We’ve Got a Thing for Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu

At the top of a golf swing, the world settles into a hush. Anyone within 50 yards kindly shuts up in reverence. Steady heartbeats tuck inside the sound of the wind. Time stands still.

Or—panic sets in, a thousand warnings from coaches and YouTube tutorials prattle through your brainpan. You wonder if a good walk prepares to be ruined.

On descent, the club rearranges air particles as it slices on a perfect or unwise line toward an earth so green, it seems like AI. The iron face meets the ball, and the satisfying or unsettling thwack echoes across the fairway like a nonviolent gunshot or a cry for help. Breath catches, curse words load in the prefrontal cortex. Eyes squint to follow the hard-to-see projectile zip majestically through the air or bounce lamely along the ground like a failed hurdler.

Sometimes it goes a couple hundred yards in the right direction, other times a couple yards into uncaring swamps. Golf’s beautiful and hard as hell.

Mindfulness and stillness reign over speed and might—which goes against most basal American instincts regarding sport. Its quiet, serene mocking of our human abilities is what brings so many of us to the life-long process of sharpening the skill. Because who hasn’t stared at the most beautiful parks and lawns in the world and said, “How can I turn this into a game and win it?”

Luckily, San Diego has an abundance of courses to improve and curate self-doubt. The county is home to over 70 courses that attract the top golfers in the country. Some of the biggest names in the sport—Callaway, TaylorMade, Cobra, Titleist, Odyssey, Honma—are based here. Perfect weather never hurts. But San Diego golf courses also promise a smorgasbord of terrains: rocky canyons, hot deserts, and lush greens overlooking the expanse of the Pacific Ocean.

If you could take the 1,300-ish holes around San Diego and pick the very best ones to create your ultimate course, which would they be? We asked some of the top golf pros in the county to do just that. The result? San Diego’s Dream 18. Think fantasy football but for golf.

Just like any great course, our Dream 18 includes four par 3s, 10 par 4s, and four par 5s—everything from tricky dog legs and psychological tee shots to just pretty, pretty views. Once we had our list, we either asked the head golf pro what makes a hole so special, or other pros spoke on its behalf. Go ahead, tell us what we missed.

Par 3s

Torrey Pines South

Hole 3

“One of the most iconic par 3s on the West Coast. The cliffside setting above the Pacific and the constant ocean breeze make it both beautiful and demanding.”

—Anthony Valverde, Director of Golf, The Crosby Club at Rancho Santa Fe

The Santaluz Club

Hole 14

“It’s a downhill par 3 over water with a great view from the tee down to the green. It’s surrounded by bunkers as well, so it almost feels like an island green even though it’s not. What’s really cool is once you drive to the next hole, if you look back on No. 14, it’s a great view as well. One of the signature holes [at Santaluz].”

—Josh Rider, Head Golf Pro, The Santaluz Club

Maderas Golf Club

Hole 15

“Hole 15 is widely considered one of the best and most memorable holes on the course. At about 250 yards, it’s a long downhill with multiple tiers and panoramic views into the valley. It looks intimidating at first, but there are lots of recovery contours and the green is fairly large.”

—Editor’s Choice

Torrey Pines North

Hole 15

“Sitting high above the green with views of the Pacific Ocean, this dramatically downhill par 3 requires the perfect club selection.”

—Mike Mulford, Director of Golf, Omni La Costa

Par 4s

Aviara Golf Club

Hole 18

“While it’s beautiful with the backdrop of the Batiquitos Lagoon and the Pacific Ocean, this finishing hole demands both precision and nerve. The water guarding the right side and fairway bunkers ahead create a visually striking, strategic tee shot, while the expansive green rewards a confident, well-placed approach. If you can make a par on this hole, you’ve played it very well.”

—Renny Brown, Director of Golf, Aviara Golf Club

Del Mar Country Club

Hole 18

“The 18th hole at Del Mar CC is a demanding par 4 with an elevated tee box. Water guards the right side of the green, and a player must hit a precise shot into this green.”

—Renny Brown, Director of Golf, Aviara Golf Club

Rancho Sante Fe Golf Club

Hole 5

“It’s a difficult 428-yard par 4 playing into the predominant west wind. The hole is post-renovation and the vegetation was trimmed back, so now it exposes a penalty on the right. It’s uncomfy at the tee but a good challenge. Plus, it’s the No. 1 handicap for [all players].”

—Chris Lungo, Head Golf Pro, Rancho Santa Fe Golf Club

The Bridges at Rancho Santa Fe

Hole 10

A ’90s pop hit is blasting as I drive up to Solana Beach to go dancing. I’m dressed in the millennial nightlife uniform: black tee, cute jeans, heels. It is 6:30 p.m. on a Tuesday. The dance party starts soon. I’ll be home by 10 p.m. at the latest. I may even catch an episode of Summer House.

I am acutely aware of my age in this moment. I haven’t willingly chosen the club life since my 20s and early 30s. Yet here I am, transported back to 2014 with a few more wrinkles, a lot more ibuprofen, and a touch of “pandemic stole this from me” in my pocket.

A few days earlier, a friend texted to suggest we go to a concert the upcoming weekend. “I can’t, I’m already tired on Friday,” I replied. At 42, two glasses of cabernet bend my space-time equilibrium. A hard sneeze risks a sprained neck. Did I mention the perimenopausal night sweats yet?

I arrive at the Belly Up at 7 p.m. Wilson Phillips comes on the stereo, and I sing-shout the lyrics before stepping out of the car.

Someday, somebody’s gonna make you want to turn around and say goodbye | Until then, baby, are you gonna let ’em hold you down and make you cry?

Tonight’s event is billed as “the dance party that starts earlier.” Surprisingly, I’m not the oldest person in the room. A 60-something man shoulder bops to the DJ set. A Gen X woman shimmies by and snaps photos of the glow-stick-spinning raver on stage. Few are drinking.

Started by two North County locals, Amal Chandaria (32) and Max Gold (37), Earlier is a dance party for older adults who want a club experience without the sleep-deprived, hungover physical toll. Running 6:30 to 10 p.m., attendees get home at a reasonable hour for a full night’s sleep.

Seems I’m not alone in my tired.

“[We’re in] a time where loneliness is high, people are craving connection,” says Chandaria. “One thing we were really intentional about is that you don’t need to go and have drinks to have fun. It’s about the music and getting the wiggles out.”

Early is part of a national trend: the green-juice-ifying of party culture. Americans aren’t going out as much as they used to. They’re drinking less, and 10 p.m. has become the new 2 a.m. Wellness as a lifestyle concept is old hat, and each generation manifests itself in different forms (fitness booms in the ’80s, organic food in the 2000s).

According to a 2024 survey by consulting firm McKinsey & Company, the US wellness market now exceeds $500 billion annually, up from roughly $300–$350 billion a decade ago. More striking than the spend: Wellness as a top priority has surged from about 42 percent in 2020 to more than 80 percent today.

The timing makes sense. Studies show Covid led to long-term shifts in lifestyle patterns. We all began to reassess our lives and made some existential changes—like 6 p.m. soberish dance parties. In a recent Gallup poll, only 54 percent of US adults reported drinking alcohol, the lowest level in about 30 years. Conversations around longevity turned “treat yourself” into “invest in yourself.”

The downer of any wellness trend, though, has been the “can’t” philosophy—can’t eat that cake, can’t sip that marg, can’t binge that show. What if we could do health stuff and still dance and not totally suck the joy out of life? That’s what people like Chandaria and Gold are banking on.

Last year when they attended Atomic Groove—a variety dance band from 5–8 p.m. most Fridays at Belly Up—it sparked an idea. “People want to be healthy and active, and they don’t want to compromise on that by not feeling rested,” says Gold. “I thought, ‘I bet if we’re feeling this way, other people are looking for something like this, too.’”

He was right. Nearly 200 people showed up to the pair’s first dance party last July. Tonight’s crowd is nearing that number again. Among them is Cardiff-by-the-Sea resident and second-time attendee Lauren Marley.

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“If you do one thing for yourself—and it means that you don’t have to be completely exhausted and wrecked for all the stuff you have to do the next morning—it’s great,” she says.

Though EDM isn’t quite my thing (give me some stank-face hip-hop from the 2000s), it’s clear from the number of return attendees that Chandaria and Gold have filled a need, one that isn’t just in famously health-forward cities like San Diego.

In DC, Dancing on the Waterfront occurs every Saturday from 5–9 p.m. while Extended Play DC wraps up at 10 p.m. Philly has Matinee Dance Party (5–10 p.m.). New York City finally chooses to sleep, with Friday Feeling and Matinee Social Club both ending at 10 p.m. Last year, Day Shift, geared toward those over 30, debuted at Bloom Nightclub in San Diego.

In Chicago, Earlybirds Club was founded in 2023 by high school friends Laura Baginski and Susie Lee. About 100 people showed up to the sold-out “dance party for ladies who got shit to do in the morning.” Two years later, Earlybirds Club is now held in nearly 60 cities and regions across the US.

“It’s an outlet that [middle-aged women] don’t get in our everyday life,” says Baginski, who also recently appeared on the Kelly Clarkson Show to share their story. “It’s movement and dance. We’ve learned now that it’s really essential to being a happy person.”

Admittedly, it’s a bit harder to be happy when I walk into the Music Box for Earlybirds’ event in San Diego. War’s about to start, protests are the new social gathering, and the economy is gaslighting me into believing salads should cost $18.

But soon the club is a sea of 700 people wanting to dance their asses off. Any negative emotions quickly begin to disappear. Tonight’s music features hits from the ’80s, ’90s, and 2000s: Madonna, Britney, Christina, 50 Cent, Ludacris.

Shuffling past the bar to the already-crowded dance floor, my heartbeat quickens. Pure, unadulterated joy is oozing in this place.

“The whole club was women’s bathroom culture,” said returning attendee and San Marcos resident Beth Avant, 50. “[You get to] freely dance, not care about what you’re wearing, you’re not trying to really impress people.” Soon Whitney Houston’s golden pipes set the room on fire, arms raise, smile lines deepen, and for a few hours, nothing else matters.

Oh, I wanna dance with somebody / I wanna feel the heat of somebody

While Baginski continues to run the operation, Lee lost her battle with stage IV metastatic breast cancer in August of last year. Honoring her memory at each event are words from Lee herself: “Sing f**king loud, dance like nobody gives a shit, and remember who the f**k you are.”

And who we are are sleepy people. If this new wellness era really takes off, imagine the possibilities. Dinner dates at 5 p.m., the Super Bowl at 2 p.m. EST, Justin Bieber headlining Coachella at 7 p.m. Until then, you’ll find me in bed shooting down plans past 8 p.m.

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.

“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.”

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.

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.”

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.

“I started playing golf when I was 16,” David Moon says. “I’m married to the game, and I love this brand.”

His affection for Honma Golf is understandable. Clubs from the BERES line, with smooth metals dyed silver, gold, and red, look more like pieces of jewelry than they do sporting goods. It’s Moon’s job, as the company’s ecommerce and customer service manager, to sell those clubs, although that title doesn’t fully capture his role running Honma Golf’s three-person Carlsbad operation. 

Founded in Japan in 1959, the company developed a devout following, mostly in Asia, for its meticulously designed and unusually sophisticated golf clubs. They aren’t manufactured so much as they are crafted, but for decades that luxury went largely unnoticed in North America. In an effort to grow in Western markets, Honma Golf setup shop in Torrance in Los Angeles County, then Cyprus in Orange County. Finally, in 2019, the company landed in Carlsbad, known as the “golf equipment capital of the world.” 

That may sound like a roadside oddity or an obscure Guinness World Record, but in Carlsbad the moniker is serious business. A block from Honma Golf is Titleist’s Carlsbad office. TaylorMade and Callaway are headquartered on the other side of Palomar Airport. That makes three of golf’s “Big Four” brands within two miles of each other, and you can’t swing a club without hitting dozens of smaller companies like Cobra and Honma. “It’s good to be in the mix with the big companies,” Moon says. “We’re not moving any time soon.” 

According to a report from the city’s economic development division, there are no less than 116 firms in the sports innovation and design industry cluster, which includes the city’s world-renowned golf equipment manufacturers. “We’re claiming over 2,300 employees in that sector, which is more than six times the national average,” says Bret Schanzenbach, president and CEO of the Carlsbad Chamber of Commerce. “It also generates good income—averaging $130,000 per employee per year in annual earnings.”

Callaway and TaylorMade together earn over $5 billion annually, or about $5 for every golf ball the world manufactures in a year. And the story of selling golf balls is inextricably linked with the story of Carlsbad.

Long a farming town, Carlsbad didn’t incorporate until 1952. Its population as of the 1960 census was just over 9,000, and not many people outside of San Diego County had heard of the town until the La Costa Resort, opened in 1965, began hosting the PGA’s Tournament of Champions in 1969. A 34-year-old Gary Player, at the height of his legendary career, fended off the likes of Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, and Lee Trevino for the trophy that year.

“I believe it is the way courses should be set,” Player told The New York Times after his victory at La Costa, now known as the Omni La Costa Resort & Spa. “It’s as fine a course as I won on.” High praise from a man who had taken the crown at the British Open nine months prior. La Costa would go on to host the tournament for the next 30 years, and the city grew around it.

That’s due in large part to Ely Callaway and Gary Adams. A textiles executive from Georgia, Callaway brought his fledgling golf club company to Carlsbad in 1983. A year later, Adams came to town with TaylorMade, a company he started in Illinois that had some success hawking “metalwoods,” a departure from the traditional all-wood sets. 

In 1991, Callaway took the novel idea a step further and invented the Big Bertha driver, the first made entirely of stainless steel. The club head was massive yet light in the hand. It felt like the future, because it was. The story of golf—and Carlsbad—became centered around engineering, research and development, and technological advances. It mirrored the digital revolution rooted in Northern California. The Bay Area had Silicon Valley. Carlsbad had Titanium Valley. Honma Golf resides on Innovation Way. 

“If you’re a golf company, do you want to be based in Illinois, or are you going to go to a place like California where you can golf year round?” Schanzenbach says. Carlsbad has “infrastructure, plus the weather, plus the quality of life, and the ability to bring in top [golf] professionals to your facility to test out your equipment,” he adds. “You want to bring them to a place where, afterwards, you can go out to a really nice course with beautiful weather and treat them.” 

But the local industry has hit the rough in recent years. According to the city, employment in the sector declined 16.3 percent between 2018 and 2020, a trend that started back in 2013, despite overall golf participation being up 30 percent since 2016, according to the National Golf Foundation. While the weather in Carlsbad is still perfect, some of the factors that fueled its explosive growth, especially cheap land and plentiful labor, are today tilting against it.

“Coming out of Covid, one of the biggest things we were hearing from our membership was the challenge with finding and then retaining talent for their companies,” Schanzenbach says. “I know TaylorMade has done a good job with it. But [for] the middle-tier companies, it’s hard.”

Honma Golf felt this firsthand.

PGA tour pro Justin Rose signed with the company in early 2019, and a few weeks later, he won the Farmers Insurance Open in San Diego. Honma was finally making inroads in the US, then Covid hit. “All the momentum stopped,” Moon says. 

Sales slumped, then the company struggled with staff turnover and recruiting executive and marketing teams to achieve its goals in North America. The realities of high costs, intense competition, and hiring challenges set in, but Honma Golf is undeterred. By reorganizing its marketing team and refocusing on its core market segment of golfers interested in premium clubs, the company feels there are better days ahead. “2025 is going to be a good year,” Moon predicts.

It’s a retrenchment not unlike Callaway Golf’s. In September, the company announced it was spinning off Topgolf, the chain of entertainment-focused driving ranges it acquired just four years earlier. The company wants to focus on its traditional golf equipment and apparel business, the one based in Carlsbad—the one that helped make Carlsbad. 

After Covid’s industry-wide disruptions, the future of the local golf manufacturing industry is coming into focus. So far, it looks a lot like the first 40 years: You can’t play golf without Carlsbad.