Interview with the Bryan Brothers

“Come test something.”

Those are quite possibly my three favorite words in the English language—all due respect to “I love you” or the highly underrated “you were right.”

I’ve been a PGA Golf Professional since 1994, and yes, full bias disclosure, a Callaway Golf Ambassador for 18 years. One of the bonuses that comes with that combo is access to the Ely Callaway Performance Center—a place so exclusive it gives “velvet rope” vibes.

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Originally opened in 2006 as a highly functional (yet not exactly breathtaking) test facility, the ECPC got a serious glow-up in 2018 when Gil Hanse (along with partner Geoff Shackelford) turned it into what can only be described as a fully engineered golf playground. Hanse is no stranger to golf course renovations. In 2024, he completed an extensive redesign of the Omni La Costa North Course in Carlsbad, so it could host the NCAA Division 1 Golf Championships. He also worked on acclaimed courses like Winged Foot, Merion Golf Club, and Oakmont Country Club.

In just two months, it went from a standard test center and R&D lab to a fully dialed-in golf playground.

What was once purely practical is now intentionally designed to be both precise and inspiring. The targets are staggered with purpose—forcing creative shot-making while also calling you out on your actual distances (no more “that’s my 150-yard club … ish”).

Add a massive hitting area, bunkers and greens that mimic real on-course conditions, a “Himalayas” putting green (named for its roller-coaster undulations), an upgraded indoor putting lab, and a 120-decibel sound system blasting a very golf-appropriate playlist, and suddenly it’s a rare blend of high-performance testing facility and “don’t mind if I stay here all day” energy. Since this isn’t exactly open to the public, SDM asked me to take you behind the curtain.

As the iron gates part, it feels less like arriving at a practice facility and more like being granted backstage access at a rock concert—if the bandmembers were made entirely of launch monitors and perfectly manicured turf.

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There are no mats. No guessing. No “I think that one felt good?” Just conditions that mirror exactly what tour players see in competition. Because when you’re testing equipment at this level, accuracy isn’t a bonus—it’s the whole point.

Even the sand matters. Different textures. Different densities. Because bunkers have personalities, too, and they are often unfriendly. And the golf balls? Brand. New. Not the usual “these have seen some things” range balls. New balls mean consistent spin, truer trajectory, and no surprises. The older a golf ball gets—and the more it’s been baked in the sun, scuffed, or generally lived a full and complicated life—the less reliable it becomes. Think of it like this: fresh ball, predictable performance; old range ball, slight chaos with a side of mystery.

I’m escorted to my personal hitting bay—basically a pop-up shaded oasis stocked with enough equipment to make a gear junkie weak in the knees. Shafts in every weight and profile imaginable. Heads lined up like they’re waiting to be drafted by their favorite team.

Toptracer technology was patiently waiting to track every one of my swings, each shot instantly delivering ball speed, launch, spin, carry distance, and dispersion (a polite way of saying consistency, or lack thereof), so there’s no guessing—just data telling the truth, whether I like it or not.

We start with irons. Different heads, different feels, different results. When I miss a shot, the ball tends to leak right, so we check lie angle. A quick adjustment—2 degrees upright—and suddenly the clubface is consistently square at impact like it remembered its job. Effort level: down. Ball flight: improved. Confidence: creeping back.

Next we look at the different shaft options—because nothing says “fun afternoon” like realizing a higher kick point can change your entire golf identity. Shaft flex (how much the shaft bends during your swing) helps determine whether you get more height and distance or more control, while kick point (where the shaft bends the most) influences your ball flight—lower kick point for higher launch, higher kick point for a flatter, more penetrating shot. In other words, one small tweak and suddenly you’re hitting shots you’d normally only describe later, slightly exaggerated, over a glass of wine.

Then we move through the bag: hybrids, fairway woods, drivers, wedges. It’s a full rotation of “try this,” “now try this,” and “okay wait … THAT one.”

And yes—the new Quantum driver and fairway woods made an appearance. Without getting too deep in the weeds, they’re faster, more forgiving, and smarter (thanks to AI face mapping) than previous models. Translation: Even your mishits are now slightly less embarrassing. And they were not the only things getting tested. My patience was under attack because the driver and woods would not be available to the public for a good three months.

Watching the fitting team work is like watching a Formula 1 pit crew. Clubs are swapped in seconds. Shafts tightened, adjusted, replaced. One minute you’re swinging something that seems “fine,” and the next, you’re holding a club that feels like it is a part of your DNA.

Then there’s the putter fitting. Drivers are physics. Putters are therapy. Inside the putting lab, sensors track everything—tempo, face angle, path—things you didn’t even know could be measured. Within minutes, my data politely informs me that my putter face is slightly closed at impact. Not shocking, but also not ideal.

A few quick adjustments—different head (with a bit more weight at the toe to discourage the face swinging closed at impact), shorter shaft (so I feel more over the ball, which helps my eyeline)—and suddenly the ball starts rolling exactly where I’m aimed.

Same stroke. Same golfer. Completely different outcome. If only the rest of life worked like that.

And then there’s the part that feels slightly classified. The ECPC isn’t “just” a performance center—it’s also where future equipment lives before the public even knows it exists. I’ve been there when certain clubs were basically under surveillance. Not “don’t touch,” but more “please keep phones in your pocket.”

It’s golf’s version of Area 51. Except instead of aliens, it’s drivers that won’t hit shelves for another year—and like I mentioned, waiting is not my strong suit.

Getting to test the newest equipment isn’t just a perk—it’s part of the job. It’s what allows me to stand in front of students and say, “I’ve tried it. I know what works and what doesn’t. And more importantly, I know why.” And if I happen to sprint to my car every time the phone rings and someone says, “Come test something” … well, that’s just professional courtesy.

Other Fitting Spots in SD

Callaway isn’t the only place to get your swing analyzed and clubs fitted. You can stroll into big retail spots like The Golf Mart or Golf Galaxy, book a next-level session at a dedicated studio like Club Champion or True Spec Golf, test brand-specific gear at various manufacturing companies (many located in Carlsbad), or even combine a lesson and a fitting at GOLFTEC. And let’s not forget your local golf course, where fittings happen on actual turf, on a driving range you have some history with—many times with the golf professional who is familiar with your swing so they can give you valuable input. With this many options, there’s really no excuse, other than pride, to keep blaming your clubs.

It was the summer of 1999. MTV, The Matrix, and first-generation PlayStation glowed on tube TV sets all over America. What a time to be alive. Smartphones weren’t yet stealing people from the moment. Cultural was a shared reality. During the last few minutes of the monoculture, Tony Hawk executed the first-ever 900 at X Games V in San Francisco. That’s two and a half aerial rotations with a side of the dizzies.

The time had run out on the Vert Best Trick competition long before the 11th attempt when he pulled off the fateful feat. Nobody cared. Not the judges, not the competition, and certainly not the crowd. “Let that bird fly,” they said. Once the trick was landed, they partied like it was 1999 … because it was.

That was the tipping point when the skateboarding world exploded, going from counterculture to a national phenomenon. Shortly after that, “Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater” video game came out, introducing millions of kids to what skate culture looked like. Oh, the game had a killer punk soundtrack, too.

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We can all thank Hawk for the globalization of skateboarding. But we can also recognize his local influence and how San Diego County continues to be a hub for skateboarders young and old, for competitors and street skaters. To see it all, go to Park De La Cruz in City Heights—or, heck, any other skatepark in the county—which, at 19,000 square feet, is about twice the size of the average skatepark and has signature features like an M-shaped transition ramp. The amount of talent that continues to evolve in this county is a testament to deep-rooted skate culture and world-class athletes supporting the next generation.

The Skatepark

I’m a little early for a skate lesson with pro skater Mike Owen when I get to Linda Vista Skatepark. In the 2010s, Owen ranked as one of the world’s top bowl riders. He’s the founder of San Diego Skateboarding and has “helped thousands of kids, teens, and adults learn to skate safely, confidently, and with style,” the company’s site says. And now it’s my turn. We start the lesson on the nearby tennis courts, getting my basic foot mechanics down. Safety before style.

In terms of street plaza features, the massive Linda Vista Skatepark is loaded with rails, stairs, manuals, and ledges. There are more bowls than you can get from Cava: a flow bowl, backyard-style pool, and vert bowl. The main feature is a full pipe for advanced line riders. It’s a hell of a park, even if somebody just wants to watch the action from the 100-foot-long pedestrian skybridge overhead.

Right now, San Diego has over 50 public skateparks scattered throughout the county. “There are now more [skateparks], more resources for them, and more terrain,” Owen tells me. “Now, they’re offering different competitive style skateparks that help for competitions. The best parks have a variety of different terrain where you have things for beginners and bigger transitions. Not every town has that.”

San Diego, luckily, does. But despite the bounty, Owen believes there should still be more—public skateparks are safe spaces for all to learn and develop on-board skills. Without them, a huge portion of San Diego’s culture withers. Encinitas could be the next city to add a skatepark to the county’s roster: In early July, the Encinitas City Council appointed 12 local skaters and community members for the newly established Skate Feature Committee. In partnership with two councilmembers, the committee’s purpose is to design a working skatepark or feature for the city.

But like any big project, Owen says, it’s a long process to add another skatepark to the community.

“I wish it were easier,” he says. “When there are different contractors for different things, [there’s only] a certain amount of time to build. It gets tricky.”

Then there’s the matter of funding the actual construction and development of the skatepark. That usually comes from grants, fundraisers, and donations. For reference, Linda Vista Skatepark was built on a $4.46 million grant from the California Department of Housing and Community Development in 2014. With an additional $40,000 donated by the Tony Hawk Foundation, the park opened in 2018 and is the largest in San Diego’s Parks and Recreation system. The best way to get a skatepark in your neighborhood, Owen says, is to start a petition and reach out to your city.

The Street Skaters

Jordan Thrower’s first street skate sesh at San Diego City College in 2003 ended with a police chase. The campus was swarming with skaters riding rails, jumping stairs, and grinding tricks on benches, curbs, and ledges. When the cops got on their loudspeaker telling them not to run, everyone obviously ran. Back then, cops would give tickets and confiscate boards. The vibe has loosened since. “Now, the police don’t really care,” Thrower says. “They just make you leave. It’s not anything crazy.”

Street skating is when riders use real-world urban obstacles, rather than pristinely designed bowls or ramps—such as in college campuses, downtown areas, corporate buildings, and malls. Abandoned mini-golf courses and construction sites do the trick, too.

Thrower says the street skating hub here isn’t as huge as it once was. Thanks to modern technology and social media, skaters aren’t tied to any certain place to create skate videos. You know, those videos that could have been taken this year but have the low-fi vibe of 2004, where skaters carve down stairwells into parking lots, over mailboxes, or across park benches. The silver lining: Even though there are fewer street skaters than there once was, those who stayed in San Diego are still tight.

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“Everyone skates with each other and knows each other here,” Thrower says. “In LA, it’s not really like that. It’s small there, but not everybody knows each other, and they don’t really skate with each other too much. They just have a lot of little crews.”

Back in 2015, Thrower started his own street team and brand that sells boards and shirts called Tantrum. The Tantrum team is split between San Diego and San Francisco. It doesn’t take much to be a part of a skate team. You just have to be a good hang.

“The way I pick people [for the team] is if I can get along with them,” he says. “It doesn’t even really matter if they’re that good. If you’re likable and funny, you can pretty much be on the team.”

The Future

Running it up to North County, a Vista-based nonprofit organization called Exposure Skate has been shaping up the youth since 2012. Its mission is to give more opportunities to otherwise underrepresented women, girls, and non-binary individuals by offering classes and camps. This, to build up confidence and community. We could all use a little bit of that, eh?

Thanks to Exposure Skate, 13-year-old Joey Yarbrough has found herself competing in the LA Olympic trials. (Her first time on a skateboard came at just 18 months old at an Exposure Skate Rising event.)

While competing for Team USA in Rome in June of this year, she finished 13th at the first Olympic qualifier for LA28. Currently ranked 21st in the world and 5th among American women, the young prodigy is blooming. And she’s in good company and mentorship from her biggest influence, Bryce Wettstein.

“She taught me at the first Exposure Skate Rising when I was little,” Yarbrough recalls. “I compete and skate with her all the time now, and it’s super fun. [At Exposure,] it feels so good to have someone there to help me whenever I need it. They’re like my family, always encouraging me and always there for me.”

Yarbrough will be just 15 years old when the Olympics go down in LA. She’s following the Olympic torch carried by other locals such as Wettstein, Ruby Lilley, Jordyn Barratt, and Exposure Skate’s Amelia Brodka.

“I’m working my hardest to get there,” she says. “I’ll also work my hardest to go higher in the Olympics, maybe on podium. That’s just my dream. So, hopefully it’ll come true.”

Ray’s Tennis doesn’t look like much from the outside. Never has. It’s just a green box with cloudy windows in Hillcrest, just steps away from a McDonald’s on University Avenue. But for nearly 60 years, this place has been the genesis for three generations of San Diego tennis dreams. Head inside, and you enter one of the tennis world’s great cornucopias.

For years, there was a tennis court behind the store, where owner Bob Ray gave countless lessons. It was like a racket-sport speakeasy; most customers didn’t realize the court existed unless Bob or his wife, Hiroko, guided them through the back door of the shop. Eventually they converted it into a half-court indoors—where a patron might take a racket for a few trial thwacks, trying to avoid rounders of tennis clothes that shared the space.

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The shop is an abridged living history. Relics hang from the ceiling: a model of an old metal racket used by fiery lefthander Jimmy Connors in his heyday, and a version of the wooden Donnay that Björn Borg wielded on his way to five consecutive Wimbledon championships from 1976 to 1980.

And just inside the front door is Hiroko eternally stringing new rackets, carefully threading and adjusting the tension of the polyester strings, back and forth, until she has the entire racket head strung.

“I worked seven days a week—five days off in the year,” she says. “My hearing is still good. Physically, I’m as good as I was. Working seven days a week, standing all day. I’m mentally healthier than most people.”

The racket stringing is an operation she does up to 20 times a day—and one that, in some ways, resembles the thread work done by her father decades ago, when he ran a tailor’s shop in Japan.

Hiroko, now 81, was born in the city of Yokosuka at the tail end of the WWII. Her family evacuated to the countryside to escape the bombing raids, and she remembers growing up surrounded by rice fields and mountains. It was in Japan that Hiroko met Bob, a third-generation San Diegan, in the late 1960s, when he was stationed there with the Navy.

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Among his possessions at the time was a tennis racket. Inherited from his father, who died when Bob was 11, this racket changed the trajectory of his life: He played constantly, filling up his school days, afternoons, and evenings on the tennis court. He was one of the highest-ranked teen players in the state, and he dreamed of joining the international tournament circuit after his stint in the Navy. But—speaking plainly—he acknowledges that he wasn’t quite good enough to compete with the best of the best. So, instead, he modified his dreams. He and Hiroko returned to San Diego in 1968, and he took a job as the club pro at Morley Field. By their mid-20s, in lieu of touring the world on the tennis circuit, the couple was running the club’s tennis store.

They spent 11 years at Morley Field, which at the time was one of the city’s tennis epicenters, hosting major tournaments for juniors. When the city handed over the store lease to a wealthier applicant, the Rays took over the property on University Avenue and moved in their tennis gear. They have been there ever since—through the McEnroe and Navratilova and Evert eras; the rise of Agassi and Sampras and Graf; the reign of the Williams sisters; the Federer-Nadal-Djokovic rivalry; and into the Alcaraz era. In the near-half century they have sold tennis gear in Hillcrest, the Rays became beloved anchors of the neighborhood’s business community, symbols of stability in an ever-changing environment.

At 84, Bob is still lean and, in his Lacoste tracksuit and Adidas cap, remains every bit the club pro. Like Hiroko, he comes to the store every day—though sometimes, if he is playing tennis in the morning, he might arrive a little later.

But time has started to take its toll. His hearing isn’t what it used to be, and the aging process is revealing itself to be true. And much to the disappointment of their loyal clientele, San Diego’s “First Couple of Tennis” is retiring, a milestone that marks the end of an extraordinarily long chapter in the city’s tennis history.

But Ray and Hiroko didn’t sell the building to a developer for condos or to a big-box retailer looking to open a boutique outpost. Determined that Ray’s should remain a tennis temple, they have negotiated a sale to a former employee who wants to continue the Rays’ legacy.

As of this writing, Hiroko and Bob remain in charge, Hiroko stringing rackets, Bob sharing his expertise about new gear. As much as they love what they’ve built, their hope is to move on soon.

For Hiroko, the prospect of retirement is bittersweet. “What am I going to do?” she asks. “Am I going to be ok? I never had a boring life. Always busy. Business first. I’m so involved in the business—because I didn’t want to fail.”

She looks around her store as she continues stringing. For her, the gladiatorial nature of tennis has always been a metaphor for how to succeed in life. “People have to have a drive,” she says. “You can’t just quit because you lose to so-and-so. Tennis players have that mindset.”

She pauses to talk about all the people who have come through the store’s door over the decades, and the relationships she has built with them. “It’s wonderful to have a great customer. That’s probably the reason I lasted this long.”

Every year, when winter swells bring San Diego’s best waves to their fullest potential, local surfers flood the lineups of popular spots like Black’s and Swami’s. But some of the heaviest and most dangerous surf lies further south, off the coast of Imperial Beach. The area’s crown jewel, Tijuana Sloughs, sometimes serves up 20-plus-foot waves that break up to a half-mile from shore.

Even as the surfing population has exploded, however, IB remains empty in comparison to the rest of San Diego, thanks to the pollution that plagues its waters. Surfers in IB don’t just check the surf cams and swell forecasts—they monitor the water data from the nearby International Boundary and Water Commission.

“It’s almost a science to go out for a surf and not get sick,” says resident Dwayne Fernandez. “My wife hates that I still surf here; she gets worried. I check the reports every day to see if it’s safe, which has been rare these days. If it’s not, I may have to drive over an hour just to get in the ocean—and I live minutes from the beach in IB.”

According to the Surfrider Foundation, IB has the unfortunate distinction of being the most polluted beach in America. Built in 1996 with the capacity to manage 25 million gallons of wastewater a day, the nearby South Bay International Wastewater Treatment Plant (SBIWTP) is frequently overwhelmed. Anything that exceeds the limits of the SBIWTP comes out as raw sewage, clearly visible in the water as a dark brown plume with an accompanying nasty smell.

The sewage flow can sometimes hit hundreds of millions of gallons in a single day. “You don’t want to be out there when that happens, and it can happen quickly,” says Adam Wraight, an Imperial Beach lifeguard sergeant, junior lifeguard coordinator, and longtime local surfer.

But that hasn’t stopped some residents, despite mandates prohibiting surfing and swimming during beach closures. If the waves are good, surfers are probably out there. Why take the chance, though, when there are so many other good waves—with cleaner water—in the county?

It’s partly a point of local pride. The surf history in IB runs deep. Stories of the Tijuana Sloughs on its good days are the stuff of legend, discussed in hushed tones in the core San Diego surf community.

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“The Sloughs was never a spot meant for everyone,” says Jeff Knox, a former lifeguard and lifelong IB surfer. “The paddle-out alone was enough of a deterrent for most. The shorebreak took care of the rest. It’s mostly locals out there; we like it that way. It’s one of the best waves around and, for that very reason, we never used to talk about it. But those days are long gone. We need all the help we can get—the more attention, the better. Because this is a huge problem.”

It’s also been part of the deal for decades. “I started surfing IB in the ’60s, [and] we’ve always had to deal with pollution,” Knox adds. “Throughout my entire life, it’s never been as bad as the last 10 years. The last five have been absolutely terrible.”

Additionally, there’s the simple fact of convenience. While IB’s median rent cost of $3,000 is well under the staggering housing costs in other surf-adjacent ’hoods like Encinitas and Del Mar, locals still pay a pretty penny to live a few blocks from the beach. And they often pay a price for surfing there.

Scientists have identified 175 toxic pollutants in IB’s waters. Surfers have contracted everything from diarrhea and bacterial infections like MRSA to neurological disorders and hepatitis A.

“As a lifeguard, I see all the data. I check the flows daily and monitor the testing just to see if I can go for a surf during my break or after work. There are plenty of people who don’t check anything—they just see waves and go out—but even they get spooked when they hit the water and everything feels and smells wrong,” Wraight says. “Our responsibilities are definitely different from other [lifeguard] stations and, unfortunately, so much of what we do revolves around the pollution. It can get pretty negative, and it takes a toll on morale and recruitment.”

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The problem has driven some local diehards from the water completely. Ramon Chairez, an activist and educator with the nonprofit Un Mar de Colores, has lived in IB for decades, but in 2020, he “made a conscious decision to stop surfing IB,” he says. “I saw too many people around me getting sick. It wasn’t worth it. The last five to 10 years have really been pivotal in the consciousness of the population, especially the kids—they know it’s polluted and unsafe.”

As a junior lifeguard coordinator, Wraight once trained the next generation in IB. But, now, he and the local kids he works with must travel to other beaches in the county. YMCA’s Camp Surf, a program that attracts children and teens from all over the nation with the allure of learning to surf in San Diego, can no longer take participants into the area’s waters.

They must head to other neighborhoods or stick to land-based activities. “The biggest tragedy is the youth,” Wraight says. “They’re growing up not being able to enjoy the ocean like we did—their whole life experience is affected by the pollution.”

Despite the toxic water, IB still feels like a classic beach town, a callback to a time before $8 lattes and luxury condos dominated the coast. It’s charming, quaint, and beautiful, with the open space of the Tijuana Estuary to the south, mountains in the distance, and the mighty Pacific to the west. It has one of the most unique coastal views of all of San Diego—and some of its best waves. If only you could safely surf them.

Centuries ago, explorers marked uncharted seas with the ominous warning, “Here be monsters.” Today, San Diego’s Jojo Roper hunts his own kind of sea monster: towering waves that test the limits of human endurance.

“I train everyday and work my ass off to chase these waves, and [when the swell comes], I don’t want to miss a thing,” Roper says.

The son of local surf legend Joe Roper, Roper grew up in his dad’s Kearny Mesa surf shop, catching his first wave at age 3. Fourteen years later, a trip to Puerto Escondido, Mexico ignited his obsession with big wave surfing. At 18, he was ready to take on Northern California’s big-wave mecca, Mavericks.

Now, from Nazaré, Portugal to Oahu’s North Shore, Roper’s journey is relentless. His team studies NOAA buoy readings, boards overnight boat rides, and hops international flights—all in pursuit of the planet’s biggest waves.

Last March, while surfing dreamy, crystal-blue barrels in Fiji, Roper was summoned by a swell alert to the frigid, churning waves of Mavericks. A quick 36 hours later, he was dropping into a 50-footer that would nab him Surfer Magazine’s 2024 Biggest Paddle-In Wave of the Year award.

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But, make no mistake, these are treacherous waters. At six feet, waves are considered “overhead” and deter most average surfers. At 20 feet, paddle-outs become tests of endurance, and boards snap like matchsticks. At 30 feet, the force of a wipeout can rupture eardrums and drag surfers hundreds of feet along the ocean floor. At 50 feet, the crashing whitewater hits with the force of an avalanche, tossing humans like ragdolls in a washing machine.

“It’s like being in a major car accident that keeps going for 15 to 40 seconds—while trying to hold your breath,” Roper says. “Your limbs are flying in every direction since the violence is so radical.”

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Today, the record for the largest wave ever paddled into stands at 63 feet, but, dangerous or not, Roper is determined to top it.

“My mission is to paddle into the biggest wave ever surfed,” he says.