SURF & STREETWEAR
Surf and streetwear shouldn’t go together. On paper, they’re opposites. Surf culture is all about sandy toes, salt-crusted hair, and chasing waves under an endless sun—pure, unfiltered freedom born from the ocean. Streetwear, though? It’s urban to its core—gritty, concrete-bound, pulsing with hip-hop beats, skate tricks, and city swagger. One’s a barefoot daydream; the other’s a sneaker flex. And yet, here we are, decades deep into a love affair between the two that’s birthed some of the most iconic brands—and vibes—in modern fashion. They don’t fit, but they do. That tension, that paradox, is exactly what fuels Wet Dreams Surf Club, my apparel project that flips the script on how we see streetwear tied to surf culture, pulling straight from my obsession with the West Coast.
Take Stussy. It’s the granddaddy of this mash-up. Shawn Stussy started scribbling his signature on surfboards in the early ‘80s, shaping boards for his San Clemente crew. Then he slapped that same logo on tees and sold them out of his car in Laguna Beach. What began as a surf shack hustle exploded into a global streetwear titan, bridging West Coast waves with East Coast rap and Tokyo’s fashion underground. Stussy didn’t just blend surf and street—it made them inseparable. The laid-back graphic tees and bold logos screamed beach life, but they landed just as hard on city pavement. It’s not surfwear anymore, not really, but that coastal DNA lingers in every drop.
Then there’s Supreme. Born in ‘94 as a skate shop in New York’s SoHo, it’s the anti-surf poster child—urban through and through. James Jebbia built it for skaters and downtown misfits. Yet, Supreme’s roots owe a quiet nod to Stussy’s playbook: limited drops, cult followings, and a knack for turning subculture into hype. Surf’s nowhere in the brand’s literal story, but its spirit—rebellion, exclusivity, that “cool without trying” ethos—echoes the same raw energy surfers chase in the lineup. Supreme’s box logo tees and collabs with Louis Vuitton or Nike don’t scream “beach,” but they’ve got that same untamed pulse. It’s streetwear that somehow feels at home with surf’s wild heart.
Brand like Noah is a different beast. Brendon Babenzien, ex-Supreme creative director, launched it in 2015 with a mission to mature streetwear—think preppy polos and tailored trousers alongside hoodies. It’s less about surf and more about a refined urban life, but there’s a thread of surf in its ethos. Babenzien grew up on Long Island, surrounded by coastal culture, and that seeps into Noah’s clean, ethical designs. It’s not overt—no palm trees or board shorts—but the relaxed silhouettes and focus on sustainability nod to a beach-minded philosophy. Surf and street don’t collide here; they coexist quietly.
Smaller brands are playing in this space too, carving their own lanes. ERL, out of Venice, CA, is a standout. Eli Russell Linnetz blends sun-bleached nostalgia with high-fashion quirks—think oversized tees, faded colors, and a vibe that’s equal parts surfer kid and runway rebel. It’s West Coast to the bone, channeling that dreamy, hazy stretch from LA to Malibu, but it’s streetwear enough to turn heads in SoHo. ERL doesn’t scream “surf brand” like Quiksilver or Billabong—it’s subtler, weirder, and that’s why it works. It’s the kind of project that proves surf and street can tangle without losing their edge.
So why do these worlds click when they shouldn’t? It’s the attitude. Surf culture’s all about freedom, living outside the lines—same as streetwear’s defiance of mainstream fashion. They’re both born from outsiders—surfers dodging the 9-to-5, skaters and rappers flipping off the establishment. The aesthetics might clash (board shorts vs. box logos), but the soul’s the same: raw, unapologetic, and a little chaotic. Wet Dreams Surf Club leans into that. We’re not here to make surfwear that’s just rash guards and wetsuits, or streetwear that’s just hypebeast bait. It’s about twisting the narrative—taking that West Coast love, the sunsets and swells, and slamming it into something urban, unexpected, bold. Think hats that sell out in a week, tees that hit harder than a shorebreak, and a vibe that’s as much Venice Beach as it is Venice Boulevard.
The beauty of this clash is it’s not forced—it’s organic. Stussy didn’t plan to kickstart streetwear; it just happened. Supreme didn’t borrow from surf; they’re mirrored in spirit. Noah and ERL don’t chase waves, but feel them. Wet Dreams Surf Club isn’t trying to reconcile surf and street—it’s celebrating how they’ve always been tangled up, right here on the West Coast where the ocean meets the asphalt. They don’t go together, but they do. And that’s the whole damn point.
