Gularte and I worked back and forth across our interconnected plots of sand, rolling over the state beach area without stopping, as the state guards didn’t much appreciate the beach patrol’s existence much less the mostly reserve officers that manned it.

“It’s a turf thing,” Gularte commented, after I said a few uncomplimentary words about the state guard force. “The Highway Patrol gets bored when there’s nobody on the freeway coming through town on week nights so they enter San Clemente and patrol the bars and stuff in order to have something to do and justify their existence.”

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