Catalina Glamping

Living in California means Catalina Island feels almost casual. It’s technically a getaway, but it’s also just… right there. Off the coast. Close enough that on a clear day you can see it and think, “We should go.” And so we did.

Most people take the Catalina Flyer and then hop on a shuttle boat to White’s Landing. We happen to have a boat that can make the two-hour trip ourselves — in our smaller boat, which makes the word “adventure” feel slightly more literal.

Our son LOVES the boat. Like, could happily live on it. Our daughter? Hates it. Seasick, dramatic, over it before we’ve cleared the harbor. You truly can never win.

When you bring your own boat, you moor offshore, which sounds simple until you

remember you have children and luggage. We dropped everything at the dock first, went back out to moor properly, and then attempted to paddle ourselves in using one of those inflatable pool-canoe contraptions. With two kids. And bags. My poor husband didn’t fit, so he swam in.

Strong start to the trip.

White’s Landing works for me because I like camping — I just don’t like assembling things. Sleeping bags on the floor? Fine. Dirt? Fine. Minimalism? Actually love it. But building a tent? Hard no. I have mild childhood trauma from arriving at campsites and watching the stress and arguing unfold as poles refused to cooperate and daylight disappeared. I’ll camp. But the tent needs to already be standing.

And at White’s Landing, it is.

They call it glamping, and I get why. Yes, there are basic canvas tents with pads on the ground. But there are also semi-permanent safari-style tents with actual beds, real mattresses, and bunk beds for the kids — which, if you’ve ever tried to sell children on camping, you know is a major negotiating point. Ours came stocked with a large cooler, a dry food storage box, space heaters, a small table, a propane stove, pots, and utensils. All the bulky things that normally make packing feel like a game of Tetris were already there.

There’s also a meal plan option, which felt complicated for us. With our son’s ARFID, our daughter’s general pickiness, and me needing gluten-free food because of Celiac disease, committing to an all-or-nothing meal plan felt like a financial gamble. When you book, everyone gets it or no one does. That’s a lot of money to potentially watch two kids not eat. We later found out there’s pizza available every night and that we could have added just my husband — the uncomplicated eater — on his own. Good to know for next time.

The campsite itself is surprisingly well thought out. There are BBQs, a microwave, ice packs to keep your cooler cold, and a very small general store — maybe 20 to 50 items total — but stocked with solid options. They even had Annie’s gluten-free mac and cheese, which felt like someone had quietly considered people like me. I spoke with the head chef at one point and he was genuinely kind and completely willing to accommodate gluten-free requests. The staff overall were present, helpful, and warm in a way that makes a big difference when you’re managing a family in an unfamiliar setting.

Once we settled in, the pace shifted.

White’s Landing offers paddleboards, kayaks, and all the typical water activities, but we kept it simple and swam. We brought life jackets and snorkel gear, and the kids had the best time. California snorkeling is not Caribbean snorkeling. The water isn’t crystal-clear turquoise; it’s darker, greener, sometimes murky. We have kelp forests here — one of the few places in the world that does — which are incredible in their own way. The fish aren’t neon tropical; they blend into the water in muted tones. But then you’ll spot a bright orange Garibaldi, our state fish, and it feels like a little surprise against the darker backdrop.

We also brought our underwater drone, which is a special interest of both my husband’s and my son’s. They launched it right off the dock and could have stayed there all afternoon. That kind of hyperfocus — calm, regulated, fully engaged — is one of the reasons we travel the way we do. When something connects, it really connects.

We attempted a hike, which in theory felt grounding and wholesome. In reality, I forgot my sneakers in my effort to pack and organize everyone else, so I hiked in flip-flops. It didn’t last long. My son complained most of the way, and this is where anxiety shows up for him. Travel doesn’t erase discomfort. It doesn’t magically smooth rigidity or make every activity exciting just because the scenery is beautiful. There are still transitions. There’s still uncertainty. There are still moments where I think, “Why do I even bother doing this?”

And then there are the other moments.

One morning, before anyone else at the campsite was awake, the kids and I walked down to the beach chairs in pajamas — sneakers for them, sandals for me — and watched the sun come up over the ocean. The entire place was quiet. No boats moving. No voices. No agenda. Just soft light and still water.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t some cinematic parenting triumph. It was just quiet.

And in that quiet, I remembered exactly why we bother.

Because it’s never about everything going smoothly. It’s about those small pockets of connection — the regulated moments, the shared experiences, the simplicity we have to intentionally create in a world that is anything but simple.

That’s Catalina for us.

Messy arrival. Strong opinions about boats. A husband swimming ashore. Flip-flop hiking. Kelp forests. And one quiet sunrise that made it all worth it.