If you walk along the silver sands of Coronado today, past the looming red turrets of the Hotel del Coronado, you’re looking at some of the most expensive real estate on the planet. It’s polished. It’s pristine. It’s quiet. But a century ago, this exact stretch of California coastline looked more like a chaotic, colorful, and surprisingly middle-class bohemian commune. People called it Tent City San Diego, and honestly, it’s one of the weirdest chapters in Southern California history that almost nobody remembers correctly.
Most people hear "tent city" and think of the modern crisis of homelessness or perhaps a gritty gold-rush camp. This was neither.
Imagine a sprawling grid of striped canvas houses, complete with flower boxes, wooden floors, and even electric lights. It was a massive social experiment fueled by a railroad tycoon’s need to make a buck. For thirty-nine years, from 1900 to 1939, this was the place to be. It wasn't just a campsite; it was a seasonal city with its own post office, library, and even a brass band that played every single night.
Why John D. Spreckels Built a City of Canvas
You can't talk about Tent City San Diego without talking about John D. Spreckels. He was the sugar heir who basically owned San Diego at the turn of the century. He owned the newspaper, the transit system, and most importantly, the Hotel del Coronado. But he had a problem. The "Del" was fancy. It was expensive. It was for the elite.
He needed a way to monetize the rest of the peninsula for the "common man"—or at least the upper-middle-class man who couldn't afford a suite at the hotel but wanted the ocean breeze.
So, he got creative.
Spreckels decided to utilize the narrow strip of land south of the hotel, known as the Silver Strand. He set up a few hundred tents and told people they could rent them for a few dollars a week. It was a hit. Instant. By the second year, the population of Tent City often eclipsed the population of Coronado itself during the summer months.
It grew into this bizarre, hybrid resort. You’d have a schoolteacher from Arizona living in a tent right next to a businessman from Los Angeles. They shared the same communal "plumbing" (which, let’s be real, was pretty primitive back then) and spent their days in the "Plunge"—a massive indoor saltwater pool that was the height of luxury for 1905.
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The Daily Grind (If You Can Call It That)
Life in the tents wasn't exactly roughing it. These weren't the pop-up nylon things you buy at Big 5 today. These were heavy-duty canvas structures stretched over wooden frames. Most had real beds. Many had rugs. The most "luxurious" ones even had separate rooms divided by hanging fabric.
Mornings started with the sound of the ocean and the smell of coffee brewing on small kerosene stoves. People lived outdoors. They ate on porches. They walked to the central "Casino"—which wasn't for gambling, but for entertainment—to hear the band.
There was a specific rhythm to the place.
The Coronado Beach Tent City Band, led by various conductors over the years including the famous Ohlmeyer, was the heartbeat of the community. They played twice a day. You’d see families in their Victorian-era swimsuits—which, honestly, looked more like wool dresses that weighed fifty pounds when wet—lounging on the sand while a full orchestra played Sousa marches.
It was a strange mix of high culture and sandy feet.
The Logistics of Running a Seasonal Metropolis
Running Tent City San Diego was a nightmare for the Coronado Beach Company. Think about the infrastructure. You have thousands of people descending on a sandbar with no permanent sewers.
- They had to haul in fresh water every day.
- Trash collection was constant.
- The "tent-men" had to spend the off-season repairing canvas torn by Pacific gales.
Despite the work, it was incredibly profitable. It gave the working class a taste of the "Coronado Lifestyle" without the $20-a-night price tag of the hotel. People returned year after year. They formed "neighborhoods." You’d have the same group of families from Pasadena occupying the same row of tents every July for a decade. It created a weirdly tight-knit social fabric that you just don't see in modern vacation rentals.
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What Happened to the Tents?
Nothing lasts forever, especially not canvas in salt air. By the late 1920s, the novelty started to wear off. The automobile changed everything. Suddenly, people didn't need to take the train to San Diego and stay in one spot for a month. They could drive. They could explore. They wanted motels—the "motor hotels" that were popping up everywhere.
The Great Depression was the final blow.
While Tent City San Diego managed to limp through the early 30s, the demographic it served—the middle class—was hit the hardest. The tents started to look shabby. The "Casino" was aging. The glamor was gone.
By 1939, the city was officially dismantled. The wooden floors were ripped up. The canvas was sold off or scrapped. The land was eventually cleared to make way for what is now the Coronado Shores condos and the expanded highway. If you go there now, there isn’t a single tent pole left. Just a few historical markers and some grainy black-and-white photos in the Coronado Historical Association museum.
Misconceptions About the "Squalor"
Some modern historians try to paint Tent City as a place of hardship. That’s just not true. While it was "affordable," it was strictly regulated. There were rules. You couldn't just show up and pitch a tent. You had to rent from the company. There were "police" (guards) who made sure things didn't get too rowdy.
It was wholesome. Almost aggressively so.
It was the precursor to the modern RV park or the "glamping" trend we see today. If you’ve ever stayed in a luxury yurt in Big Sur, you’re basically living the 2020s version of the 1910 Tent City San Diego experience.
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Why We Should Care Today
The story of Tent City matters because it represents a time when the California coast was accessible. Today, Coronado is an enclave of the ultra-wealthy. In 1915, it was a place where a guy who worked at a print shop in El Cajon could take his family for two weeks and live like a king on the sand.
It shows a different vision of urban planning—one that was temporary, seasonal, and surprisingly high-density without being "urban." It was a city that breathed with the seasons.
Lessons for the Future of San Diego
San Diego is currently struggling with how to use its waterfront. We have battles over short-term rentals, hotel heights, and public access. Tent City San Diego was a weird, functional middle ground. It wasn't a permanent scar on the landscape, but it provided massive public enjoyment.
We probably won't see striped canvas cities returning to Coronado anytime soon—the NIMBYs would have a collective heart attack—but the spirit of that accessibility is something the city is still trying to figure out.
Real Ways to Experience the History
If you're a history nerd or just want to see where this all went down, you can't just look for a tent. You have to know where to look.
- The Coronado Historical Association: They have the best collection of Tent City artifacts. You can see the original programs from the band concerts and photos of the interiors of the tents. It’s located on Orange Ave.
- The Hotel del Coronado’s Ice House Museum: This is a relatively new spot that covers the history of the entire area, including the "lower class" fun happening just down the beach.
- Walk the Silver Strand: Start at the Del and walk south toward the Loews resort. As you pass the high-rise condos, try to strip away the concrete in your mind. Imagine 1,000 canvas roofs flapping in the wind. That's exactly where they were.
- The Glorietta Bay Inn: This was originally John D. Spreckels’ mansion. He used to sit on his porch and look out at his "city." Standing there gives you the literal "owner's perspective" of the whole operation.
It's easy to look at San Diego today and think it's always been this way. But the reality is much more interesting. Before the luxury condos and the Navy bases, there was a city of cloth where people came to escape the heat, listen to a brass band, and pretend, if only for a few weeks, that the Pacific Ocean belonged to them.
The "Tent City" era ended nearly a century ago, but it set the stage for San Diego's identity as a vacation destination. It proved that people would pay for the experience of the coast, even if they had to sleep behind a thin layer of fabric to get it.
Next Steps for History Seekers
If you want to dive deeper into this, don't just Google it. Most of the best info is offline. Go to the Coronado Public Library and ask to see the "Tent City" vertical files. They have original menus from the restaurants and hand-written letters from people who stayed there. It’s the only way to get a feel for the actual "vibe" of the place beyond the polished tourist brochures. You can also check out the digital archives of the San Diego Union-Tribune for the years 1905-1915; the social columns back then treated Tent City like it was the center of the universe.