories of that place involved childhood picnics with the family.

It was almost pitch black by the time we all got there and I could only recognize friends and classmates by their silhouettes. It was a fairly large crowd with lots of unfamiliar people there, including, thrillingly, girls (having gone to an all-boys school, almost any girl would’ve been unfamiliar to me at that point). My memories of that night are spotty, whether due to alcohol or time, I don’t know. There are also, for better or for worse, no photos from that night. I do remember certain things, like my co-dork of a friend committing a party foul by dropping and breaking the bottle of moonshine that a girl had been so kind to bring. Or a bunch of us crossing the road to piss into the little ditch and me almost sliding down into the foulness. Or my happiest recollection, when a friend of mine introduced me to his female friend from our sister school, and when he asked her if she’d heard of me, she said yes. We weren’t even in the same year, so she was probably just being nice and/or drunk, but it meant a lot at the time. At the end of the night, a whole bunch of us stacked ourselves into the trunk of a classmate’s SUV so he could drive us each home. Looking back, he must’ve been DUI.

It’s not that I haven’t had good summers and, in fact, I’ve had many great ones, including some recently. But those good times were had more in spite of summer’s characteristics, not because of them. I’d like to try changing that, though.

In the spirit of this piece, I rewatched an old favourite of mine, David Lean’s Summertime starring Katharine Hepburn. In the film, she plays Jane Hudson, a self-described “fancy secretary” from Akron, Ohio, who’s saved up for a long time for her dream vacation to Venice. The narrative of a lonely solo traveler going abroad to find fleeting romance has been done many times and can often come off as cliched and unrealistic. But Summertime gives it a touching portrayal, with Hepburn’s middle-aged Jane being relatable to anyone who’s come to accept that they’re perhaps not among the special few to whom beautiful moments happen, yet haven’t entirely become doom-pilled. Jane is determined to enjoy Venice to its fullest, cracking jokes (even after falling into a canal) and making cocktails for her new acquaintances at her pensione. But she can’t help but feel lonely, especially in the evening when her pensione friends pair off to go on dates and she has nothing else to do but go to the Piazza San Marco by herself to go people-watching again.

One day, while shopping for antiques, she meets the shop owner, Renato, who’s been noticing her at the Piazza. From the start, it’s clear that they’re both into each other and if she just let it happen, Jane could have the romance she clearly desires. But she resists, either out of a sense of propriety or self-defense against a lifetime of heartbreak. After a few more run-ins, however, the two acknowledge their mutual attraction and enjoy a brief romance. Some less-than-ideal details emerge, such as the fact that Renato is married (though separated). But Renato emphasizes that nothing can be perfect, such as the fact that he’s also a humble middle-aged shop owner, not some young millionaire. They then enjoy every last moment they have with each other, right up to Jane taking the train out of Venice.

Jane is a deeply sympathetic character because of how much she has learned to hide beneath the surface, so it’s incredibly satisfying when she, for once, gets to let her guard down. There’s a funny moment in the movie when she and Renato first kiss, after which Jane says to him, “I love you,” then runs away. It’s such a stark contrast to see such a youthfully naïve side of her emerge after we’ve seen the Jane who’s not afraid to chat up strangers, befriend a street urchin, and shoot back whisky without grimacing. On her last day in Venice, when Renato asks why she’s leaving so suddenly, she says: “All my life, I’ve stayed at parties too long because I didn’t know when to go.” It’s a heartbreaking line, vividly establishing a biography of a person who, for various reasons, has felt underappreciated all her life and is now determined to exit a scene on her own terms. As Jane tearfully but happily waves goodbye to Renato (and Venice) at the end, we’re so happy that she finally gets to have a special memory too, however brief it may have been. But experiences don’t have to last long or forever to be meaningful, and we hope that Jane now has many more to come.

I have many years to go before I reach Jane’s age, but I’m certainly closer to it now than when I first watched Summertime. A couple of years ago, I was hanging out with a male friend of mine who is of similar age and unmarried status as me, and he told me that he’s become increasingly aware that every summer could be his last. Not that he was fearing death, but that summer as we’ve known it could soon become a thing of the past as we inevitably move to the next phase in our lives. When that happens, I don’t expect to miss summers since I’ve never especially looked forward to them. But as with anything that dwindles in supply, I want to appreciate them more while I can. For one, this time around, I’ve actually obtained something of a summer wardrobe. Out with wearing jeans and boots that I wear during all the other seasons, in with shorts that show more thigh.

And today, I’ve taken the day off (my carryover vacation days expire at the end of the month), so I’m off to Rockaway Beach for the first time.