CAMPING IN : The meaning of RV existence proves elusive, but careful observation does yield some tips for those considering the lifestyle.

They call it the easy life. First they load down the recreational vehicle, then they brave the freeways, shoulder their way into a spot by the sea, and stake out territory for their lawn chairs. And then, before the horseshoes or the fishing, they settle back to see who their new neighbors are.

They have thousands of them, wedged into scores of concrete-floored campgrounds all along the California coastline. They are the RV people, and Ventura County and its neighbors have their share or more, from Leo Carrillo State Beach, just south of the county line, to Carpinteria State Beach, just north.

“It’s camaraderie,” explained Foy Bach, a semi-retired housing inspector who had forsaken Studio City for Emma Wood State Beach.

Staring out to sea, standing by his 32-foot Pace Arrow, sipping a martini in a plastic cup (extra olive juice), Bach radiated satisfaction. Yet at home in the San Fernando Valley, he conceded, “our closest neighbors would be about 40 feet away. Here it’s what, five feet?”

The enthusiasm of such folk remains a mystery to those who look for solitude and silence in their holidays. But last year, manufacturers shipped more than 43,500 towable recreational vehicles, customized vans and motor homes to dealers in California.

“We see less and less tent camping,” said Ventura County Parks Manager Andy Oshita, referring to the county’s Faria, Hobson and Emma Wood campgrounds. “When I started working here in 1976, it used to be about 30% RVs and 70% tent camping. Now it’s turned around. Sixty-five percent now is RVs.”

A week and a half ago, as Memorial Day ushered in the summer camping season, Ventura County Life went looking for the meaning of RV life during the long weekend. We never found it. But we did pick up a few tips for those considering it.

Friday afternoon on the Rincon Parkway: The RVs stood in a long, single-file line, 100-some vehicles. Blue vans, avocado green campers, Tioga wagons and Komfort Lite trailers. Their eaves flipped out, their antennas popped up and their American flags snapped smartly in the wind.

In the compact comfort of their 22-foot “micro-mini-motor home,” Shirlee and Ron Zahnter of Chatsworth were discussing portable satellite dishes, such as the one on their roof.

“There are places where you go camping that you can’t get reception,” she said. “With this, you can.”

“Anywhere in the U.S., Canada and Mexico,” he said. “As long as you don’t go too far down into Mexico.”

Tip 1: Trust in technology.

The cost of this kind of portable satellite dish is around $1,200, and as it happened, the Zahnters had satellite dish brochures and business cards on board.

Since his retirement from the aerospace manufacturing business a year and a half ago, he explained, the two have been wandering the state in their RV, selling dish systems and hand-carved decorative hummingbirds they make themselves. (Since sales aren’t allowed at the state beach, he said, he and his wife were showing merchandise only.)

As for their campsite, said Ron Zahnter, “there’s nothing like having the ocean for your porch. People don’t bother you unless you want them to.”

Unlike wilderness campers with tents and backpacks, he said, RV people can lock up their belongings overnight. And unlike other trailer parks like Emma Wood State Beach, he said, the Rincon Parkway allows every vehicle an ocean frontage.

“If you’re in a trailer park,” he scoffed, “everybody’s parked side to side, and there’s no view. You’re on some dirt pad.”

To Emma Wood State Beach, then.

There, from the lip of his dirt pad, off-duty Alhambra firefighter Mike Riach, 23, stood club in hand, thwacking golf balls into that great water hazard, the Pacific.

Tip 2: If life gives you dirt pads, make tee shots .

Three berths south in campsite 53, Clyde Argo, a 58-year-old cabinet-maker, was rustling up some firewood. His Doberman puppy, Nikki, meanwhile, was nipping at the nose of a stray child.

“Get down,” said Argo. “Stay down, Nikki.”

Argo drove from Simi Valley on two days ahead of the standard weekend crunch, his 29-foot “fifth-wheel” camper behind him. His wife, Dolores, was along, as was Nikki, and the full campground group expanded to include their grown sons, Tom and Dave. They had faithfully followed Tip No. 1--the camper was outfitted with microwave oven, television and videocassette player--and overlooked Tip No. 2. But they may have been preoccupied by their devotion to. . . .

Tip 3: Remain calm at all times.

The senior Argo was asked his agenda for the weekend.

“Pitching horseshoes,” he said. “And drinking beer.”

But that wouldn’t start for a little while. Right now, there were a few logs to toss in the fire ring. And son Tom, sprawled out in the camper, had a few more pages of his paperback to read.

“All the comforts of home,” said Tom Argo, pausing to cast his eyes about the well-appointed cabin.

Outside, the campsite was busy with traffic--on wheels, on feet, on paws. Yes, conceded the elder Argo, the crowds are hard to ignore.

“But this isn’t as bad as Carpinteria,” he said. “It’s like a parking lot up there. They get them lined up, and they don’t give you any space at all.”

To Carpinteria, then.

Just north of the Santa Barbara County line, Carpinteria State Beach sprawls, fumes, bustles and resounds with activity on every holiday weekend. The ocean and the freeway are at hand, as are more than 260 campsites. Among them, 162 are for RVs.

At campsites 43 and 44 on this particular Friday evening, 15 campers had united--nine children, six adults--from points south such as Studio City and Burbank. But these were not RV people. These were tent-camping people accustomed to more rustic surroundings.

“The reason we’re here?” asked 42-year-old property manager Craig Dennis. “We couldn’t get in anywhere else.”

Tip 4: Do not expose yourself to an RV experience if you have no RV.

Chili and franks simmered on their Coleman propane stove, and the banter flew fast and furious. Bob Dylan, 50, was playing on the stereo. Dylan Niven, age 17 months, was playing in the trampled dirt between his father’s legs. No one spoke the words “Big Chill.” No one needed to.

“We’ve never camped here before,” said Susan Niven, mother of the younger Dylan. “The kids keep asking, ‘Where’s the forest?’ ”

“Basically,” said Lloyd Niven, Dylan’s dad and a 41-year-old carpenter, “it’s all Kerry’s fault.”

He was referring to Kerry Dennis, wife of Craig, tosser of the salad, mother of two nearby children, one shrieking, one playing with a fork. She had made the reservations. Now she interrupted her chores for a moment.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s my fault.”

Tip 5: If anything goes wrong, blame Kerry Dennis.