Finding Bliss In Los Cabos, Mexico


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“If you capsize, just listen to the sailors. They'll tell you what to do!" This was the last instruction from the smiley girl back at the onshore prep station. At the time I was busy taking selfies of my Extreme Sailing Series ensemble: a neon helmet, a bright red life vest, and a pair of black waterproof overalls, all oddly aligned with my personal aesthetic. But 15 minutes later, once it's too late to ask questions, her words come ringing right back.

Now, I'm plopped onto a net strung across a 32-foot catamaran called the Lupe Tortilla. Over my head, sails flap wildly as Adonis-like sailors in tight black wetsuits bound back and forth, pulling ropes and shouting words that mean nothing to me. Then, a few that do:

“Four… three… two… one!"

Suddenly the boat tilts to one side. My once cozy perch goes near vertical and a conch-like siren sound fills the air. We're airborne, the boat completely up and out of the water but for two thin pairs of hydrofoils. As we soar toward shore, I cling to the thin handles and try to keep all of my limbs inside the little square that's painted on the net. That's my only job: Stay in the square. Don't fall off. Don't get stepped on. Don't shit your pants in front of the very hot sailors.

A late afternoon sun illuminates the other boats careening around the markers: Oman, Switzerland, New Zealand—eight vessels in all. Beyond, natural rock formations jut out of the blue like fists. I'm in Los Cabos, Mexico, where the Pacific Ocean meets the Sea of Cortez, smack-dab in the middle of the second to last race of the year-long Extreme Sailing Series. A very prestigious event, I'm told, bringing together some of the very best sailors in the world to compete in a sport I didn't know existed until a few weeks ago. It's called Extreme because of how the boats lift out of the water, traveling up to 48 mph using nothing but the wind.

The fact that a know-nothing rando like me is allowed to not only ride one of these boats but to ride one of these boats while it's racing, seems kind of weird. But during this series, every sailboat in every race holds one guest. Some are sailors' family members, some journalists like me, some rich folks out for a thrill. I get a few different vague answers re: why, something about fan engagement, something else about weight distribution. Team sponsor Judson Holt tells me it's mainly just a fun way to scare the shit out of people.

His boat, named after the Tex-Mex restaurant his parents started in Houston, is sailed by the American team. As one of the Series wildcards, they're new to the series and the boat. They've been ranked dead last for most of the weekend, but with yours truly onboard they come in fourth. “You're our good luck charm!" say the hot sailors. I feel very proud.

Located at the tip of the Baja California Sur peninsula, that long and narrow stretch of land that extends south across the border from the state of California, Los Cabos seems a natural choice for racing luxury sailboats. Here, you’ll find all the trappings of paradise: the white sand beaches, the swaying palm trees, the aquamarine waves. Of course, with these trappings come the tourists—millions of them every year. And they’ve left their mark, on both the landscape and the once-sleepy fishing community’s international reputation. While I’d never been to Cabo before this trip, the word alone conjures disturbing mental images of a sunburned Sammy Hagar screaming “SPRING BREEAAAAAKK!” and puking over the side of a boat. Which, to be fair, is probably something that has happened here at least once.

But although hotel employees still shudder visibly at the mere mention of March, there’s a lot more to Los Cabos than the stereotypes suggest. First off, the name refers to two separate cities: San Jose del Cabo is the quiet sister, with a charming city square and weekly art walks through the gallery district; Cabo San Lucas is where most tourists go, all rowdy bars and white sand beaches lined with resorts. 

My own expectations start to shift the moment I pull up to the Bahia Hotel & Beach House in San Lucas, where two other journalists and I will stay for the long weekend. Once the home of Oscar Montaño Herrera, a local fishing legend better known as Don Yoka, the hotel now belongs to a couple from New York. A sleek lobby opens out to the stylish Bar Esquina, where a mix of tourists and locals sip mezcal cocktails and munch ceviche on an open-air dining terrace hung with pendant lights.

We spend the first day of the Sailing Series at Breathless Cabo San Lucas, the last resort on Medano Beach, sipping tequila and watching the boats cruise around the bay. That night it’s over to another resort, Pueblo Bonito, for a swanky party to kick off the Series. There are Greco-Roman statues in the lobby and black swans swimming in a fountain out front. “Sailing is a metaphor for business,” says a blonde guy with glasses who looks very rich. “The boat is the shop floor, and the sailors are managers.” 

“Indeed,” I say, heading over to the buffet table to load my plate with free sushi.  


The next day begins as I wish every day could—with breakfast on the beach. SUR Beach House serves fresh takes on Mexican cuisine: sweet baked conchas dipped in dulce de leche, chilaquiles doused in cheese and three types of salsa, eggs scrambled with machaca, a traditional sun-dried and rehydrated beef originating in the north of Mexico.  

After breakfast, we drive out along the coast. The landscape grows arid and giant cardon cacti spring up beside the roads like witch fingers. Our guide tells us they can grow over 40 feet tall and live up to 500 years, even on bare rock, with psychoactive properties to boot. I’m sure there’s a metaphor here, but I’m lulled into a stupor as I gaze out at the passing coastline. The beaches here are stunning but unswimmable, which keeps them pristine—no resorts, no tourists, just stretches of sand and the great blue beyond. Eventually, we pull up to a white tower with a long curly slide, stark against the desert backdrop like something out of Mad Max. Beside it sits the outpost for Cabo Adventures, a hut stacked with helmets and gear, which serves as the starting post for off-roading trips through the southernmost reaches of the Sonoran Desert.  

I’m a little nervous. The last time I went ATVing, I almost flew off a cliff. But the Polaris UTVs Cabo Adventures provides are far more agile than the lawnmower-like clunker that nearly killed me last February. I quickly grow comfortable behind the wheel, and before long, I’m Cruella De Viling my way through dry brush, bouncing over sandy wheel tracks and trying not to whack my passenger in the face with passing branches. The desert is a soothing place, wild and unfamiliar enough to hollow out your soul, at least for a few moments. It gives you a break from yourself. 

We drive past a waterfall, then out to a vacant stretch of beach. Well, not entirely vacant. Locals have marked sea turtle nests with sticks; come hatching time, tourists will pay to help the baby turtles journey from their nests to the water. 

After our ride, we head back to camp caked in desert dust for a hard-earned lunch of sopes, circles of fried masa topped with beans, chorizo, stewed chicken, and veggies served out of steaming clay pots. We’re feasting under a thatched palapa on the beach when suddenly: “Look! Out there in the ocean!” A pair of whales are spouting on the horizon—some early arrivals down from the Bering Sea, ready to spend the winter months breeding and feeding in the warm waters around the peninsula. It’s impossible not to fall in love, even from such a distance.  

After a shower and a quick rest, we head to El Merkado, a trendy, modern food hall packed with upscale bars and restaurants. At La Carreta, we snack on tlayudas, a kind of crunchy Mexican flatbread made from toasted tortilla, refried bean spread, and Oaxaca cheese, washing it down with flights of locally brewed beer from La Querida and cocktails from The Office made with damiana, my new favorite ingredient. Made from an herb that grows wild in the Baja, it has a sweet, floral flavor and is said to treat depression, bedwetting, headaches, and constipation, while also acting as a serious aphrodisiac. The bartender mixes it with tequila, Cointreau, OJ, and lemon juice and calls the drink La Nalguita Feliz, which translates to something along the lines of “happy butt cheeks.” Seems apt. 

Dinner takes place at CarbónCabrón, the shared brainchild of brothers Alfonso and Ignacio Cadena. A dark sister to their two all-white concepts, La Leche (which means "milk") in Puerto Vallarta and Hueso (which means "bone") in Guadalajara, CarbónCabrón (which means something along the lines of “charred bastard”), brings a similar symbiosis of flavor and design. Architect Ignacio has painted the walls black, with floor-to-ceiling stacks of smoked wood logs—more than 6,000 in all—sectioning off shared dining tables. Chef Alfonso mans an enormous grill spitting flames and stacked with caveman-sized bones of sizzling marrow he’ll sprinkle with parmesan to form a brulee-like crust. “When people think grills, they think meat,” says the chef, who resembles an aging rock star (which, in fact, he is) with his shaggy gray hair and goatee. “But you should see what I can do with vegetables.”

He’s not lying. The elote is to die for, corn cobs charred smoky, their creaminess defying the light mustard and garlic vinaigrette that dresses them. There’s grilled melon and asparagus and a carrot that tastes like it was grown on a superior planet. Margaritas are blackened with activated charcoal. I leave smelling like a campfire, and I don’t even mind.

We spend the next morning at Wild Canyon Adventures, 300 feet high and 2,673 feet across on the longest run. The initial plan was bungee jumping, but I nixed that the moment I got the email. As a 30-year-old woman, I have become unabashedly intimate with my own limits, and rag-dolling off a glass-bottomed gondola is one of them. I opt for zip-lining, instead. Flying, not falling. We go in tandem, a fellow journalist’s shoes tucked into my armpits—once all four of us at the same time, like a family of lemmings wearing stupid helmets. The metal cables whine as we soar over the chasm. Most of the time I try not to look down, but when I do, it’s tall skinny palms and cacti poking up over a layer of scrub brush and, likely, a sandy basin studded with sharp rocks. The zip-line operators dub me rebel girl for reasons unknown. I accept the nickname, opting to omit the part about how I ruined bungee jumping for the whole group.  

In the afternoon I use a few hours of solitude to explore Medano Beach, though solitude is not exactly the name of this game. It’s a populous stretch, resorts offering roped-off stretches of sand lined with reserved loungers. I head past souvenir hawkers and white kids in vacation cornrows to submerge myself in the water—and suddenly, there’s nothing to hear but the snake-like hiss of distant boat engines. This is how you find peace on a packed beach. I could float here for hours.

But soon, it’s time for dinner. As the sun dips, we drive out toward San Jose to Flora Farms, a green oasis snuggled up against the sandy foothills of the Sierra de la Laguna Mountains. What began more than two decades ago as a simple yurt and a few parched acres is today a luxurious ode to self-sufficiency, with tidy rows of dinosaur kale and edible cacti, lush foliage and fairy lights. Americans expats Gloria and Patrick Greene (she a farmer, he an architect) maintain 10 acres of organic farmland, 10 luxurious “culinary cottages”, an open-air bar, and a restaurant dubbed Flora’s Field Kitchen. Here, James Beard Award-winning chef Guillermo Tellez and his team spend their days bringing new meaning to the phrase “farm-to-table.” 

“The Baja cuisine is mainly focused on Mexican flavors with seafood,” says Tellez. “What we do here is very, very different. We’re doing something more like a farm cuisine. We raise our own animals. We try to do everything from scratch. I would say we’re about 95 percent sustainable.”

Tellez’s menus change with the seasons, growing and shrinking based on the harvest. Nearly every ingredient comes directly from the farm and the Greenes’ 150-acre ranch down the road. Bread, ice cream, even a special house lager is produced onsite. We sip hibiscus martinis and margaritas made with carrot juice, feasting on charcuteries and Tellez’s famous pork chop—which can easily satisfy two. A local band does Lou Reed justice, the shush-shush of “Walk on the Wild Side” mingling with the scent of smoked meat in the warm air. It’s something special, being here; verdant magic sprouting from desert soil. 


Last day in paradise.  

I wake early, before the sun, and rather than the usual rotation of anxiety and dread, I feel bright and alive, like a lady in a yogurt commercial. Dressing quickly in the creamy gray light, I slip out of the hotel with nothing but my phone (some pathologies cannot die) and walk the two short blocks to the beach. The sun is rising, but it’s still cool. Pelicans nose-dive into the quiet surf, made iridescent by the brightening sky. A local jogging group runs laps over the sand, passing batons. A pair of fisherman—living vestiges of a bygone era—walk out of the water, emptying their tangled nets into a plastic bucket. A man on a horse passes without comment. I skirt the water’s edge, watching my footprints vanish with each wave. This, I think. This is what I came for. 

At 8am on the dot, a tropical-sounding cover of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” from a nearby resort will break the silence. A few hours later, I’ll head to the YHI Spa at ME Cabo (where Justin Bieber recently stayed and allegedly was not an asshole), for a deep tissue massage capped off with strawberries dipped in chocolate. I’ll win a coin toss and thus that coveted square of space in the Lupe Tortilla, where I’ll learn to fly. Then dinner at a cliff-side restaurant called Sunset MonaLisa, where a trio of operatic singers will serenade my fellow journalists and I as we dine on gnocchi and pasta with truffles. 

Suddenly, I hear a slapping sound behind me and turn around. After a beat, it happens again: a stingray shoots out of the water right in front of me, for a second suspended and gleaming like a tiny jet (or an extreme sailboat) in the golden light—flat and aerodynamic, tail like a dagger, strong enough to vault its entire body several feet over the waves. A lump forms in my throat, though I know it’s silly. This is a common occurrence in Cabo. It would’ve happened even if I wasn’t here to see it. 

But I am. I’m here. And I saw it.

Illustration by Vivie Behrens

Liberation can come from completion, but then, we are always becoming something new

They say the full moon is about completion. About looking back at the intentions you crowned the new moon with and seeing where those intentions led you. The new moon in Gemini was the pebble that began this cycle, and the full moon in Sagittarius is her echo, the ring getting larger in the water. The new moon in Gemini asked us what we wanted to change about our habits, what we wanted to do with our hands, and our hunger for newness. The new moon in Gemini was interested in the way shifting ideas can give us the freedom to think differently and, in thinking differently, become new people. The full moon in Sagittarius reminds us that we are never not becoming new.

Both Gemini and Sagittarius are mutable signs, they exist in relation to the other and they know how to speak each other's language. But, while Gemini relishes the endless capacity of air (of thought), Sagittarius uses the energy of fire to transform thought into action. Everything Sagittarius touches can't help but change. How can this be completion? The wheel is always spinning, reader. Sagittarius marks the completion of the fire trine. Here, fire is generous and social. It means to gather and teach, to illuminate. Sagittarius lives in the sector of the zodiac chart related to education, philosophy, and the awareness of others—their beliefs and their right to freedom. Because of this, our June Sagittarius full moon is both a completion moon and a moon that reminds us that all endings create space for beginning. The more you leave behind, the more you find. There is no dead end in the universe.

If you are a seeker like me (perhaps you have lots of planets in Sagittarius in your natal chart), you have already come across Jessica Dore's Twitter account. Every day, Dore posts a tarot card and her interpretation of it. It is a gift to many of her readers. Yesterday, she shared The World with us, reminding her readers: "the moments of beauty, belonging & elation that you've experienced up to this point in your life… would still only amount to the tiniest sliver of what this world has to offer in terms of sweetness & pleasure."

I thought about this card and her words all day. The World is, numerically, the last card in the Major Arcana journey—the last card if you don't think about the Fool, who is numbered at 0 and so is the beginning and the end. The World is, therefore, a completion card too, a big echo of a full moon.

This morning, holding the sweet and expansive nature of The World, thinking on Sagittarius people and their love of travel, of reckoning with the edge of an atlas and questioning the map-makers, I pulled the nine of swords from my own Tarot deck. The other side of knowledge is to overwhelm and shut down. Gemini, ruled by Mercury, holds information in her hands. She understands duality in all things. Sagittarius, ruled by Jupiter, yearns for the expansion of mind and the illumination of power. The philosopher and the moralist, a Sagittarius at her best can teach anyone to break open a prison. A Sagittarius at her worst can justify any cage. Don't forget that Jupiter was the king of the gods. His lightning bolt was a weapon. Sometimes, we are too exposed to each other. We imagine we know others through the stories we create about one another. We imagine we know the future because we refuse to be humble about how vulnerable we are to the universe's ever-shifting outcomes. We refuse abundance by convincing ourselves that the cage of identity we build for ourselves is our only possibility.

For the next two days, as the Sun lingers in Gemini and we feel the effects of the moon's fullness in Sagittarius, reflect on the ways you have used knowledge. When has your knowledge been a tool of empowerment for yourself and others? When have you shared the beauty of the world and the joy of radical ideas/ways of living? When have you used knowledge to understand and relieve your own suffering and the suffering of others? And, too, when have you used knowledge as permission for self-delusion? When you have expanded so far into your idea of the world and your own work in it that you forgot how to be accountable to your daily life, your body, your friends, and the people you love? You know when Janis Joplin sings "freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose"? That's only one kind of freedom, and it's the kind that Sagittarius thinks it knows very well. Freedom can be about nothing, if nothing is what you want. Then welcome to the monastery, friend. Freedom can also be another word for everything you revel in not knowing. Freedom can be about having everything because you are part of everything, even if you can't see the relation, even if you can't imagine yet how what you want also wants you.

Photo courtesy of HBO.

Kat is making me relive my fat-teen trauma

When people say that HBO's new Zendaya-led teen drama, Euphoria, is triggering, believe them. In the pilot alone we're introduced to Rue (Zendaya) and her drug addiction issues via a graphic depiction of the overdose that sent her to rehab. Then, there's the disturbing rough sex scene featuring Jules (Hunter Schafer), a teenage trans girl who has just moved into town, and a middle-aged man she met on Grindr. Oh, and don't forget the unchecked, toxic masculinity of uber-jock Nate (Jacob Elordi); or the body obsession of his sometimes-girlfriend, Maddy (Alexa Demie). For me though, the ultimate trigger came via Barbie Ferreira's character Kat's experience, as she dealt with and internalized a vicious form of fatphobia.

Kat—almost alone amongst her friends—seems self-assured and dismissive of the idea that any high school drama should be taken too seriously. "You just need to catch a dick and forget about your troubles," Kat tells Maddy, following the latter's recent breakup with Nate. But internally, Kate craves male attention, and resents the fact that she's the only virgin she knows; she hints at this when she tells Maddy that she'd "settle for, like, four Corona Lights and some non-rapey affection," from a guy—any guy.

Kat's bravado leads her into a compromising situation at a high school party; she winds up in a room alone with three boys, where she talks a big game about how she's a "savage" who watches porn and has slept with more people than any of them can count. None of this is true, but Kat is determined to become "a woman of questionable morals."

The scene shows the fine line between being an empowered young woman deciding what to do with her body, on her terms, and being a teenager who thinks she's in control but doesn't fully understand the power dynamics at play. Because, yes, Kat is trying to make an intentional decision about her sexuality and how to use it, but she's doing so with a group of boys who don't value or respect her. This reality is made clear when one of them says to her, "You know what they say, right? Fat girls give the best head."

At those familiar words, I melted into my couch and said a silent prayer of gratitude that I wasn't watching Euphoria in the company of anyone else. Onscreen, Kat, too, shrinks ever so slightly into herself, all while trying to keep a poker face about the whole thing. We don't see exactly what happens in the room, but, later, she seems happy when she shares the news with her friends that she's lost her virginity; even though she then lays down, awake, scrolling through the guy's Instagram, seeming altogether less than happy.

Kat's isn't the most violent or necessarily the saddest story line in the episode. But it showed the ways that issues like consent, toxic masculinity, substance abuse, and body image—all of which are difficult to deal with no matter what your size—are further magnified when experienced through the additional trauma of fatphobia. This is something with which I've personally dealt, and so I felt my past experiences rise up inside me when I watched how Kat couldn't build her own sexual identity without being constantly aware of the ways her body exists outside the parameters of acceptable desirability.

My childhood and adolescence are defined by my experiences as a fat girl; it was a time that often felt like a hazy battlefield, when I could hardly navigate which feelings and thoughts were my own, and which ones were the result of outside forces. My body hardly ever felt like mine, and it took years to develop the autonomy that Kat is grasping at as a teenager. Kat, like so many other fat women, has a total lack of support from her peers when it comes to body image and acceptance, and there's a devastating absence of affirmation about her own worth and the importance of her pleasure. Because of fatphobia, Kat is going to be swimming against a strong, but invisible current as she navigates the already fraught social politics of high school. It's one thing to grasp this truth on an intellectual level, but letting those principles guide your decision-making is truly difficult—even for an adult, let alone for a teenager.

Euphoria airs Sunday nights at 10pm, on HBO.

Courtesy of RLJE Films

White-knuckle your way through wedding season with Maya Erskine and Jack Quaid

Maya Erskine might have first come to our attention in PEN15, the hilarious show she co-created and stars in with Anna Konkle, in which they play 13-year-olds in the year 2000, but in the just-released Plus One, Erskine is all grown up and engaging in a very familiar adult activity: white-knuckling her way through wedding season.

Written and directed by Jeff Chan and Andrew Rhymer—who just so happen to be Erskine's former NYU classmates—Plus One stars Erskine and Jack Quaid as Alice and Ben, two longtime friends who decide to attend a summer of weddings together, and avoid any of the awkwardness that can come with finding the right plus-one. This is especially important for Alice, who is coming off a bad breakup. Of course, as the laws of rom-coms dictate, nothing stays totally platonic. Beyond that, though, Plus One doesn't fall into predictable rom-com tropes, and instead hilariously explores what it's like to spiral into a quarter-life crisis, all while dressed in optional black-tie. Which, we've all been there, right?

"We kind of use the script as its own therapy," Chan told me recently, when I spoke with him, Rhymer, Erskine, and Quaid, about the film. "We were watching friends who have been broken up for a long time get back together at weddings; we were watching people get really sad and get drunk and start crying... they were breeding grounds for lots of emotions coming to the surface."

Courtesy of RLJE Films

And those emotions have the perfect outlet at weddings in the form of toasts and other assorted speeches. Plus One makes good use of that platform by making the wedding speech the hilarious eye of the storm at each of its weddings. These toasts were delivered in the form of scene-stealing cameos—also friends from NYU, of course.

"Almost all of those speeches are based on a real speech Andrew and I have seen," Chan said. "We'd go to a wedding and [we'd think], Yep, that's going in there."

Rhymer adds that they used these speeches as metonyms for the weddings, which made sense time- and budget-wise: "Being an indie film, we obviously produced 12 weddings, but did so kind of cleverly, showing you the rooms or the side rooms where they're rehearsing. We weren't seeing 12 full-blown receptions in all their glory... that would have been, like, millions of dollars."

But perhaps what's most refreshing about Plus One is that it destroys the image of weddings—and, by extension, relationships, and women, in general—as having to be fantasies, as having to be perfect. Because nothing is perfect, and that's what makes life interesting. Erskine, for one, likes being able to show the weirder sides of life, whether as a 13-year-old girl washing a thong with hand soap or a millennial woman who doesn't know what comes next. "There's something really liberating and freeing to show and bear the ugliest parts of yourself—or what society may deem as the ugliest, weirdest parts of yourself—that no one wants to see," she said. "I'm also an over-sharer. So I am drawn to roles that expose more than is typical, and everyone is weird in one way or another."

"I think," Erskine laughed, "it's because I myself am a wacky trash goblin." As it turns out, that's exactly what rom-coms have been missing, until now.

Plus One is in select theaters and available to stream via Amazon now.

PLUS ONE Official Trailer

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Photo by Nicholas Hunt/Getty Images

That's one way to solve a wardrobe malfunction

Cardi B twerked so hard during a performance that she ripped her outfit and had to rock a bathrobe for the majority of her set.

At Bonnaroo in Manchester, Tennesee, as Cardi got a little too down and into it, a seam split on her bedazzled body-con jumpsuit only moments into her set. Not one to be set back by a wardrobe malfunction, Cardi B rocked a nude strapless bra with a bathrobe on top, making for a Serious Fashion Moment.

"This wasn't just part of the show," Twitter user Lena Blietz pointed out. "No one performs in a nude, strapless bra by choice." I have to agree there. A strapless bra is the bane of my existence on a slow day, I can't imagine what it's like to have to dance in one on stage.

Honestly, watching Cardi perform in this getup made me a stan for life. Despite it not being as flashy as her jumpsuit, Cardi made the bathrobe work, throwing the shoulders down for drama as she paced the stage during each song.

Bonnaroo attendees couldn't help but agree that a bathrobe and nothing else is a mood we all felt in the very, very hot and sweaty crowd. If she had one in my size to share, I would have gladly changed in a heartbeat.

But, despite loving this comfy solution to a big problem, I'd like to take a moment to appreciate the beauty that was the original jumpsuit. RIP.

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

And launched an inclusive summer campaign showcasing 30 different models

Just in time for swim season, sustainable swimwear brand Summersalt launched an inclusive summer campaign, called Every Body is a Beach Body, and significantly expanded its size range.

The brand's sizes now go up to 24 and 2X—quite a jump from its previous availability, which went up to a size 14. Co-founders Reshma Chamberlin and Lori Coulter told NYLON that the size expansion was a must because "we know that there are countless women out there who are missing out on the joy of summer because they don't have the right suit." They noted that they have plans to expand the brand's sizing even more: "We're excited to continue to add more sizes and be even more inclusive."

For the summer campaign, each suit was fitted on 30 professional and non-professional models ranging in body type to ensure it would look great on as many bodies as possible. "We wanted the models for this campaign to be just as diverse and unique as our customers, and we're proud to show models of different sizes, races, gender identities, and physical abilities," said Chamberlin and Coulter. "We want our customers to see themselves in our models, and know that their body is a beach body, exactly as it is right now."

The new collection includes bright new colorways and styles to rock at the beach or the pool. There are bikinis, one-pieces, and even a swim tunic and leggings for modest fashion wearers.

Check out the campaign and some of the new styles, below, and shop the new collection now at Summersalt.

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt