CATALINA DEFYING LOGIC: Celebrating the People’s Island

By Marlise Kast-Myers

My mom was turning 80, obviously a major milestone and a party worth throwing for the woman who gave me life. As the epitome of sacrifice, she was raised in Ghana as the daughter of missionaries, deprived of riches so she could invest in the poor. Her love for others never faded, dedicating over 10 years building schools, clinics, and housing alongside my South African father in the country of Lesotho.

Later in life, they left their roots to be close to their two daughters in San Diego, launching a landscaping company to fund their philanthropic projects in Africa. Defying logic, my parents still return regularly, traveling over 10,500 miles to bring hope to the next generation.

Now, as my mother approached her 80th year, my sister and I joined forces to give her the one thing her heart desired most: family.

Between six adults and three teenagers, finding a weekend that worked with a web of schedules wasn’t easy; but my mother asked for little, so we were determined to make it happen. Hawaii—or flying anywhere for that matter—was out of the question. Still, we wanted an island getaway close enough to home yet, mentally worlds away.

And so, at my mom’s birthday dinner we brought out a piñata, blindfolded her, and handed her a bat. Head to the sky, she swung at the air, stopping only to slap her knee in hysterics. With help from her grandkids, she eventually triggered a shower of candy from the paper-mâché carcass. Along with the treats, fell out a card reading: “Mom, we’re going to Catalina. All of us.”

Of course, she cried. “You mean it? You really mean it?!”

We did. At least that’s what we told ourselves. Just 22 miles off California’s coast, the rocky island is accessible by ferry from Dana Point, Long Beach, and San Pedro harbors. Tickets from nearby Dana Point were sold out, so we departed from Long Beach.

To maximize our stay, we took the 9:50 Catalina Express ferry to Avalon, costing roughly $80 per person for the round-trip fare. Parking ran another $22 a day. Based on our budget, we planned to stay three days on the island.

Like kids on a rollercoaster, we sat on the top deck at the front of the ship, cheering when a pod of dolphins sprung from the sea. Suddenly, my mom motioned the rows of strangers to “all rise”, encouraging them to join her porpoise parade. One-by-one, we shimmied over to make room for the masses, now sitting cheek-to-cheek with randoms.

During the 1-hour journey, my mom handed out granola bars and Gatorade, then pointed to the island like a pirate, before dancing to the beat of source-less music. That was my mom, culminating all the habits that embarrassed me in my youth, to now look at her as the woman I wanted to become.

Once on land, she insisted we walk—luggage, coolers, and all—through the main street of Avalon. In this 2-sq-mile stretch are a cluster of shops, restaurants, bars, and 30+ hotels dotting the cheerful town. It’s here on the southeastern side of the island where some 5,000 residents call home and visitors seek utopia.
We certainly found it; from the white-sandy shores of Descanso Beach, we strolled the boardwalk while kayaks and paddleboards glided through our living postcard. Towering palms and water as juicy as blueberries made it easy to lose ourselves on the map. Like a Mediterranean dream, sailboats bobbed offshore, framed by sugary sands and sprawling greens dotted with white cabanas begging for summer brides.

Nearing the 130-year anniversary of the Santa Catalina Island Company, made this trip a season of celebrations. The party really took off in 1919 when chewing gum tycoon, William Wrigley Jr. paid the pioneering Banning brothers $3 million for the fire-ravaged island. Wrigley invested millions more to transform the rugged island into one with water, utilities, telecommunications, streets, schools, homes, hotels, and steamships. His vision wooed everyone from Winston Churchill and Ronald Reagan to Marilyn Monroe and Charlie Chaplin.

But Wrigley didn’t build his island empire for Hollywood’s elite; He built it for the gum-chewers of the world. Catalina was his token of gratitude to—in his words— “the tired shop girl, the artisan, the clerk, and the Boy Scout.”

In my family, we checked every category, other than “the clerk.” And so, I took my Boy Scout nephews, my artisan niece, and my shop-girl self to the Catalina Aerial Adventure. My mom insisted the grandkids experience this adrenaline-filled activity, working their way across ziplines and rope-courses with spirit and courage.

Between golfing, paddleboarding, diving, parasailing, fishing, falconry, biking, hiking, and tours, we had plenty of activities at our fingertips.

But for now, we would eat. After a casual lunch at Antonio’s Pizza, we walked to our hotel for check-in, and just like that, we had the lay of the land. Although the island is 76-square-miles, most restaurants, attractions, and hotels are along Avalon Harbor.

This included our property of choice, Bellanca Hotel. Opened in 2020, this boutique hotel was the cool kid in town, just steps from the beach with a rooftop deck, modern rooms, harbor views, and the trendy Naughty Fox Restaurant. The staff welcomed us with champagne and macaroons, and introduced to such perks as complementary bikes, beach accessories, and luggage transportation upon departure.

By booking side-by-side rooms, our party of nine dominated the second floor, propping doors open with flipflops so we could trade coffee pods. For a family raised on Motel 6, we were wide-eyed by the fireplaces, soaking tubs, and adjoining balconies.

It was our time, a blink in life when we lived in harmony for the one who formed us, shaped us into the people we are today, and the generation we’ll empower tomorrow. We did it for mom: the hotel boardgames, the sunset bike rides, the midnight ice cream, and the rooftop gatherings. Over boxed wine and charcuterie from a cooler, we toasted to “family” and the miracle of making it happen.

But the miracle didn’t stop there. The following morning, my 84-year-old father insisted we all hike Hermit Gulch. The 4-mile strenuous loop was out of the question, but my parents were determined to give it a shot. Again, defying logic, they climbed steep trails to soak in views of Avalon Canyon across the San Pedro Channel.

After celebratory tacos and margaritas at The Sandtrap, we rented golfcarts to explore the wild side of the island. Bumps, turns, and curves had my parents hanging on for dear life, while my husband hollered, “We have exactly one hour, or they’ll deduct from our deposit!”

Tires screeched as we hugged the cliffside, doing our best to read paper maps flapping in the wind. Acting as our self-appointed guide, my sister pointed out Wrigley Memorial, an iconic landmark paying tribute to the founder’s vision to protect the island. The monument was appropriately wrapped by the 36-acre Botanic Garden, created by Wrigley’s wife, Ada in 1935.

In God speed, we zipped by the baseball field where Wrigley set up spring training for the Chicago Cubs in 1921. As part owner, he coached their progress from the terrace of his elegant estate, Mt Ada, now operating as Catalina’s only 4-star hotel.

Weaving downhill, we leaned-in toward the Spanish-style Chimes Tower that rang out as we passed. “We have 15 minutes left,” my husband shouted.
Beyond the jungle-like terrain of Descanso Canyon, we flew past the historic Casino, the Yacht Club, and then our hotel where my parent’s jumped curbside.
“Man down,” I shouted. “Everyone okay?”

My parents gave us a thumbs up, and away the “youngsters” went, stopping midway for saltwater taffy and fudge at Lloyd’s candy shop. After our rapid-fire tour, we reunited at The Lobster Trap for fresh seafood, followed by movie night at the Casino.

Built in 1929, this dance pavilion was the impetus for the big band era, drawing 3,000 people at any given time. Encompassing the ground floor is a 1,184-seat theater, where motion pictures were—and still are—played. As a playground to the stars, the Casino united Hollywood legends with the working class, in Wrigley’s ongoing efforts to make people happy.

He certainly succeeded.

Our 9-person tribe was happy, especially the following morning during the Bison Expedition. This two-hour tour explores the grazing grounds of Catalina’s bison, descendants of a small herd left on the island by a movie crew in the 1920s.

The two-hour safari traversed Catalina’s rugged interior, where 88 percent of the island is designated as protected land. Snaking through the grasslands was the 38-mile Trans-Catalina Trail, attracting hikers, campers, and of course the bison.

If there’s ever been a time to visit Catalina, it’s now. The once-thriving herd of 550 has dwindled to around 70 after an infertility program was introduced to restore native flora. Aboard the open-air Hummer, our guide told us bison are seldom seen these days.

But we were in luck.

Stradling an overgrown trail stood a magnificent beast, looking tired, dirty, and alone—as if fully aware he was among the last of the buffalo to roam in paradise. These Hollywood legacies were literally a dying breed, and one we cherished for sharing their moment in the spotlight.

That afternoon, my mom and I walked arm-in-arm to the Catalina Museum, discovering the rich history of the island, serving as the location for over 500 motion pictures. In the 1940’s the Navy underwent clandestine operations by using the island for maritime espionage training. In 1943, Norma Jean Baker lived in Avalon before her glamourous life as Marilyn Monroe. In 2007, the island survived a wildfire burning over 4,750 acres.

Through it all, Catalina remained “The People’s Island.” Thanks to Wrigley’s vision, he created a destination that brought Hollywood stars and blue-collar workers together; that ignored social classes and taught people to dance like no one was watching; to walk instead of drive, to toast on rooftops, and to encourage strangers to “all rise” at the sight of nature.

In our case, mom may have brought us together, but it was Catalina that kept us in place.

Regardless of age—whether it be 80 years for my mom, or 130 years for Catalina—both were living their best lives and maybe, even defying logic, just a bit.