Photos via The Surf Lodge
And I am standing at the bar of the Surf Lodge in New York’s Montauk. The crowd is young and prep and model. There are so many models from both today and yesterday. They gaze, searching for Wall Street husbands to support 10,000-dollar-a-day Balenciaga habits. And those potential Wall Street husbands drool hungrily while wiping fish-greased hands on their khaki cargo shorts. They are in summer mode. Surfy mode. So they also wear Havaianas and Billabong. And they flirt with models about the markets and about all the surf they’re scoring. Artists look on condescendingly.
The Hamptons, in summer, is the place to be and the Surf Lodge, this summer’s night, is the place to be in the place to be.
A surf film from 1971 loops over the entertainment system. The bartenders wear shirts reading “10” on the front and “hang” on the back. Or “5” and “cheater.” Longboards are hung from the ceiling with care. Surf Lodge. Half of the Land Rover Defenders in the parking lot have longboards strapped to their ragtops with care. It is hot and humid.
And Danny Fuller is here. I run into him outside under the stars while hacking a dart. He looks impeccable. We chat briefly about the Hamptons and the City and life before going our separate ways but I wonder, after we part, how many of the young and prep and model and Wall Street know who he is? I wonder if those with longboards strapped to Land Rover Defender ragtops know? I wonder how many of them brag about the waist-high closeouts they scored that morning before asking him, “Do you surf, bro? It’s fucken wicked awesome.”
Danny Fuller must find it vaguely amusing. He is the Ernest Hemingway of our world. Hemingway lived real fruity, moveable feasting in Paris and also hunted big game in Africa. Danny Fuller rubs shoulders with New York’s art/hip/model elite and also hunts huge barrel in Hawaii.
The effete bourgey Parisians probably bragged about killing cockroaches in their boho left bank apartments to Ernest Hemingway too.
He must have found it vaguely amusing. —Chas Smith