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In these days of trailers, hotels and motels, comparatively few persons spend their vacations under canvas. Of course, there are members of the military, but they sack in where they are told and are not encouraged to engage in any back chat about accommodations. However, in the early 1900s, any chance visitor to San Diego would have been perfectly justified in believing that the entire population had deserted their homes and moved bag and baggage to flimsy canvas shelters at Coronado's Tent City.
Traction magnate John Spreckels had trolley cars going to the Hotel del Coronado in this period, but this service didn’t keep the seats full. So, he ran the tracks a half-mile down the strand and, in 1900, established Tent City, right on the water. The summer resort caught on immediately and, within a couple of years, was the "in" place for both San Diegans and hinterlanders to spend their vacations. Often Ma and the kids spent the entire summer there, while Pa commuted from his office in town.
For those days, when a working man considered $2 a day good pay, a tent at the seaside utopia was rather stiff. For $27 a week, you received a tent, gaily striped to be sure, but just a tent. In it were rather lumpy beds that had flunked out of the Hotel Del. Chairs were folding ones that seemed to jackknife whatever unfortunate sat down in them at the wrong angle. The undulating surfaces of the shaving mirrors amused the children with their distortions of the human face, but were devilishly hard to razor whiskers by.
The floors were of rough boards and the extraction of splinters from the feet of howling small fry was a daily maternal ritual. Privacy was achieved by the drawing of canvas curtains on wires; washing was done via the time-honored pitcher and bowl. But each day a maid of sorts would give your shelter a cleaning of sorts. This snappy service went with the tent.
A feeble sort of illumination was provided by an electric bulb that dangled lonesomely from an overhead wire. If you and your family ate in, cooking was done over a gasoline stove. This monster had a nasty reputation in those days for exploding without provocation.
Doesn’t sound like much, does it? But thousands swore by Tent City and couldn’t wait to get back to it each summer. First among the attractions was the swimming. There was a raft anchored beyond the breakers where a few intrepid young males made their headquarters, but the ladies seldom ventured much past the dunking and shrieking line. In the tent-like bathing garments ladies wore in those days, Summer Sanders or Florence Chadwick would have gone down like stones after swimming barely 50 feet.
If you didn’t care for ocean bathing, you and the family could go into the swimming pool, called by the wits of the day, "John Spreckels' Bathtub." Measuring 100 by 175 feet, this pool had an enviable distinction — no one had ever drowned in it. The fact that it was nowhere more than three feet deep may have had something to do with this satisfying record.
Fishing? Sure. For a dollar bill you would not only get a boat, but a man to row it for you. It was presumed that you would give him one of the smaller fish and a nickel tip for himself when the piscatorial safari on the bay was terminated.
For those who refused to submit to the terrors of the gasoline monster, there was a good restaurant where a full meal could be obtained for the rather stiff price of 25 cents. There was another, ritzier emporium de food where the prices were even more exorbitant.
Best part of the summer for mothers was the comparative freedom from household drudgery. The children needed no encouragement to "git," and then the ladies could settle down to a good satisfying game of whist or indulge in a pleasant character assassination session. Young ladies, chaperoned to within an inch of their lives, bandied bright repartee with callow youths sprouting their first peachfuzz mustaches and, occasionally, daringly trod a few measures of "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight" at the pavilion de danse.
But if there were any "hot times" at Tent City, they were not publicized. It was a family resort and no offensive behavior was tolerated by the management. Enforcing regulations was a watermelon-stomached person in galluses and a frock coat. No frontier marshall he, this stern officer of the law used only cards to enforce regulations.
If you were talking at the top of your lungs, he would sidle up to you and hand you a card reading "Please Be Quiet." And if your offspring were too obstreperous, you would get a free card reading "Please Keep the Children Quiet."
Alas, how times and morals have changed. If still operational today, the genial lawman would have had to add to his card stock considerably. We suggest as a few examples: "Please Stop Mugging That Camper," "Kindly Extinguish Your Marijuana Cigarette" or "Kindly Prevent Your Child From Setting That Tent Afire."
And, when the fog at last started to roll in, campers regretfully packed up and made ready to take the trolley back to San Diego. "See you next year at Tent City," would be the watchword.
But time and the automobile did the old resort in.
People found that the Tin Lizzy would take them to more interesting spots and Tent City passed away, dead except in the memories of the thousands who had found happiness, romance and contentment on the Silver Strand.
Longtime newspaperman Herbert W. "Woody" Lockwood has forgotten more about San Diego history than most historians remember. Retired from daily newspaper work, he might be researching a book on military food.
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