Heat

Written by MARIE SPEED

y the time this comes out, summer will be slipping in from the south, wisping like smoke around the corners of our houses and buildings, blanketing the streets with heat. The breeze will feel damp and the air at the coast will be thick with the smell of sargassum, as the first wracks start reaching our shores. Most of the snowbirds will be gone, and the new year-round residents will wonder if it’s “always this hot.” The answer is yes. And you ain’t seen nothing yet. May and June offer the last gasp of spring; in another month or two it’s going to feel like Saigon.

Many people down here have mountain escapes out west or in the Carolinas or in upstate New York. Some jet off to Europe, or embark on a voyage somewhere odd and spectacular, like Antarctica.

But most of us stay put, relegating chores outside to morning hours and retreating indoors in midday. We understand how to live now, early morning dog walks, no outdoor dining, lots of hats and water and air-cooled diversions. I could go on a rant about climate change, which is beyond alarming now, between fiercer hurricanes, sea level rise, drought. I’ve been so sad for so long now about Florida—from climate to overdevelopment to population and culture change, I do not know anymore how to talk about it. So I talk about the moments that make me remember why I love it and have loved it—and no time is better than the hot cusp of summer to do that.

A few weeks ago a friend and I took Brightline to Aventura for a fancy stay at the historic Surf Club in Surfside. (page 36) Now a Four Seasons hotel and residences, the original Club was a private beach club with all kinds of parties and shenanigans—elephants in the hallways, Winston Churchill painting in a cabana, all kinds of 1940s and 1950s movie stars sipping drinks out of coconuts. This is when Miami was one of the glamour frontiers, beautiful beaches and turquoise seas and music and romance and dancing in the moonlight. The Surf Club has been preserved and restored—and the hotel that surrounds it now is delicious and grand—and only 40 minutes by train. This is one of the good things.

Closer to home, maybe Delray and downtown Boca will be less crowded now; maybe you can get a dinner reservation before 9 p.m.— or maybe not even need one. The traffic should be lighter, too, and even the pace will slow as people shift into a very civilized but palpable summer survival mode: chill, hydrate, watch a movie. The air is soft, and the afternoon storms are dramatic. It’s quiet, too, and shimmers with cocoplum and wild coffee and palms and vines that bloom. There is an ancient sort of grounding when summer moves in—that this is real Florida at its core: the tropics. You have to accept that you are in a place that was once wild and harsh, with swamps and snakes and afternoon monsoons, almost as steamy then as it is now. It may be carpeted now in concrete but it still knows it’s Florida—and you should too.

That may be the first step in loving it again.