The life aquatic.

Far from the hushed bustle of the flower-filled Living Room, where a harpist plays while stylishly dressed families gather for Sunday branch, is another world, still refined but wearing a lot less clothing. Actually it's not so far away, just five stories above at the rooftop pool, but it offers a whole other glimpse of the good life, especially from a fixed position in one of the cabanas. Like an al fresco extension of your guest room, each is outfitted with a cordless phone, Internet hook-up, flat-screen TV, fresh fruit, and automatic water-misters to keep you cool. All you need to bring is your sunglasses, all the better to check out the scene while, uh, pretending to read a magazine.

Watching the day unfold from a cabana is a great way to welcome summer, and so on a recent weekend morning I padded out of villa #140 wearing only my workout clothes (a swimsuit) and a cover-up and rode the elevator to the fifth floor. As I walked through the Roof Garden restaurant, a sleepy-headed couple nursed cappuccinos over The New York Times, while a mom and young daughter in matching Lily Pulitzer shifts ate an early lunch. Putty white clouds scudded across the powder-blue sky as I walked up the steps to the 60-foot pool and was shown to my cabana. It was 11:00 am and quiet, except for a warm breeze ruffling the cabana's canvas walls and a light splashing as a father gave his little girl a swimming lesson. A woman who looked like a young Rachel Hunter, all blond waves and perfect profile, shuffled by in a fluffy terry robe and slippers, her hands outstretched to protect freshly lacquered nails (we know a post-manicure pose when we see one, and also where the nail technicians have their hidden outpost at the pool). Though the nine other cabanas held "Reserved for" name plates, only one was occupied at this hour, by a man I came to think of as the hiphop mogul (I really have no idea, but assigning careers based on overheard bits of conversation is a large part of the fun). He wore a track suit and running shoes, ate breakfast with his back to the pool (all the better to gaze out at the green Hills of Beverly), watched a football game on the flatscreen, and was the most generous of husbands, if his wife and her many spa treatments were any indication.

Practically every hour on the hour she walked to the spa in her robe and slippers, returning each time with hair slightly more disheveled than the last, from (we guessed) a facial, body scrub, and massage. At 1:00, we did some laps in the pool, kept at a civilized 86 degrees, and watched the other cabanas fill up. A pale, skinny young couple whom I later pegged as Microsoft millionaires settled in, ordered smoothies, and flipped onto their tummies, revealing in her case an extravagantly tattooed back. A waiter delivered Cobb salads and French fries (wafting like perfume on the air!) to the cabana next door. The hiphop mogul finally stripped down to his swim trunks and stretched out in the sun (the football game was over). A C.Z. Guest lookalike strode up the steps and greeted a pool boy with, "Hello Eric, we're back again." "Hello, Mrs. Smith, will there be five of you?" he said, showing mom, dad, daughter, son-in-law, and grandchild to chaises under the rose-covered arbor at the south end of the pool.

All of this voyeurism was giving me an appetite, so I asked for a Roof Garden menu and settled on a warm chicken sandwich (on toasted sourdough with guacamole and pepper jack cheese) and a margarita on the rocks (Patron), so deliciously potent I almost forgot my 2:00 appointment for a manicure and pedicure. (That's the thing about a cabana: forget away! as the purveyors of pleasure will come to you.) Carrying their tools in a wicker basket along with a foot-bath, my two nail technicians set to work, filing edges to a fine bevel, cleaning up cuticles, exfoliating and massaging my feet and hands, and then applying polish that turned the tips of all ten digits a sparkly pink. (I only wish I'd gotten the brand name of the silver-laced topcoat that Tina, my pedicurist, chose for my toes. Oh well, next time.) I walked over to the whirlpool and sank into the 104-degree water, arms on the ledge so as not to nick my nails (oh, the worries of the would-be well-to-do). The whooshing jets pummeled my lower back and soothed the tightness from the previous day's tennis game. It was 3:30 and the joint was jumping, with little kids playing Marco Polo in the pool and big kids flirting on the cluster of chaises on the west side of the roof garden (also known as Beautiful Body Central). But by 5:00, with the shadows growing longer and the children's energy long spent, most of the place had emptied out. A few remaining cabana dwellers snoozed in the setting sun. A therapist named Alma appeared at my cabana for a Moonlight Massage, which despite its name can be had at twilight. I took one last swim while she transformed my cabana into a romantic oasis with candlelight, hanging lanterns, a jazz mix on the CD (a kind of Miles Davis does Gershwin thing), and pink rose blossoms on the massage table. (All that was missing was the husband! and for sure, this treatment is often performed a deux.) The front of the cabana was zipped up for privacy but the hack wall left open, so that the box hedge and olive trees frame your view of the city beyond. A heat lamp can be turned on if you need it (I didn't). First-class all the way, Alma began by asking what kind of pressure I liked, and then delivered, with long smooth strokes that sought out the knots in my back and shoulders and kneaded them away with a mix of techniques that included Swedish, shiatsu, chakra balancing, and alignment (crrk! went the sound of my neck. Ah!). When I turned over, I glimpsed palm trees in the distance silhouetted against the now indigo sky. My heart tugged at the smell of orange blossoms, as any native's, does, and then realized the scent was coming from the oil Alma was using on me. (I made a mental note to buy it at the spa boutique and wear it as perfume.) "May I touch your hair?" she asked before the scalp massage. (Anyone who has had a perfect coif turn sodden with massage oil will appreciate the care that went into her question.) After a luxurious hour that was so sensuous it stopped time, I rose from the table feeling taller (all of that alignment work?) and cuddled up in my robe. It was almost dark, and the pool glowed an iridescent celadon green while the moon began to make an appearance above. I said goodbye to my "first" day of summer, and made a vow to enjoy every day this fully. Then again, no one was asking me to leave, and the pool DOES remain open until 11:00 p.m..... I ordered another margarita and thought about it.