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Alison St John Inglis looks back on life in Oceanside
Things are so different now than they were in the ’90s
Many people are upset at the ostentatious investments at the beach, while inland neighborhoods feel neglected.
We bought our house in the early ’90s: an unassuming bungalow on a cul-de-sac in Oceanside, with straggly palm trees in front and an overgrown canyon in back. Buying in Oceanside meant a long daily commute to my job at KPBS in San Diego, but it was all we could afford. Most of our neighbors were new immigrants with lots of kids, families trying to get a foothold on the ladder to the American dream. As former hippies who had spent many years living in ashrams, we could relate. The kids proved to be a blessing: as part of my effort to clean up the empty lot next to our house, I paid them a dime for every food wrapper or empty oil carton they collected.
The neighborhood was what they call “in transition.” Saturday mornings we woke up to the sound of mariachi music and the sight of the neighbors changing the oil in their trucks under those straggly palms. One evening as I drove home from a long day of deadlines, I was met with sirens, blinding lights and police cars blocking the road — the SWAT team was engaged in a stand-off with the folks living across the street, who, it turned out, were dealing drugs and gun running.
Things are so different now. The lot at the end of the cul-de-sac just sold for 1.2 million, and the house on it is little more than a shack. At least it has a view of the ocean, two miles away. It isn’t just our street that has changed. Oceanside used to be a military hang out: we’d go to the movies downtown and be surrounded by guys with very short back and sides. Barber shops and uniform laundry services dominated the scene. Now, Camp Pendleton has turned into a small city of its own, fueled by massive investment after the Iraq War, and now there’s no need to come into downtown Oceanside to watch a movie, get your uniform laundered or your head shaved. One old-time barber shop is now sandwiched between the Surf Museum and a boutique hotel, The Brick, that serves oysters for Happy Hour.
So many times, I have walked the pier’s length, out into the ocean toward the horizon, reveling in the evening light.
Two enormous resort hotels have sprung up next to the pier, built in what seemed like a few months during the pandemic. They have rooftop bars with pools overlooking the beach, and conference facilities on the ground floor. When residents emerged after Covid, Oceanside was a transformed town. It felt like everyone who had ever wanted to open a restaurant had discovered our town, where the most enticing option for dining out used to be Chinese. Highway 101 is now full of interesting eateries: there’s even a Michelin-starred restaurant next to the pier which serves 14-course meals with matching paired wines, much of it sourced from the chef’s grandmother in Mexico.
But while Oceanside may be entering its heyday, not everyone is happy. Residents attend city workshops where we discuss how to develop tourism while “keeping it real.” Many people are upset at the ostentatious investments at the beach, while inland neighborhoods feel neglected. And then there is the question of investing in the sand on the beach itself. In the old days you could walk it all the way from Oceanside to Carlsbad. Now, the waves sometimes break over the sea wall at the south end of the Strand: I saw them flooding the underground parking lot of oceanfront condos as they were being built a few years ago. And while you can still walk to Carlsbad from south Oceanside at low tide, beware trying to get back at high tide: you may wind up trapped against the rock walls protecting private properties from the incoming waves.
Every year, the Army Corps of Engineers pumps sand to clear the mouth of the harbor and sends it down the coast in big black pipes to help bolster the beach. Tourists seem remarkably unperturbed by the bulldozers that operate in the surf line for weeks each spring, spreading the sand that gushes out of the pipes. But even this time-honored strategy, which has been going on for years, is no longer enough to keep the waves from washing away much of the sand, leaving big pebble dunes next to The Strand. The city, to its credit, mounted an innovative search to find a company with the best idea for preserving its beaches. Personally, I favored the Dutch company; the Netherlands has been reclaiming land from the sea for centuries. But the Australian plan was chosen, so we’ll see. And there’s no telling whether Oceanside will be able to leverage the millions of dollars it will cost to implement from state and federal funds, the way Encinitas and Solana Beach have done.
One thing Oceanside has that those cities do not is the pier. So many times, I have walked its length, out into the ocean toward the horizon, reveling in the evening light as hundreds of pelicans soared south in long wriggly lines, their wings skimming inches above the surface of the ocean. The allure of the pier never fades for me, and it’s a relief we can still walk most of the way out, even though the tip is blackened and closed off after the fire that burned the two restaurants perched on the end. I hope whatever replaces them is not designed to bring only well-heeled resort hotel guests stumbling down the pier’s uneven planking. Somehow, I suspect the rough-and-tumble fishing parties that used to gather at pier’s end won’t give it up that easily.
Back in my cul-de-sac, the street is empty of cars most days… everyone is off working. As I pick up the mail or weed my succulents, I reflect that that used to be me. Like me, most people on my side of the street are retired or close to retirement and happy with our canyon view. Most people on the other side are young and upwardly mobile — working so hard they only just get home in time to see the sun set over the ocean horizon. The lot next to our house is still empty, though its owner has a permit to build three-stories of multi-unit housing on it. I spoke in its favor (with some conditions) at the Planning Commission, because I know how badly we need more housing. But I’m grateful the builder hasn’t broken ground just yet. I went to pick up a little blowing trash this afternoon after we returned from the pier, and I couldn’t help wishing the kids across the street were still around to help me.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Alison St John Inglis looks back on life in Oceanside
Things are so different now than they were in the ’90s
Alison St John Inglis looks back on life in Oceanside
Things are so different now than they were in the ’90s
Many people are upset at the ostentatious investments at the beach, while inland neighborhoods feel neglected.
We bought our house in the early ’90s: an unassuming bungalow on a cul-de-sac in Oceanside, with straggly palm trees in front and an overgrown canyon in back. Buying in Oceanside meant a long daily commute to my job at KPBS in San Diego, but it was all we could afford. Most of our neighbors were new immigrants with lots of kids, families trying to get a foothold on the ladder to the American dream. As former hippies who had spent many years living in ashrams, we could relate. The kids proved to be a blessing: as part of my effort to clean up the empty lot next to our house, I paid them a dime for every food wrapper or empty oil carton they collected.
The neighborhood was what they call “in transition.” Saturday mornings we woke up to the sound of mariachi music and the sight of the neighbors changing the oil in their trucks under those straggly palms. One evening as I drove home from a long day of deadlines, I was met with sirens, blinding lights and police cars blocking the road — the SWAT team was engaged in a stand-off with the folks living across the street, who, it turned out, were dealing drugs and gun running.
Things are so different now. The lot at the end of the cul-de-sac just sold for 1.2 million, and the house on it is little more than a shack. At least it has a view of the ocean, two miles away. It isn’t just our street that has changed. Oceanside used to be a military hang out: we’d go to the movies downtown and be surrounded by guys with very short back and sides. Barber shops and uniform laundry services dominated the scene. Now, Camp Pendleton has turned into a small city of its own, fueled by massive investment after the Iraq War, and now there’s no need to come into downtown Oceanside to watch a movie, get your uniform laundered or your head shaved. One old-time barber shop is now sandwiched between the Surf Museum and a boutique hotel, The Brick, that serves oysters for Happy Hour.
So many times, I have walked the pier’s length, out into the ocean toward the horizon, reveling in the evening light.
Two enormous resort hotels have sprung up next to the pier, built in what seemed like a few months during the pandemic. They have rooftop bars with pools overlooking the beach, and conference facilities on the ground floor. When residents emerged after Covid, Oceanside was a transformed town. It felt like everyone who had ever wanted to open a restaurant had discovered our town, where the most enticing option for dining out used to be Chinese. Highway 101 is now full of interesting eateries: there’s even a Michelin-starred restaurant next to the pier which serves 14-course meals with matching paired wines, much of it sourced from the chef’s grandmother in Mexico.
But while Oceanside may be entering its heyday, not everyone is happy. Residents attend city workshops where we discuss how to develop tourism while “keeping it real.” Many people are upset at the ostentatious investments at the beach, while inland neighborhoods feel neglected. And then there is the question of investing in the sand on the beach itself. In the old days you could walk it all the way from Oceanside to Carlsbad. Now, the waves sometimes break over the sea wall at the south end of the Strand: I saw them flooding the underground parking lot of oceanfront condos as they were being built a few years ago. And while you can still walk to Carlsbad from south Oceanside at low tide, beware trying to get back at high tide: you may wind up trapped against the rock walls protecting private properties from the incoming waves.
Every year, the Army Corps of Engineers pumps sand to clear the mouth of the harbor and sends it down the coast in big black pipes to help bolster the beach. Tourists seem remarkably unperturbed by the bulldozers that operate in the surf line for weeks each spring, spreading the sand that gushes out of the pipes. But even this time-honored strategy, which has been going on for years, is no longer enough to keep the waves from washing away much of the sand, leaving big pebble dunes next to The Strand. The city, to its credit, mounted an innovative search to find a company with the best idea for preserving its beaches. Personally, I favored the Dutch company; the Netherlands has been reclaiming land from the sea for centuries. But the Australian plan was chosen, so we’ll see. And there’s no telling whether Oceanside will be able to leverage the millions of dollars it will cost to implement from state and federal funds, the way Encinitas and Solana Beach have done.
One thing Oceanside has that those cities do not is the pier. So many times, I have walked its length, out into the ocean toward the horizon, reveling in the evening light as hundreds of pelicans soared south in long wriggly lines, their wings skimming inches above the surface of the ocean. The allure of the pier never fades for me, and it’s a relief we can still walk most of the way out, even though the tip is blackened and closed off after the fire that burned the two restaurants perched on the end. I hope whatever replaces them is not designed to bring only well-heeled resort hotel guests stumbling down the pier’s uneven planking. Somehow, I suspect the rough-and-tumble fishing parties that used to gather at pier’s end won’t give it up that easily.
Back in my cul-de-sac, the street is empty of cars most days… everyone is off working. As I pick up the mail or weed my succulents, I reflect that that used to be me. Like me, most people on my side of the street are retired or close to retirement and happy with our canyon view. Most people on the other side are young and upwardly mobile — working so hard they only just get home in time to see the sun set over the ocean horizon. The lot next to our house is still empty, though its owner has a permit to build three-stories of multi-unit housing on it. I spoke in its favor (with some conditions) at the Planning Commission, because I know how badly we need more housing. But I’m grateful the builder hasn’t broken ground just yet. I went to pick up a little blowing trash this afternoon after we returned from the pier, and I couldn’t help wishing the kids across the street were still around to help me.
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