CAPITOLA

Twenty-five minutes (if we choose
to go by rail to Santa Cruz),
Or an hour-or an hour and a half at most,
With a horse, or a team, along the coast,
Brings us to Capitola

Some parties would rather on horse-back ride,
Cantering in couples, side-by-side:
Laughing and chatting-flirting, maybe
After the fashion that often you see
At, and about, Capitola.

Whether we use the bridle or rein:
Whether we walk, or go by the train:
Whether we trot, or whether we canter,
Whether we gallop like Tam O' Shanter
Flying across the "Brig of Ayr"
All the same; we're bound to get there
That is-to Capitola!

In late June 1889, the Santa Cruz Daily Surf began a narrative about Capitola with a little poem that not only told how to get to the coastal resort, but also set the tone for what to expect upon arrival, namely, a very good time.

Camp Capitola was about to celebrate its birthday and its continuing existence each summer along the shore near the mouth of Soquel Creek. Officially opened on Independence Day in1874, it was a dozen years old and about to take a big leap from its original formation of tents and rough board shanties. It was becoming a tidy settlement of sturdy cabins that would soon be further refined by the addition of an elaborate 160-room hotel and a related complex of handsome, two-story buildings.

Once completed, the new Hotel Capitola would "beat Coronado and Del Monte out of sight," according to one health resort enthusiast.

In the height of the season, several trains per day stopped at the tiny Soquel rail station on the east end of the trestle and unloaded hundreds of passengers who made their way from there to the beach. Within the next five years, the station would be moved across the road to Capitola Park and the entrance to the bluff would thereafter be known as Depot Hill.

The writer from the Surf began the 1889 description of the resort from a viewpoint on the verandah of the original 35-room hotel, which would eventually be replaced by a grander structure. The smaller hostelry was then under management of Paul G. Wickersham, credited with running a first-class establishment.

Directly across from the hotel was a point where the creek finished its curve along the beach and joined the ocean. Here it could easily be crossed by wagons coming and going from the wharf and the road beyond that linked to Soquel. Pedestrians strolling on the beach could also, until the winter storms washed it out to sea, cross at a cable bridge. A favorite game of young visitors was to set it teetering up and down to the alarm of well-attired ladies who were halfway across.

"A long pier runs out for some distance on the west side of the bay and numerous fishermen moor their boats there," observed the writer. "Pleasure parties frequently hire these boats for a sail on the bay. (One party had just returned from such a trip. Most of them look bilously white abut the mouth and very serious! One young man, attired in an accurate boating suit of navy blue flannel, shudders as he looks back at the boat he has just left, though he declares they had 'a splendid time!'). The steamer Gypsy touches at the wharf every week for freight, much of which is wrapping paper from the Soquel mill, and fish."

From the wharf, visitors could wander up the west bluff above the creek to the place known as Britton's, where women stopped to view a collection of sea mosses and other curios while the men smoked cigars and drank mugs of steam beer.

Back across the Stockton Avenue bridge, the camp itself appeared as a cluster of two-room cottages "painted in stripes of red, green, blue, yellow, brown, violet, crimson, mauve, poppy, gold, daisy and abalone tints."

"These colors make them look gay and serve to distinguish one from the other," said the author. " There are many fine shade trees and pretty garden plats in which bright hued flowers endeavor to hold their own in point of color with the rainbow-hued houses."

The newspaper article continues, describing the great variety of birds, sea life and fish as well as the daily procession of sea-bathers who, young and old, stout or slender, made their way into the waves, sometimes shrieking loud enough to be heard back at the depot. Outfits ranged from "black-stocking-ed, short-kilted suits" to rentals that came with a dressing room and towels at the bathhouse for a dime.

In conclusion, the writer exulted that Capitola was a place so enjoyable that it was "fast becoming one of those favorite sea side resorts to which those who come once come again, and bring many others with them."

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