Positano, July 2019. It was 38 degrees Celsius, the air smelled like expensive lemons and diesel fumes, and I was currently experiencing a mid-tier fashion catastrophe. I had bought these neon green trunks from ASOS for about $22 because they looked great on the model who clearly had never eaten a carbohydrate in his life. Five minutes into a boat tour, the cheap elastic in the waistband decided to quit. Just gave up. Every time I stood up to look at the grottos, I was one accidental nudge away from a public indecency charge. I spent the rest of the day clutching my hips like a nervous Victorian lady. It was pathetic.
That’s the thing about “vacation swimwear.” We buy for the photo, not the reality of salt, sand, and the fact that we actually have to move our bodies. I’ve spent the last four years trying to overcompensate for that Amalfi disaster. I’ve bought the high-end stuff, the “sustainable” stuff, and the stuff that’s basically just two strings and a prayer. Most of it is garbage.
The “sustainable” brand lie that we all fell for
I’m going to say something that might get me blocked by half the people I know, but I think most “sustainable” swimwear brands are a total racket. I’m looking at you, Summersalt and Reformation. I want to love them, I really do. The marketing tells you they’re made from recycled fishing nets and dreams, which sounds lovely. But in my experience? The fabric is usually thick, scratchy, and takes approximately three business days to dry.
I bought a $95 recycled-poly suit last year and it felt like wearing a wet suit made of sandpaper. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. It’s not that the intent is bad, it’s that the execution is usually a saggy mess. After exactly four dips in a chlorinated pool, the “recovery” of the fabric (that’s the fancy word for it not becoming a diaper) dropped by what felt like 50%. I actually tracked this because I’m a nerd. I measured the leg opening of my “eco-friendly” suit before and after a week in Mexico. It grew by 2.4 centimeters. That’s the difference between a flattering fit and looking like you’re wearing a saggy balloon.
If the fabric doesn’t have at least 18% Lycra Xtra Life, don’t even bother taking it out of the plastic bag. It will betray you by day three.
I know people will disagree. They’ll say, “But it’s better for the planet!” Is it? Is it better to buy a $100 suit that lasts one season before it loses its shape and ends up in a landfill anyway? I’d rather buy one pair of Birdwell Beach Britches that lasts a decade. They aren’t soft. They don’t stretch much. But they are indestructible. They’re the only brand I’ve found that actually understands that water is heavy and salt is corrosive.
The part nobody talks about: The mesh liner debate
For the guys—or anyone wearing trunks—the mesh liner is a tool of the devil. I don’t know who decided that a scratchy, cheese-grater net was the best way to keep things in place, but they deserve a special place in hell. I’ve started cutting the liners out of every suit I buy and replacing them with a pair of thin, athletic compression shorts. It’s the only way to avoid the dreaded “thigh-chafe” that ruins a vacation by day two.
I used to think Orlebar Brown was the gold standard because they look like actual trousers. I was completely wrong. They’re fine for sitting at a bar in St. Tropez, but the moment you actually jump in the water, they feel stiff and heavy. And the price? $295 for a pair of shorts? Buying a $300 swimsuit is like paying for a premium subscription to gravity. It’s a vanity purchase, pure and simple. I still own a pair, but I rarely wear them because I’m too afraid of ruining them. Which defeats the whole point of a vacation, doesn’t it?
Anyway, I once spent twenty minutes in a hotel bathroom in Greece trying to scrub a sangria stain out of those $300 shorts with a toothbrush. I missed the sunset. I felt like an idiot. But I digress.
The “Sag Factor” and other data points
I’ve tested about 14 different brands over the last three years. Here is my highly scientific, totally biased breakdown of what actually works based on my “Sag Factor” testing (which involves me jumping into a pool and seeing if the suit stays in the same zip code as my waist):
- Birdwell Beach Britches (The 310 model): 0% sag. They are stiff as a board until you break them in, but they are the GOAT.
- Solid & Striped: 15% sag. Great colors, but the elastic in the legs tends to go wavy after a few months.
- Patagonia Baggies: 5% sag. Not technically a “swimsuit,” but better than 90% of the swimsuits on the market.
- Hunza G: 40% sag (if you are over 5’8″). I know everyone loves the crinkle fabric, but if you have a long torso, it just becomes a very expensive, very uncomfortable belt.
I might be wrong about the Hunza G thing for shorter people, but for me? Total disaster. It’s a one-size-fits-all lie that only works if you’re a specific shape. I refuse to recommend them even though every influencer on my feed is obsessed with them. They just don’t hold up to actual swimming. If you’re just posing by the fountain? Fine. If you’re actually hitting the waves? Forget it.
Actually, let’s talk about the beach read for a second. Why is it that we spend $150 on a swimsuit but then bring a $2 mass-market paperback that falls apart the second a drop of water hits it? I’ve started bringing a Kindle everywhere, but there’s something about a soggy book that just feels like vacation. It’s the one thing I’m okay with being disposable.
The only recommendation I’ll stand by
If you want to stop thinking about your clothes and start thinking about the ocean, just buy Outerknown or Faherty. They’re not the cheapest, but they aren’t $300 either. They use a blend that actually dries in the sun while you’re eating lunch, so you don’t have to walk back to the hotel feeling like you’re wearing a cold, judgmental squid around your waist. That is the only metaphor I will allow myself today, but it’s accurate.
I’m still looking for the perfect suit, honestly. Maybe it doesn’t exist. Maybe the whole industry is built on the fact that we’ll always be slightly dissatisfied with how we look in 40% less clothing than usual. But for now, I’m sticking with the stuff that doesn’t fall down when I stand up on a boat in Italy.
Is it weird that I still have those neon green ASOS trunks in the back of my drawer? I can’t bring myself to throw them away. They’re a reminder of who I don’t want to be: the person who cares more about the price tag or the trend than the actual experience of being in the water.
Buy the Birdwells. Cut the liner out. Go for a swim.