A young girl was chasing behind her father at Katase Higashihama Beach

I hadn’t necessarily been beckoned by the arrival of summer, yet here I was, having drifted almost aimlessly to Enoshima in Kanagawa Prefecture. As I traversed the bridge connecting the mainland to the island, a glance to the side revealed a beach teeming with more life than I had anticipated. The beach huts were open for business, and the air seemed to be reclaiming its long-lost clamor. Across the Katase Higashihama shoreline, people were scattered in moderate clusters—a density that, to the average beachgoer, likely represented the sweet spot of comfort and atmosphere.

Not that it mattered to me. I hadn’t come for the exhausting ritual of swimming. My intent was a simple, rambling stroll through the island’s interior; I had no business with the beach and its punishing glare. Ignoring the distant shrieks of joy from the water’s edge, I continued my silent trek across the bridge.

It was during this steady march that I noticed a shift in the seaside landscape. In the summers of my memory, a day at the beach meant spreading a thin, flimsy plastic mat over the scorching sand. But the scene below me was fundamentally different. Colorful little tents were pitched everywhere like scattered confetti.

A bit of research reveals that sea bathing first gained popularity in Japan during the Meiji era as "shio-toji"—a form of hydrotherapy for medicinal purposes. Yet, the modern beach has undergone a complete metamorphosis. These structures, it seems, are called "beach tents." Logically, they make sense; they provide a sanctuary from the relentless sun on a shadeless shore and offer a private space for changing.

But even as I acknowledged their utility, a sense of dissonance lingered. If one’s inclination is to retreat into a cramped, stuffy tent, wouldn’t it be far more sensible to remain in the climate-controlled sanctuary of one's own living room? The very concept of lugging a tent to the ocean was foreign to me—an idea that had never occupied even a corner of my mind. It seems that even in the most primitive of pastimes—submerging one's nearly naked body in saltwater—technology and convenience continue to evolve in ways I had never bothered to imagine.