The table on Mission Beach: A story left behind
That morning in Mission Beach felt like the kind of August day people imagine when they picture the California lifestyle: sunlight already spilling over the boardwalk, the ocean breathing in slow, rhythmic waves, and the air carrying that salty mix of sunscreen, fresh coffee, and waffle cones from the ice cream stands that never seem to close. I was just starting my walk when I spotted it: an empty table, right at the edge where the boardwalk meets the sand. On it sat an oversized pair of sunglasses, the kind that made you think of movie stars, and a half-empty iced tea cup, the straw wrapper curled into a little paper ribbon.
You don’t just stumble on an open table with an ocean view at Mission Beach in mid-August. This was prime real estate for people-watching, for soaking in the parade of surfers jogging by with boards under their arms, for catching the breeze off the Pacific. Someone had been here, someone who clearly knew how to claim a perfect spot—and then just… left. The scene was so perfect it felt like it belonged in an art shop as wall art, a tiny moment frozen forever.
It turned out that someone's name was Lola. Lola was on a San Diego girls’ trip with three of her closest friends: one from college, one from her first job, and one she’d known since childhood. The kind of friendships that have weathered distance, time, and life changes, but still feel like slipping into your favorite sweatshirt.
Their day had started with sunrise yoga on the sand, then coffee from a local spot they’d heard about on a travel blog. After that, they rented cruiser bikes and made their way up the coast, stopping to watch surfers carve lines into the waves.
The sunglasses, oh, those sunglasses. Lola had taken them off, set them beside her iced tea while leaning across to point out a pelican gliding low over the water. Then they all got caught up in deciding what to do next.
It wasn’t until late afternoon, standing in a tiny boutique in Ocean Beach with her hands full of beachy rings, that Lola reached for her sunglasses and felt her stomach drop. “My glasses on the table,” she said, her voice sharp with realization. The image came back instantly: the tea, the sun, the curve of the table’s edge. Her friends froze for a moment, then reassured her; it was too late to turn back now. The day was full, and the boardwalk was busy.
They were vintage, a rare find from a tiny shop Lola had stumbled upon in Barcelona two summers ago. She’d been wandering alone through winding streets when she saw them in a window, tried them on, and knew instantly they were hers. They weren’t just an accessory; they were part of her travel stories, worn in every summer photo since.
Yet when I passed by that table again hours later, after the heat had softened into the kind of gold light that photographers chase, the sunglasses were still there. No one had touched them. No waiter had cleared them. The iced tea was now lukewarm, the ice melted into pale green water. It was as if the beach itself had decided to protect them, holding them in place until their owner returned.
Hours later, after a swim and a slow stroll past the volleyball courts and snack shacks, I walked by again. The air had cooled, and the boardwalk glowed in pinks and corals. The sunglasses caught the light perfectly, their lenses reflecting the ocean in miniature, like they were still part of someone’s journey even in their stillness. That’s the thing about travel memories, they’re not always the big postcard moments. Sometimes they’re in the in-betweens. A half-empty iced tea. A pair of sunglasses catching the sunset. The sound of skateboard wheels rattling on the boardwalk. A warm breeze on your skin. Little pieces of a place that you can carry with you, whether you’ve been there before or you’re still dreaming of it.
I imagined Lola somewhere in the city, sipping wine with her friends, the story of the lost sunglasses becoming just another piece of their day; a funny, bittersweet detail that would be retold for years.
The table’s probably been cleared by now, the sunglasses claimed, the iced tea tossed. But the feeling? That’s the part that stays. And in my work, it always will.
