Palm Springs Surf Club was supposed to be different. From the outside, it looked like a rare thing in modern surf culture: a wave pool project built not just on technology and capital, but on soul—driven by people who genuinely love surfing and the community around it.

For years, that soul had faces.

Cheyne Magnusson was one of them. For six years, he poured passion, energy, and belief into Palm Springs Surf Club. He helped pioneer the vision, lived it daily, and by all accounts treated the place like something bigger than a job. Then, according to his own words, he was told he “added no value” and was let go. For a project that has leaned heavily on authenticity, that moment landed like a gut punch to the surf community watching from the outside.

Then there’s Kalani Robb.

Robb didn’t just lend his name—he invested years of work, personal capital, emotional energy, and credibility. In interviews and public comments, he’s described the experience as deeply painful, citing ongoing struggles with technology, unmet expectations, and ultimately being sidelined into a smaller role than what he was led to believe. He has gone as far as calling it one of the worst experiences of his life. In 2025, Robb officially cut ties.

And then… somehow… this is where we’re at.

While the surf community is still trying to process how two of the most respected, authentic people connected to this project were discarded, Palm Springs Surf Club’s public calendar reads like it belongs to a luxury hotel that just discovered Pinterest.

A holiday floral workshop brunch.
A New Year’s Eve “Afterglow” party described as “an evening of light, rhythm, and champagne.”

What the hell is going on here? Is this a joke?

This isn’t a surf club anymore—it’s starting to feel like a desert country club cosplaying as a cultural hub. The irony is impossible to miss. The people who actually built the culture were told they added no value, while flower arranging and champagne-fueled dance parties are now front and center.

Wave pools already struggle with legitimacy in surf culture. They survive on trust, respect, and the credibility of the people involved. You don’t earn that by swapping surfers for centerpieces and calling it “programming.”

Nothing against flowers. Nothing against a party. But when those things become the headline after the surfers who gave the place its backbone are pushed out, it sends a very clear message: surfing was just the aesthetic—never the priority.

This feels less like evolution and more like abandonment. A pivot away from surfing, away from community, away from the very people who made Palm Springs Surf Club believable in the first place.

If this is the future—brunches, champagne, curated vibes, and empty buzzwords—then let’s stop pretending this place exists for surfers at all.

Because right now, from the outside looking in, Palm Springs Surf Club doesn’t look confused.

It looks exposed.