"When our family went camping over the weekend at the beach near the mouth of the Santa Ana River, it was a spontaneous affair agreed upon by neighbors and relatives with families like ours. We would overload our touring cars (Our Model "T" Ford had fake doors that required the passengers to climb over them) and after a 2 hour drive, park on the sandy shoulder of the beach highway, spread blankets on the sand and unload enough firewood to have a late into the night weeny and marshmallow roast interrupted by frequent dips in the surf, sand castle construction and explorations yielding sea shells to show off in Monday's classroom.

"Around the river mouth inland, under the highway bridge at low tide that foggy morning we saw a man digging for clams, so we got our little pails and shovels and learned soon how to locate a clam, that the clams were wary of us predators and retreated deep in their wet sand holes if not approached with stealth. We each soon had our pails of razor clams to show off at our still sleepy campsite where my mother explained her suspicion that the river water was contaminated and the month of August did not have an "R" in it."