I once spent forty-five minutes untangling myself from a moped in Santorini because I thought a floor-length, crochet-knit duster was a ‘vibe.’ It was 2018, the wind was blowing, and the hem of my very expensive, very trendy cover-up got sucked into the rear wheel assembly. I was stuck, hovering awkwardly over the exhaust, smelling like burnt acrylic and shame, while a Greek man named Spiros yelled at me in words I didn’t understand but definitely felt. That was the day I realized that most swimwear cover ups are designed for Instagram photos, not for people who actually intend to move, sweat, or exist in the real world.
Since that catastrophe, I’ve become a bit of a freak about what I wear over a bikini. I don’t want ‘resort wear.’ I want something that doesn’t make me look like a confused bridesmaid or a Victorian ghost. Most of the stuff you see on ‘best of’ lists is garbage. It’s either cheap polyester that feels like wearing a plastic bag in a sauna, or it’s so delicate that one stray splinter from a boardwalk bench will ruin it forever.
The only hill I am willing to die on
If you aren’t wearing a men’s oversized linen shirt, you’re doing it wrong. I used to think I needed specifically ‘feminine’ beachwear with tassels and pom-poms. I was completely wrong. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. You don’t need a cover-up; you need a shield that breathes.
I’ve tested this. Last July, I spent eight days in Tulum and wore a $140 linen shirt from Dissh for roughly 14 hours a day. I actually tracked the drying time because I’m that person now. In 95-degree heat with 80% humidity, the linen was dry to the touch in 22 minutes after I got out of the cenote. My friend’s polyester ‘chiffon’ wrap? It stayed damp for nearly an hour and eventually started smelling like a damp gym bag. Linen is the only fabric that understands the assignment.
Go to the men’s section at Uniqlo or Abercrombie. Buy a linen-blend or 100% linen button-down two sizes too big. It covers the butt, it has a collar to protect your neck from the sun, and you don’t look like you’re trying too hard. It’s effortless.
A wet sarong is like a cold, heavy hug from a ghost. Nobody wants that.
I hate Pitusa and I don’t care who knows it
I know people will disagree with me on this because they are everywhere, but I refuse to recommend Pitusa. I don’t care how soft the Peruvian cotton is or how many celebrities wear those bright neon dresses with the trim. To me, they make everyone look like a colorful tube of toothpaste. They have zero shape. If you’re over 5’4″, they hang weirdly, and if you’re shorter, you’re just drowning in fabric. It’s a lot of money to spend to look like a high-end toddler. There, I said it.
I also have a massive problem with mesh. Mesh is like wearing a hairnet for your torso. It doesn’t provide sun protection, it doesn’t actually ‘cover’ anything if you want to walk into a cafe for a sandwich, and it catches on everything. Including moped wheels. Never again.
The sarong is a lie
We need to talk about the sarong. It’s the most basic recommendation in the world, right? “Just tie a piece of fabric around your waist!”
- It never stays tied.
- If you sit down on a plastic chair, your thighs still stick to the seat.
- It offers zero upper body protection.
- One gust of wind and you’re flashing the entire beach.
Unless you are literally a professional at knot-tying or you have the hip-to-waist ratio of a mannequin, the sarong is a constant battle against gravity. I might be wrong about this, maybe I just have ‘slippery’ hips, but I’ve never met a sarong that didn’t require readjustment every six minutes. It’s exhausting. I’d rather wear a pair of oversized poplin shorts from J.Crew and be done with it.
Actually, let’s talk about the 7-inch inseam. That is the sweet spot. Anything shorter and you’re basically just wearing a second swimsuit. Anything longer and you look like you’re heading to a PTA meeting in 1994.
The part where I admit I’m a hypocrite
Despite everything I just said about functionality and linen, I do own one ridiculous, sheer, beaded kaftan from a random boutique in Italy that cost more than my first car’s transmission. I wear it maybe once every two years when I want to feel like a wealthy widow whose third husband died under mysterious circumstances on a yacht. It is completely impractical. It’s heavy. It takes three days to dry. But sometimes, the ‘vibe’ wins.
Anyway, for the other 364 days of the year, stick to the basics. I’ve probably bought and discarded twenty different cover-ups over the last decade. The ones that are still in my closet are the ones that can survive a machine wash and don’t make me itch when I’m sandy.
I’m still looking for the perfect pair of terry cloth shorts that don’t make me look like I’m wearing a diaper, though. I’ve tried four different brands this year—including Terry and Frankies Bikinis—and the results have been… bulky. Maybe terry cloth is just a fundamentally flawed concept for anyone with a human body? I don’t know.
Buy a white linen shirt. Size up. Don’t overthink it.
