FAMILY BUSINESS Birdwell britches rule at the beaches

The company's old-fashioned way of doing business has contributed to its longevity.
LOS ANGELES TIMES
The sense of smell is said to be the most powerful pathway to memory. But sometimes sight can do the job. A glance at a mere scrap of cloth can open doorways in the mind. We might find ourselves, say, on the beach again during one of those bygone summers of warm sand and bracing surf, sniffing Coppertone while the falling notes of the Ventures play a soundtrack to our days.
For men who came of age in Southern California's surf culture, and for those many others who tagged along from other states, a curious tribal symbol is likely to evoke memories. Measuring 2 by 21/2 inches, it is a cartoonish character drawn on a surfboard. His hair is represented by the board's skeg. His hands rest jauntily on his hips. He stands on skinny legs with bumps on his toes. He wears a crooked smile and, of course, surf trunks. Woven into the emblem are the words: "Birdwell Beach Britches."
Always in style
It's a brand; and for those who know the brand, Birdie is that old friend who never bothered to grow up.
Graying men who took to the beaches in the 1960s associate the logo patch with the freewheeling escapades of their generation. So do men of the 1970s and the '80s. The same is true for those who discovered Birdwells in the '90s. And if you prowl the beaches of France, Japan, Tahiti, California and Hawaii today, you'll see it yet now sewn onto the back of the waistband of these unchanging nylon surf trunks, still having fun.
In 43 years, Birdwells have never gone out of style. The home-grown made-in-America Birdwell has achieved global reach without ever growing to global size. The company does not disclose its sales or discuss details of its popularity, but its entire Orange County plant, including inventory, covers no more than 15,000 square feet.
Yet plenty of Waikiki's famed beach boys wear Birdwells, as do growing legions of outrigger canoe paddlers. Ditto lifeguards from here to Australia, charter sailboat crews in the Pacific and, of course, long-boarders practically everywhere.
Family policy
Whatever the generation or the location, Birdwells cast the same kind of nostalgic spell as the name of an old girlfriend. And behind Birdwell is a family that makes sure things remain exactly this way.
"We never did follow the crowd. Our pants are different. Our way of doing business is different," says Vivian Birdwell, whose late mother, Carrie Birdwell Mann, began the company in 1961. Vivian Birdwell oversees operations today along with her brother, Bob, and her daughter, Evelyn McGee, a wry, graying and self-possessed trio who look deceptively removed from anything related to beach and surf.
The entrance to their time capsule can be found in an industrial park in Santa Ana, Calif. A faded logo with the word "Birdie" adorns a metal door. Inside, Bob Birdwell, wearing a vest and porkpie hat, cuts the trunks with power scissors from layers of various types of nylon according to the backlog of orders.
At first, business was by word of mouth. Then they took out an ad in Surfer. Bob Birdwell recalls that it began with the magazine's fourth issue, back when Surfer published only twice a year. With minor changes, the small ad has appeared in every issue since, evermore quaint against the feverish onslaught of advertising graphics.
For family longevity, for lasting popularity and for its profoundly old-fashioned manner of business, Birdwell is unrivaled.
Keeping it simple
A sample of the family's approach to the world can be seen on its comically low-tech Web site, www.birdwellbeachbritches.com. A run-on collage of simple line-graphics, mottos, product descriptions, blurry photographs, tips on sizing (what to do "if you have large thighs"), joshing and a good measure of made-in-America pride, it suggests what the Internet might have looked like if it had been invented back when Detroit still put tail fins on cars.
Choosing a $40 or so Birdwell is a matter of either knowing what you like or giving it some forethought. Take a peek at the company's 241/4-page catalog, another boisterous example of doing business apart from trends. It is stapled together with three kinds of paper and a layout that suggests home publishing a generation before there was such a thing as home publishing, with the inclusion of a first-person narrative history of the company as remembered by Vivian Birdwell.
Inside is the menu that makes good on Birdwell's motto: "We don't build 1,000 things. We build one thing 1,000 ways."
Secret to success
One must choose between four basic models and various sub-model permutations, then between 1960s Surfnyl (drying time five minutes) and more contemporary Tectyl (drying time eight minutes) along with assorted heavier nylon weaves, or maybe canvas if you're determinedly antediluvian. Then from among 40-plus colors and a few dozen options for stripes and borders.
Boiled down, what is a Birdwell? It is a paneled swimsuit with a waistband that resembles those in boxing trunks, closed by lacing, not elastic. It has a single flap-closing pocket for wax on the right rear and a slightly oversized white button. The stitching is almost always white. Customers object to black.
If there is a secret to them beyond the logo, it is this: Long ago Carrie Mann was asked to try thin nylon instead of heavy cotton canvas for her britches. According to family lore, she replied, "Well, I'm not going to make anything indecent." For the sake of the wearer's modesty, she insisted on two layers of nylon -- a feature that has distinguished Birdwells over the years and accounts for their popularity among outrigger canoeists who find that the extra layer cuts down on chafing when they sit and paddle.