Surfing; Or How to Consume a Beach

The keys to surfing—wetsuits, surf forecasting, and surfboard manufacturing—emerged from Southern California’s military-industrial complex.

Surfing is typically imagined as a “natural” practice. But it’s more accurately a cyborg practice: a form of technoscience that gave rise to new and strange hybrid subjects and objects that began to populate California and the Pacific. For decades, surfers rode space-age boards with glassed-in fins—a touch of midcentury modern—objects of the era of plastics and rubbers that now fill the oceans and most of our bodies, futuristic bachelor pads, and the feigned otherness and fantasies of island travel in the sounds of exotica records and surf rock. These little Sputniks of the sea reorganized and harnessed new ecological and geopolitical zones for pleasure or, as surfers call it, “stoke.” In these ways, surfing offers a highly militarized way of consuming the beach: the epitome of imperial consumption practices.

Consider: the key components of contemporary surfing—wetsuits, surf forecasting, and resin and foam surfboard manufacturing—are the results of the serendipitous exchanges made possible by military, scientific, and materials knowledge nurtured in Southern California’s military-industrial complex. The neoprene wetsuit, which revolutionized surfing in cold water (thus much of California), was initially developed for Navy SEALS. Surf forecasting was necessary to land amphibious vehicles during military operations; large surf led to capsizing. And the development of foam and fiberglass surfboards were the result of an alliance between the military and the chemical industry.1

Thus, the practice of surfing—situated at the edge of the naturalized infrastructure of the beach—reveals how privilege, racism, and environmentalism work together to create forms of desire and longing, which reflect the best and worst of the Anthropocene. Surf cultures show how the beach and its consumption are based in imperialist and racially exclusive geopolitical formations. The surf zone, meanwhile, is a site for interrogating and interrupting national and racial geographies, for imagining environmentally sustainable maritime landscapes, and for challenging ordinary labor discipline and the alienation of (post)industrial urbanism through stoke. The supposedly “airheaded” surfer turns out to mark the contested and racially inflected everyday life of national space, as well as a route of escape at the frontiers of capitalism.

Exploring surfing as a window onto histories of beach-going practices, the ordering and bordering of the surf zone, identities, and travel, four new books examine the history and contemporary practice of surfing and consuming the beach: Robert C. Richie’s The Lure of the Beach, a broad and global history of the material and social economies of the beach; Patrick Moser’s Surf and Rescue, which addresses mixed-race Hawaiian athlete George Freeth’s impact on the formation of surfing, beach-going, and lifeguarding in California; Jon Anderson’s Surfing Spaces, which looks at surfing as a spatializing and ordering practice with transformational effects on identity, dwelling, and home; and Ugo Corte’s Dangerous Fun, which looks at the subculture of big wave riders on Oahu’s North Shore. These works sit at the intersection of scholarship concerned with decolonizing surfing, the environmental impacts of consuming the beach, and countercultural modes of dwelling and relational ecologies.

Together these books explore a number of conceptual, analytical, natural, economic, and political borders organized in and through cultural practices surrounding beaches and surfing. They demonstrate how surfing is a site of struggle, at once harnessed to and emerging from colonial and capitalist forms of accumulation, yet also a mode of resistance to and escape from those imperial disciplines, alienation, and relations to nature.

They also help to theorize stoke as a practical affect, a means to respond to the ravages of the Anthropocene—and, maybe, a means to articulate a new politics of nature and its infrastructures. More than just fun or pleasure, stoke is the recognition and manipulation of a world-building capacity, a way of tapping into natural forces and potentials and composing new forms of subjectivity, place, and nature. The works discussed here describe different permutations of stoke: George Freeth’s significance to the racial and colonial legacies and repressions in the figure of the California surf bum; the way big wave surfers in O’ahu recompose place and identity in dangerous social and natural spaces; and the political unconscious of dominant surf narratives of the gentleman explorer in California surf publics. Different compositions of stoke mediate connections between the surf zone and the land-based, racial, and labor practices on the shores and coastal communities surrounding them.


Although largely erased from history, George Freeth (1883–1919) is the underacknowledged originator of modern surfing.2 A mixed-race Hawaiian athlete, Freeth is essentially the father of California surfing identity, and along with Duke Kahanamoku, he has a mythological status in popular surf literature.3 This, however, obscures a lot about his social position and the political unconscious of California surfing. During his lifetime, Freeth was at best a bit player in the development of coastal tourism, and his status obscures his significance not as a surfer, but as a specific kind of transpacific, mixed-race proletarian. Due to his mixed-race background, Freeth was able to “move easily among Hawaiian and haole populations,” and this racial ambiguity also contributed to his ability to participate later in the burgeoning, yet racially segregated worlds of California’s beach resorts. That said, there were definite limits to his inclusion. Even Freeth’s own surf student, businessman Alexander Hume Ford, wrote in 1912 in the Honolulu Advertiser that “the sport of surfriding is kept alive, not by natives, but by white men and boys that have learned the sport within recent years.”4

Somehow, then, Freeth is central, essential, and marginal to the emerging surf and rescue culture of California beaches and bath houses: let go during off-seasons or economic downturns, only to be rehired as a lifeguard to quell negative PR following high-profile drownings. He bounces back and forth, from San Francisco to Venice, Redondo to San Diego with seemingly little logic. He moves from job to job, seemingly revered or respected for his athletic prowess in the water but never secure, and certainly not in a position of power or planning. He appears as the origin of precarious gig work in the surf industry.

the practice of surfing—situated at the edge of the naturalized infrastructure of the beach—reveals how privilege, racism, and environmentalism work together to create forms of desire and longing.

Surfing was revived by entrepreneurs and civic agencies in the early 20th century as a development practice beneficial to tourist industries in both California and Hawai‘i. Patrick Moser notes in Surf and Rescue: George Freeth and the Birth of California Beach Culture that “the work of the Hawaii Promotion Committee represented a seminal stage in the islands’ transformation toward a new economy: members overturned nearly a century-old haole tradition of denigrating surfing and began to incorporate the sport as a part of a ‘package’ that visitors experienced on their tours.” The political repression of the Hawaiian pastime of surfing was reversed by white elites in order to boost tourism’s economic strategy or racial control to counteract growing numbers of Japanese in Hawai‘i by drawing American tourists.

Freeth organized passage to California by convincing the Hawaii Promotion Committee to connect him to the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce, through which he found work giving demonstrations of surfing at Venice and Redondo Beach. Once there, Freeth also began doing surfing demonstrations and contributing his deep coastal and aquatic knowledge to the development of a beach culture in other California coastal cities including San Francisco and San Diego, among a population that did not have a sedimented beach habitus and were not, on the whole, especially good at swimming. Freeth likely spent more time working as a lifeguard and saving swimmers from drowning in bath houses popular at the time, like San Francisco’s Sutro Baths, than teaching surfing.

George Freeth was regarded as “the best all-around swimmer, diver, and surfer in the islands,” and as a result was hired by luminaries like author Jack London, writer and promoter Alexander Hume Ford, and visiting US congressmen for surf lessons and lifeguarding during their visits—an economic niche in the island’s emerging tourism industry that came to be occupied by a group known as the Waikiki Beachboys, who acted as tour guides, lifeguards, and surf instructors and challenged colonial practices of sexual containment by romancing tourists.5

The purpose behind Patrick Moser’s retrieval of Freeth’s story is to answer the question of why Freeth has been largely forgotten, or relegated to a footnote as the founder of California surfing. One of the most strange things about Patrick Moser’s book is that George Freeth seems spectral even to his own biography. He was largely represented by newspapers but rarely appears as the agent of his own representation, remaining a bit of an enigma. Moser writes that

Freeth didn’t need a lot to survive. And when given the choice, he seemed to prefer a spare life by the beach rather than the workaday world of financial security. We can certainly see in his life the kernel of what would become “the beachboy lifestyle” that transitional figures like Tom Blake would later popularize in California from his time at Waikiki in the 1920s and 1930s. This lifestyle essentially boiled down to prioritizing his life at the beach—working and playing, training and teaching—rather than devoting himself to raising a family or accumulating wealth. Freeth shared this proclivity with the Waikiki Beachboys, most of whom also lived from hand to mouth in the off-season.

“Freeth didn’t need a lot to survive,” and disregarded the “workaday world of financial security.” Did he have any other option? Moser continues, adding clues to Freeth’s social location and those he likely shared his nonbeach time with: “Freeth was used to smaller rooming houses … they represented much the same population as his other lodgings: working-class men and women trying to make a life for themselves in Southern California.” Marginal gig work typified Freeth’s life, much like the contemporary gig economy.

Moser’s book reads almost like a ghost story of the repressed history of coastal California, its lost ecologies of abundance, the development of its racially segregated industrial garden, and the eclipse and appropriation of forms of proletarian bohemianism. Moser resituates stoke in early 20th-century California as a product of the entanglements of tourist boosterism connecting the Hawaii Promotional Committee to California developers like Abbott Kinney. By getting to one origin of a central mythology of contemporary surf publics, he illustrates how a colonial nostalgia for a set of indigenous land use and coastal practices conveyed through Freeth is put to work in the service of tourism-focused capital accumulation, relying on the precarious labor of people like Freeth. His itinerancy and sloughing off of labor discipline, arguably derived from his experiences in Hawai‘i, disseminated what Raymond Williams called a kind of “residual” knowledge and practice, but one that met a very different culture of accumulation and development in coastal California.6

Moser’s text raises the tensions and contradictions at play in Los Angeles’s long and well-known history of racist segregation, police, and vigilante violence by drawing attention to the dominant political, economic, natural, and racial forces congealing along the California coast—a stoke segregated and contained within a project of coastal tourist capital accumulation in which Freeth and surfers are entertainment or part of the help. In Southern California, the natural abundance—fishing or crabbing for dinner, picking fruit from orchards, living off the grid—in legends of surf crews at San Onofre, Palos Verdes, or Malibu would be quickly consolidated into Los Angeles, one of the largest urban agglomerations in the state, if not the country; one that transformed orchards into suburbs, urbanized the coastline, and reorganized space around class and, especially, race. Situating Freeth in transpacific economic development, Moser contextualizes California beach practices and spaces, and places the surf bum as a proletarianized postcolonial figure.

This was the stoke of Pacific tourist consumption and colonial desire, and Moser’s recuperation of Freeth helps dislodge a colonial political unconscious and set of affective structures that still haunt surfing, especially in California, today.


At a basic level, surfing is a deeply pleasurable activity that many become almost religious about. Surfers call the pleasure, camaraderie, and almost-addictive quality of surfing “stoke.”

In Dangerous Fun: The Social Lives of Big Wave Surfers, sociologist Ugo Corte draws on ethnographic research with big wave surfers at Waimea Bay on the North Shore of O’ahu in a study of the sociology of fun. He explores the way that identity, belonging, and achievement are cultivated among close-knit groups of surfers who ride very large and very dangerous waves. Corte provides a close and focused analysis of a unique and uncommon form of stoke.

In contrast to the crowds and commercialism of many surf spots, big wave surfers consider their pursuit one of “‘the last pure’ things left in surfing.” In essence, this is the result of the mortal danger in paddling out into such powerful and dangerous surf. Corte notes that “pro surfer Ross Clarke-Jones compares [big wave surf crews] to a military operation,” and that big wave surfers “operate like a platoon—the basic principle being that no one is left behind.” This camaraderie leads Corte to understand how “emotional energy” and “fateful moments” assist individual becoming through fun as a collective action—which is social in contrast to the individual experience of pleasure.

Conducting fieldwork on the North Shore, Corte is told by his informant and soon-to-be mentor, “We’re paddling out this afternoon. Get back to the house by 14:00.” In a classic ethnographic initiation sequence, Corte is invited to experience big waves firsthand. Panic sets in and builds as he tries to wriggle out of the offer. He worriedly consults different members of his surf crew, looking for someone to support his withdrawal. One tells him not to worry, it’s going to be fine—but adds, discomfitingly, that there’s nothing Corte can do about it.

Later, on the beach, his crew seems to ignore Corte’s increasing panic, avoiding his gaze, as Phil, the group’s leader and a highly regarded local, is silently fixated on the surf, watching for enough of a lull between sets to lead the group into the water and paddle into the powerful surf without being rejected—unable to get beyond the white water. After Phil successfully leads Corte’s crew beyond the break, they leave Corte in relative safety on the shoulder of the breaking waves—a spot from which he won’t be tossed into the wave and possible disaster. After a couple of hours watching, Corte becomes a little curious and begins paddling along with the waves, noticing that his gun (a large, specialized big wave board) reacts. At last he gives it a go:

I turn my board, shift from seated to prone position, and, as the wave approaches us, begin paddling to catch it. I notice then that the board is beginning to skip like it did before, but the skipping keeps going this time and the intervals get shorter, like a duck flapping its wings: flap … flap, flap, flap. As I give it a few more strokes I feel the wave lifting me, and I remember why this is called taking off. At this point I can tell that my safest bet is just to keep paddling harder and faster. Once you’ve turned on the engine, it’s safer to keep going than to try to slam on the brakes, which could send you sailing over the handlebars and plunge you deep into the sea for who knows how long.

Corte successfully pops up and is overtaken with excitement: “I caught it, I got it, I’m solid on my feet, and I won’t nosedive now—I begin laughing uncontrollably and loudly, like I’ve never done before.”

Capturing this moment, Corte provides a nice evocation of stoke. This is also a “fateful moment” that knits him more tightly into his crew; he’s given a big hug by a friend he runs into at the supermarket who’s learned about his achievement, and the whole crew meets to celebrate and “talk story” later in the evening.

Corte marshals his ethnographic experiences as a kind of social interaction ritual and form of Durkheimian collective effervescence. He brackets adjacent questions about the formation of surfing as a global industry and its impact on O’ahu. However, there are moments when the ennui, economic struggles, and colonial history of Hawai‘i seep into the text and the lives of his comrades. His narrative focuses on building sociality and belonging. It’s about struggling against an undertow, of the experience of working people scraping together a life, meaning, and a need for pleasure, fun, and fulfillment. Alcoholism and AA meetings, divorce, and the difficulties of living amid such expensive real estate are worked out in the water, haunting the “last pure thing.” This is a colonial geography, a collection of human and nonhuman actants, shifting land-use practices and control, megadevelopment, and tourist paradise that has left many behind.7

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Corte fixates on fun as an important political affect, and the notion he explores is not the same as hegemonic “recreation and leisure.” His big wave crew resituate stoke and fun as a project of social and ecological awareness, public forms of belonging and personal growth, and provide a model of the way that play in maritime landscapes can recompose nature while working through the insecurities of the colonial reshaping of O’ahu. Big wave surfers are often seen in terms of the sublime and the awe of extreme sports, but Corte’s crew are developing collaborative practices and local knowledge for thriving in challenging and hostile spaces—natural and cultural. One might even see the draw to big waves as a result of the intense crowding—read: capitalist reorganization—of less formidable surf breaks throughout O’ahu, and the fun and gentle surf at a spot like Canoes in Waikiki, overrun with tourists, as a kind of capitalist ruins, natural spaces sacrificed to tourist consumption.8

Corte and his crew are reworlding otherwise marginal and inaccessible natural spaces, seeking out new spaces in a crowded and deeply unequal geography. Their version of fun, play, and stoke is not tethered to consuming the beach along tourist imaginaries, but rather to doing reparative work to overcome alienated geographical entanglements and strained social relations. Not all stoke is equal.


Although Freeth laid important groundwork for surfing and beach life in California, he died in 1919 at the age of 35 from the Spanish flu, and for many years the beaches of Southern California were taken over by oil derricks as tourist locations like Venice Beach fell into decline. It wasn’t until the postwar era that surfing congealed into a lifestyle sport and a global tourism apparatus that became somewhat autonomous from its original resort sites.

World War II expanded both the economy and the population of California massively, which shifted American military power and focus into the Pacific Rim as well as onto the beaches of Southern California. The surfboards that George Freeth rode in the 1910s were solid redwood and could easily weigh well over 100 pounds. It would take aircraft engineering and military technologies to transform surfboards into the lightweight, portable objects now taken for granted.

Geographer Jon Anderson asks how these technoscientific surf objects and their media technologies territorialize surf geographies in his book Surfing Spaces. Anderson is interested in the surf zone or littoral zone, which he describes less as a fixed location than as the intersection of forces and elements through which energies are harnessed and transferred in ways that produce the affect of stoke: where humans and their media technology meet nonhuman agents, land, sea, air, and even the moon and its tidal pull. These littoral zones become subject to ongoing practices of “cultural (b)ordering” that “co-produce a range of relational sensibilities which are popularly re-presented as ‘stoke.’”

The (b)ordering of scattered, disembedded, global littoral zones is a culmination of a set of historical processes: the annexation of Hawai‘i and the harnessing of surfing for the purposes of tourist entitlement, settlement, and fantasy; the development of postwar militarized surfcraft; hegemonic surf imaginaries that repackage archetypical western frontier narratives and colonial scripts of the “gentleman adventurer”; and the commodification and dissemination of these material-semiotic figures by Southern Californian “lifestyle entrepreneurs,” perhaps most recognizably filmmaker Bruce Brown, as well as other surf media.

Anderson devotes attention to unpacking Brown’s foundational surf documentary, The Endless Summer (1964). Its iconic poster is instantly recognizable today and still forms the basis of a genre of surf narrative, aesthetics, and mid-20th-century nostalgia. The film follows two young, white male surfers, Robert August and Mike Hyson, on a global “surfari” that takes them from Malibu and Hawai‘i, to the West Coast of Africa, South Africa, Tahiti, and Australia.

Surf cultures show how the beach and its consumption are based in imperialist and racially exclusive geopolitical formations.

Anderson notes the film “consolidates uninformed prejudices by unreflexively celebrating … the notion of the world as an open frontier” along with racist primitivist tropes in the voiceover about “natives” who “have never seen a white person before” and a vision of Africa that seems empty and unpopulated, even in cities like Accra, Dakar, and Cape Town. Brown’s voiceover makes absurd suggestions about African isolation and the attribution of their lifestyle to a stone age past in which they’ve been doing the same thing for “hundreds of years.”

The film demonstrates little curiosity about local conditions, and even less educational intent for its American audiences. Instead it revoices frontier myths of white discovery in virgin nature and the erasure, or denial of coevalness, of native populations, alongside an entitlement to impose the interests and values of the visiting surfers, to “(b)order” their littoral destinations. Krista Comer has pointed out that the geopolitical space of the Cold War is the political unconscious of the easy movement the surfers experience, and adds that “it is not too much to say that The Endless Summer produced both the initial economy and the foundational structures of feeling that today underwrite surfing as an international public culture.”9

Anderson’s goal is to denaturalize and challenge this dominant surf imaginary. He paints a damning portrait of the way that lifestyle entrepreneurs like Brown have fashioned a translocal traveling culture, woven with a patchwork of narrative threads from the American West and settler colonialism.

Still, Anderson suggests, surfing is salvageable. The “establishment of more sustainable, convivial global communities are being trialled as working alternatives to the dominant script,” including “restorative feminist, queer, ethnically and racially inclusive, and decolonial modes” (204).

Decolonial examples are various, and perhaps what Williams would call “emergent” in contrast to the dominant and residual—contesting prevailing surf narratives that Anderson addresses. They might include: the ecological work by the Surfrider Foundation, an organization comprising numerous local chapters attuned to local ecological circumstances, the Save Our Surf (S.O.S.) and Superferry protests in O’ahu,10 or political and ecological conflicts over G-Land, a break on the east coast of Java11; critiques of gendered and sexualized surfwear advertisements and organizations like the Institute for Women Surfers that work against gendered aggression in the water and the dominant masculinity in many surf publics12; and desegregationist organizations attempting to unmake the tacit whiteness and heterosexism of the California coast, like the Black Surf Club of Santa Cruz or Brown Girl Surf in Pacifica.

Whereas Moser tracks the way a traveling colonial figure like Freeth was contained and repackaged by an American capitalist form of coastal development and lifestyle entrepreneurs, Anderson demonstrates how this racially and nationally based form of containment develops into dominant surf narratives that (b)order coastal zones and the subjectivity of surfers. The stoke of The Endless Summer, and its California-based entrepreneurialism, is a disembedded and amnesic stoke of American geopolitical power, colonial nostalgia, and race. The residual or emergent stoke, to use Williams’s terms again, of Freeth, Corte’s crew, and organizations like Brown Girl Surf provides a template for the reorganization of surf subjectivity, solidarity, and environmental consciousness in the present.

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There are residual and emergent practices already working to undo white, colonial, and patriarchal scripts in surf publics and the surf zone. Consequently, there is plenty to be optimistic about in terms of surfing and what it offers for rethinking how we consume the beach. The task is to continue to develop surf practices that are less narrow, less captured in California Cold War fantasies of the lone gentleman explorer; that do not bracket or disembed wider social and ecological questions; that expand the bodies, sites, activities, and concerns involved with surfing and covered in surf media; and that begin to conceptualize surfing in more expansive networks that connect waves intersectionally with coastal, ecological, economic, and community concerns.

Surfing creates new assemblages of stoke and communities of belonging that might move elsewhere. Surfing can construct new and more expansive ways of understanding the connection between the surf zone and the land-based, racial, and laboring practices on the shores and coastal communities surrounding them. But this may depend on surfing leaving the beach in the strict sense and inviting us to rethink how we consume the beach and what kinds of experience of nature inspire stoke as the basis for this political work. icon

This article was commissioned by Matthew Wolf-Meyer.

  1. Peter Westwick and Peter Neuschul, The World in the Curl: An Unconventional History of Surfing (Crown, 2013).
  2. Western beach resorts and beach practices have a long and at times somewhat funny history—at least by contemporary lights. Today’s assumed beach activities, like tanning, surfing, swimming, etc. are a long way from the wool, full-body swimsuits, dunking sheds, and rescue equipment-utilizing systems of ropes that stretched out into the water in Victorian times. Early modern beach behavior in Europe and America seems awkward, to say the least, from today’s perspective. As Ritchie shows in The Lure of the Beach, beachside resorts developed in the 17th century catered to the elite before expanding to the less affluent as a result of the accessibility of railway travel in the 19th century. Medical tracts at the time emphasized the health benefits of “therapeutic dipping,” which required elaborate rituals to maintain the modesty and decency of the men and, particularly, the women involved. Beach accommodations were similarly organized to maintain the elaborate rituals, separations, and propriety of elite society. On the beach at English resorts, “dipping machines”—dark boxes made of wood on cart wheels—were rolled into the water by a horse and a “dipper” to help women privately experience the benefits of the water. Ritchie notes that the twinned concepts of “shock” and “glow”—a 17th-century precursor to “stoke”—came to characterize these dips into cold British waters. Novelist Fanny Burney wrote about her therapeutic dip, “the shock was beyond expectation great,” and after her return from the water, she experienced a “glow that was delightful—it is the finest feeling in the world” (25).
    By the late 19th century, railroads and masses of urban laborers came to the beach less for its therapeutic potential than for “recreation and leisure.” Influenced by the electrification presented at the World’s Fairs, seaside attractions like Coney Island began to cater to middle- and working-class populations. This complicated the class geographies of seaside entertainment, favoring popular institutions like dance halls over more elite entertainments. In this cultural and political-economic context of expanding leisure tourism, beachside resorts like Venice Beach and Hawai‘i developed, the first wave of the popularization of surfing occurred.
  3. Surfing’s arrival in California has various origin stories. Hawai‘ian princes attending military school in San Mateo introduced surfing to Santa Cruz in 1885 at the mouth of the San Lorenzo, near where the Beach Boardwalk stands today. And Hawai‘ian Olympian Duke Kahanamoku is often credited for introducing surfing in America.
  4. Ford’s erasure of Freeth continued to reverberate into the present, as California became a dominant center of the global surf industry, coopting a “colonial nostalgia” that Freeth embodied for the purposes of a form of organized, yet translocal, American capital transforming the beaches of Hawai‘i and California into zones of profitability and racial exclusion. Renato Rosaldo, Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis (Beacon, 1993).
  5. Isaiah Helekunihi Walker, Waves of Resistance: Surfing and History in Twentieth-Century Hawai‘i (University of Hawai‘i Press, 2011).
  6. Raymond Williams, Marxism and Literature (Oxford University Press, 1977).
  7. See, for example, Danae G. Khorasani, “Fractured Ownership and the Tragedy of the Anticommons in Hawai‘i,” Economic Anthropology 10: 223–232 (2023).
  8. Anna L. Tsing, The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins (Princeton University Press, 2015).
  9. See Krista Comer, Surfer Girls in the New World Order (Duke University Press, 2010), p. 23. See also Scott Laderman, Empire in Waves: A Political History of Surfing (University of California Press, 2014).
  10. Walker, Waves of Resistance. Thanks to Danae Khorasani for pointing out the Superferry protests to me.
  11. Dian Hadani, Chronicles of G-Land, https://www.grajaganchronicles.com/.
  12. See Krista Comer, “Surfeminism, Critical Regionalism, and Public Scholarship”; Lisahunter, “Desexing Surfing? Pedagogies of Possibility”; and Cori Schumacher, “‘My Mother is a Fish’: From Stealth Feminism to Surf Feminism” in The Critical Surf Studies Reader, edited by Dexter Zavala Hough-Snee and Alexander Sotelo Eastman (Duke University Press, 2017).
Featured image: Photograph by Silas Baisch / Unsplash (CC0 1.0)