LIFE BEYOND FIRST CLASS
DEPARTURES
THE
PACIFIC FRAMED
Fresh from an extensive transformation, Surf & Sand Laguna Beach remains wonderfully focused on the thing that made this California original iconic in the first place: the Pacific. Here, the ocean appears through windows, beneath restaurant tables, outside bedroom doors and even in the art.
REBECCA ETORIA
Surf & Sand Laguna Beach fooled me at first. There is something delightfully nostalgic about arriving here. Low buildings, little shops, winding streets and occasional flashes of blue between rooftops create the impression of a California beach town that somehow escaped the temptation to become too polished for its own good. Coming from Arizona, I was already enjoying the cooler air when we made the turn into the resort.
The valet opened the door, and what happened next was not quite what I expected. Inside, the resort is bright and beautifully restrained, all white walls, warm woods and art, with the feeling of stepping into the beach house of a friend who happens to have exceptionally good taste. The check-in desk sits discreetly to the right while a long corridor extends ahead.
There was artwork to look at, but at first I barely saw it. At the end of the hallway, someone had seemingly framed the Pacific.
Waves were breaking against the shoreline below as a small formation of pelicans moved across the horizon. The breeze found its way indoors, carrying salt air and that particular freshness that feels almost medicinal after the dry heat of Arizona. What surprised me most was the color of the water. I have spent time along the California coast, from Santa Monica to Santa Barbara and Montecito, but on this afternoon Laguna looked different. Clearer. Brighter. In places, almost Caribbean.
I found myself wondering whether that particular blue was part of what had kept generations captivated by Surf & Sand Laguna Beach. Other arriving guests appeared equally transfixed. Phones came out, conversations paused and people simply stopped to look. Apparently, the Pacific understands the importance of a good entrance.
The property has recently undergone an extensive transformation, touching its guestrooms and suites as well as the lobby, pool, Bella Vista Terrace, Aquaterra Spa and its oceanfront restaurant, Splashes. At first glance, though, the property remains surprisingly unpretentious. The renovation has added polish without stripping away the ease that makes a beach resort feel like a beach resort. More importantly, the interiors seem to understand the extraordinary stretch of coastline outside. Nothing tries particularly hard to compete with it.
Once I finally pulled my attention from the ocean, I began noticing something else. Art is everywhere, but rather than feeling assembled simply to fill resort walls, much of it seems to continue the conversation happening outside the windows. Water, swimmers, light, movement and the California coast repeatedly find their way indoors.
Behind the front desk, Ran Ortner’s Element No. 44 captures the restless surface of the ocean in oil, while Eric Zener’s Exhale 2 takes the viewer beneath it, a swimmer suspended among bubbles and blue. Nemo Jantzen’s New Blue plays another trick on the eye. From a distance, the work resolves into the image of a woman in the sun; move closer and the portrait breaks apart into hundreds of individual photographs beneath glass and resin spheres. Outside, you look at the ocean. Inside, the artists invite you to look at it again.
I arrived earlier than expected, thanks to favorable winds and apparently no shortage of private flights willing to get me into John Wayne Airport. My room was not yet ready, which made lunch the obvious next move.
Splashes was busy. Very busy, in fact, and I quickly learned that a reservation is wise if you are set on dining in the restaurant. Mine was not until another day, so I headed toward Splashes Bar with the mild disappointment of someone who believes she has just received the consolation prize. It took only a few minutes to realize I had been wrong.
The room has the character of an elegant yacht, with rich woods, white surfaces and broad windows overlooking the water. Outside, waves crash just below. Inside, it is 1:16 on a Sunday afternoon, the bar is humming and Natalie Imbruglia’s Torn is playing somewhere in the background. Alberto is behind the bar and, within minutes, I have forgotten that I wanted a table at all.
There were a few available nearby, but occupying one intended for two or four when I was dining alone seemed unnecessary. Common courtesy has its rewards, because my seat at the illuminated onyx bar turned out to be exactly where I wanted to be. From there I could feel the breeze, hear the surf and watch the afternoon unfolding through the windows. I was also starving, which settled any lingering indecision about ordering lunch.
The octopus arrived with beautifully crisp edges, accompanied by petite potatoes and a fresh, slaw-like counterpoint. Grilled prawns and burrata followed, bright and wonderfully seasoned, with quinoa adding a delicate crunch. Everything tasted fresh and light, the sort of lunch that belongs beside the water rather than one that makes you want to retreat from the afternoon afterward.
Splashes has the advantage of feeling as much like a Surf & Sand Laguna Beach restaurant as a resort restaurant. Locals mingle easily with resort guests, and Executive Chef Ron Fougeray and his team draw on locally sourced ingredients and the flavors of sun-drenched California. There is restraint to the cooking, which feels appropriate here. When waves are breaking beneath the windows, lunch does not need additional theatrics.
Although there is some overhead. A Dale Chihuly glass installation created specifically for Splashes curls through the space in blue-green forms suggestive of the sea. It is exuberant without feeling out of place, glass seemingly caught somewhere between water and motion. By this point I was beginning to understand the visual language of the resort. The Pacific may be outside, but echoes of it keep finding their way in.
My failed attempt to get a restaurant table had turned into one of those travel moments that could never have been improved by planning it more carefully.
With time still left before my room was ready, I wandered toward Bella Vista Terrace. The resort is filled with small places that seem designed to catch you between intentions, a chair here, a terrace there, a window positioned precisely where the water becomes impossible to ignore. A little Veuve and some time with nowhere particular to be suddenly seemed like an excellent plan.
Nearby stands Tempest, a ten-foot wave sculpture by Surf & Sand Laguna Beach artist Jorg Dubin. Crafted in marine-grade stainless steel, its polished surface catches the sky, architecture and people moving around it, while a bed of blue and clear glass gathers at its base like sea foam. There is something wonderfully cheeky about placing an enormous sculptural wave within sight of the real ones. The artwork changes with the coastal light while the Pacific beyond it refuses to be upstaged.
Around me, resort life unfolded without much ceremony. Couples lingered over drinks, groups of women settled into conversations that appeared likely to require another round, and one teenager seemed perfectly content catching up on homework with the Pacific as a backdrop. Below us, younger and considerably braver people were trying to time the surf, running into the water, getting knocked backward and immediately trying again. Farther down the beach, surfers waited patiently for the right set.
Watching them, I had one of those fleeting ah, to be young again moments before deciding that my chair, my drink and my view were working out rather nicely. I was having an exceptionally good afternoon despite having accomplished almost nothing.
My refuge for the next few days was a Premium Oceanfront King Corner Studio, and here I will offer one piece of practical advice: request the corner. Glass wraps the room in sea and sky. From bed, the view stretches down the coastline, giving you the peculiar luxury of watching Surf & Sand Laguna Beach wake up without having to leave the covers. Creamy fabrics, pale upholstery, warm wood and softly tailored details create an interior quiet enough to allow the Pacific to remain the dominant presence. The private balcony feels almost suspended above the sand, and from certain angles there is very little between you and the horizon.
For all that openness, privacy is just as effortless. At the press of a button, automatic blinds descend across the glass, closing the room off from the outside world when you want it. It is one of those small design details that becomes increasingly appreciated the longer you stay.
There is a king bed, a generous soaking tub and every reason to settle in properly, but the problem with a room this well considered is how quickly it makes you rethink your own house. Within an hour, I was mentally redesigning my primary bedroom and bathroom in Arizona. Beautiful resorts have consequences.
I also discovered that the bed was dangerously comfortable. I normally work East Coast hours from Arizona, which means being awake before five in the morning is hardly unusual. Sleeping beyond five is. Yet here I did exactly that, and without the faintest sense of guilt. Part of the credit belonged to the Pacific.
Being this close to the shoreline means the waves are not some faint atmospheric soundtrack. They arrive with authority, collapsing onto the beach below, retreating and returning again. That first night, I wondered whether I had underestimated exactly how close I was to the water and whether the sound might keep me awake.
Instead, sometime between one wave and the next, I drifted off. What I had worried might be noise became a lullaby, and apparently an effective one.
The following day belonged partly to Aquaterra Spa, where Euridice guided me through the steam room, whirlpool, vibrating loungers and relaxation areas before I changed in the beautifully appointed locker room. Coconut water, lemon water and light bites were waiting nearby, small details that quietly encourage you to stop checking the time.
Then came my aromatherapy massage with Danielle, whose hands managed to leave me somewhere between deeply relaxed and temporarily incapable of remembering what I had intended to do afterward. Even here, the artwork follows the mood of the property. Katharine Burns’ Wave 1 brings the shoreline inside through oil on canvas, while works by Liz Jardine dissolve into softer passages of blue, white and botanical forms. Nothing shouts for attention. The spa does not need it.
I could easily imagine returning simply for the treatments, particularly knowing that memberships make Aquaterra as much a local ritual as a resort indulgence. Eventually I resurfaced and found myself back at Splashes Bar, where Tyler remembered me from the day before. Hospitality can be surprisingly complicated, yet sometimes it is as simple as someone recognizing you when you return. A cocktail seemed appropriate.
Another afternoon disappeared at the pool with equal ease. Book, swim, read, look at the Pacific, repeat. I appreciated that the pool feels like a collection of comfortable little retreats rather than a lineup of loungers waiting for someone to sell you a better seat. Eventually the swimming and sea air made me hungry again, and halibut tacos arrived fresh, bright and exactly right for the moment.
I did eventually manage to leave the resort. Downtown Surf & Sand Laguna Beach continued the surprise. Forest Avenue is the sort of street that encourages walking without requiring a plan. Galleries sit beside boutiques and restaurants, people wander rather than hurry, and I found myself drifting in and out of shops, including Faherty, without any particular destination in mind. What struck me was how clean and cared for everything felt. The pedestrian-friendly stretches, outdoor dining and the ocean views gave the town a polished quality without making it feel manicured for visitors.
That distinction mattered. Surf & Sand Laguna Beach felt luxurious without feeling manufactured.
It was also a useful reminder that Surf & Sand Laguna Beach’s sense of ease is not occurring in isolation. The resort belongs to a town with its own strong personality, one where art is not confined to galleries, the beach remains part of everyday life and people still seem inclined to linger outside rather than rush toward whatever comes next.
I returned to the resort for dinner at Splashes, finally taking the restaurant reservation I had been unable to secure on that first afternoon.
Now I understood why it fills.
The restaurant does not simply have an ocean view; it feels almost attached to the water itself. The sound of the surf settles beneath conversation, and the windows allow the changing light outside to alter the room as the evening progresses. Locals sit alongside resort guests, giving the restaurant an energy that is difficult for a resort dining room to manufacture.
Nobody rushed me, which may sound like a small thing until you realize how noticeable it has become in popular restaurants where an invisible clock seems to begin the second you sit down. At Splashes, my table felt like mine for the evening.
The lobster bisque tasted unmistakably of lobster rather than cream with a suggestion of seafood. Branzino followed, beautifully cooked and confident enough to remain uncomplicated. Then came crème brûlée.
I should disclose that I am something of a crème brûlée snob. The vessel matters. The depth matters. The temperature of the custard matters, and the sugar crust absolutely matters. It should crack properly beneath the spoon while the interior remains cool without feeling as though it has just been retrieved from the deepest corner of a refrigerator. This one got it right. Proper dish, proper depth, proper crust. Restaurants, take note.
By then, the Pacific beyond the glass had turned dark. The restaurant remained full, conversations continued around me and yet, for a little while, the stretch of ocean outside felt strangely private.
There is a deal that is new here. Its transformation has refreshed the guestrooms, restaurants, spa, pool, terraces and arrival experience, while its art collection brings internationally recognized names into conversation with artists closely connected to Surf & Sand Laguna Beach and Southern California.
Those are the things one can list. They are not necessarily the things one remembers.
What stayed with me was that first walk through the lobby, when I ignored the art because the Pacific caught me first, followed by the realization that the art had been pointing me back toward the water all along. I remember Alberto turning the table I couldn’t get into the seat I wouldn’t have traded. Jorg Dubin’s steel wave reflecting the world around it. A teenager doing homework on Bella Vista Terrace. Young people joyfully throwing themselves into the surf while I watched from the considerably safer position of shore.
I remember Tyler recognizing me, Danielle’s magical hands, pelicans crossing my balcony view and the satisfying crack of a properly made crème brûlée. I remember wandering Forest Avenue with nowhere I particularly needed to be. And I remember waking later than I had in ages, hearing the waves outside and immediately knowing exactly where I was.
Luxury travel increasingly arrives with an itinerary. There is always an experience to reserve, something private to arrange, another restaurant to reach and somewhere else we are told we simply must be. Sometimes we become so occupied with experiencing a destination that we barely give ourselves time to inhabit it.
Surf & Sand Laguna Beach reminded me of another kind of luxury: finding somewhere beautiful enough that, for once, you stop making plans. Open the balcony doors. Order something wonderful. Look at the art, then look beyond it toward the Pacific. And stay awhile.
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