It’s 7 a.m. on a warm October morning. Andy Olive and two of his friends form a modern day caravan that trolls slowly along Ocean Beach’s parking lot. Olive cranes his long, bronzed neck over the oddly angled surfboard poking out on the right side of the passenger seat of his two-door BMW. His truck would have been a better choice, but the economy affects even the religious surfer. He scans the water over the concrete wall that separates the bustle of the city from the freedom of the beach. There’s a rumored swell this morning, but Olive doesn’t see much of its salty promise. Their launching point is always the same:
Kelly’s Cove. They get to Sloat and turn around, back to where they started. The waves aren’t great, but surfable, and Andy takes any chance he can to get out on the water. “You’ll see me there on Sunday morning, instead of church, and I’ll probably get more out of it,” he says.

Kelly’s Cove is a San Francisco surf spot brimming with history. Some say that Kelly’s was named after a local beachgoer, Old Man Kelly, who would swim out to Seal Rock and its sister sentries each day, in the early part of the twentieth century. It is rumored that he went out one morning and never came back. Others argue that it’s named after a billboard that advertised “Kelly’s Tires,” which stood stoically on the hillside opposite La Playa around the same time.

Surfers have been drawn to this spot since the 1950s, and it rapidly gained popularity in the era of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. While San Francisco is not known for its surf, local Arne Jin An Wong claims, “When you learn here, you can surf anywhere. It’s about as mean and clean as it can get.” More than the waves, it’s the sense of camaraderie and community that keep the flower children, and now their children, coming back. “It’s like going to the local bar for us. Everyone knows everyone else,” Olive explains. “It’s where orphans go to see their family.”

Wong reminisces about the Summer of Love at Kelly’s Cove, what he refers to as “the glory days.” He looks up Anza Street toward George Washington High School, standing prominently on the hill. He knows that if he sees the flag blowing from offshore, it’s going to be a good day. On one of these good days, hundreds of surfboards line the beach under Kelly’s Wall. Locals don their beach best. Girls in brightly colored bikinis and guys in cutoff jeans sit on the stairs below the wall, talking and laughing, their eyes toward the surf. Children run around barefoot and bare-bodied, careless and unaware of the responsibilities of adulthood. Surfers huddle around the bonfire, started each morning by local beach staple, Carol Shuldt, and kept alive until sunset by random patrons when the flames start to ebb. Shuldt is out almost everyday, but the good days bring all the surfers out: the Neck, the Prime Minister, Seawolf, the Magician, the Chin and the Minister of Psychedelics, just to name a few. Women bodysurf with scarves tied around their chests. When they get out on the water, they push them down around their waists.

Wong says the community feel was much stronger in the sixties, when surfers braved the Pacific sans wetsuits, lugging fifty-pound, ten-foot redwood boards without leashes. Shuldt agrees. She says the Kelly’s she remembers differs so much from the Kelly’s of today because of how technology has influenced society, pulling youth away from nature and away from the beach. The most telling sign of this may be seen in the migration of surfers from the sand to the parking lot. Wong has been attempting to recreate the Kelly’s of yesteryear by organizing the annual Kelly’s Cove Reunion--now in its fifth year--aimed at bringing the surfers of that time back to the beach they often spent entire summers at. “It was a bit of a motley crew,” Wong says of the crowd of yesteryear. “It was rough and tough back then.”

Music blares out of the open doors of Double Dutch, a small bar with urban charm near the corner of 16th and Guerrero Streets. Just inside the entrance, Olive and his art associate Christian Routzen stand behind wooden work stands, smiling and greeting each patron as they walk through the door. To their left, a display stand offers a sample of their work. Pinwheels of pistols, Dia de los Muertos inspired skulls and the
San Franpsycho logo pop against the backgrounds of brightly colored tee shirts. Welcome to a San Franpsycho silk-screening screening party. Clients approach them, choose a design and their colors and watch as their blank clothing item is transformed into a custom work of art. Across the bar, Wet and Wreckless plays on a flat screen television. Opening scenes of surfers out on the water, fights in the parking lot and girls behaving badly flash silently over the bustling crowd. They don’t make a lot of money at these events, but it’s a good way to familiarize San Franciscans with the brand. “It’s an interactive entertainment experience,” Olive says. “It’s a good way to give back to the members of the core San Franpsycho community. If you can’t leave with a cute girl’s number, you can at least leave with a shirt.”

San Franpsycho began as a project during Routzen’s sophomore year at San Francisco State in 2001, where he majored in film. The week of his graduation, he held two screenings for the surf video, both of which were standing room only. He says it was like George Lucas with Star Wars, and he envisioned the brand extending beyond the movies. He and Olive refer to San Franpsycho as a lifestyle brand that highlights the best of what San Francisco has to offer: its music, artists, surfers, skaters and snowboarders. “They’re all just cityheads,” Routzen says. Always at the heart of this brand is Kelly’s. “On a sunny day, the Cove is one of the greatest melting pots the city has to offer,” Olive explains. “We want San Franpsycho to always express the lifestyle of Kelly’s Cove and the pride that people have in their city.”

Olive’s been out for an hour and a half this morning. He watches as the moon disappears beyond the edge of the earth and the sun makes its morning debut. The lulling waves and choppy surf of the Pacific come at him without rest. He walks backwards through the ankle-high surf, his eyes never leaving the horizon, his board tucked under his right arm. He drags his feet in the sand, taking in all that the water has to offer. He shakes the dripping seawater from his curly blonde hair and finally turns, heading back to the parking lot and the rest of his day: breakfast, shower, and finally, work. “When everything else is fucked up, you can go out on the water, and it’s just a really good reality check,” Olive says. “It’s the only escape I have from life.”