It’s a Holiday of Sand, Surf and All the Trimmings

On a 62-acre patch of grassy oceanfront, Southern Californians celebrated Thanksgiving as only they can.

Turkeys were smoked over campfires and pies baked two at a time in an RV oven. What ingredients couldn’t be found in the mobile spice rack were available from the next tent.

“That’s how you meet people. You run over and say, ‘Can I borrow a can opener?’ ” said Teresa Carnt, 38, of Indio, surrounded by a dozen relatives barbecuing poultry and stirring dressing on a camp stove.

Every year, the late November holiday means sold-out campsites at Doheny State Beach, one of the most popular in California’s park system. Snowbirds arrive from the East Coast, as do people who live year-round in motor homes. And generations of families return each Thanksgiving to set out their customary earth-tone plastic “linens” and melted crayon candles.

This marked the 21st Thanksgiving that Carol Gutierrez of Ontario spent on the sands of Doheny. Gutierrez, 50, who trains guide dogs for the disabled, staked out two campsites for 25 relatives ranging in age from 3 months to 76 years.

Three playpens, three strollers and four generations, said the family matriarch, Jean Weddle of Pomona. As she talked about the long Thanksgiving tradition of sun and turkey and charcoal, her grandchildren and children and some new friends set the table--a rubbery yellow cloth held down by a giant pumpkin centerpiece.

“I’m not the only matriarch here, though,” Weddle said, not wanting to hog the spotlight. “Mary Garmen is the other one. But she’s down on the beach sunbathing.”

For 30 years, Barbara Throckmorton has spent her holiday at Doheny. A Cal State Fullerton psychology professor, she has a November break from classes, allowing her to camp all week in her 35-foot RV and cook in her kitchen on wheels--stocked with a full-size refrigerator and pull-out wine closet.

“Oh, I do at least 10 pies,” the North Carolina native said in a soft Southern accent while sealing her creations in giant plastic bags. “I can only do a few at a time because you can only cook so much in an RV oven. I do some of the side dishes ahead. Then I get up really early that morning, cook some bacon and eggs, so it smells up the place real good. We pretty much eat whenever the turkey is done.”

Her guest list changes but always includes Kenny Chambers, 77, beloved host at the visitor center and a year-round Doheny fixture.

“I’ve got it made,” said Chambers, who makes the rounds of all the campers but, in the end, usually pulls up his beach chair at Throckmorton’s table, where he says the pies are legendary.

“Wonderful people, wonderful campers,” Chambers said. He gave his full stomach a pat. “My gosh, lady, you ought to see the food, the pies, the cakes, the turkey. Why do you think I can’t tie my own shoes afterward?”

Somehow the unorthodox crowd in flip-flops strung along the hazy shoreline Thursday captured the holiday’s spirit of thankfulness: for blessings, for health crises averted, for good times and good food--even if the stuffing was a bit sandy.

Throckmorton and other campers had plenty to be thankful for. Throckmorton has survived two bouts with cancer. Carnt’s diabetic husband is awaiting pancreas and kidney transplants and is feeling hopeful.

In all, Throckmorton hosted six guests this year, who dined on a flowery vinyl tablecloth strapped to a weathered seaside picnic table--one of 33 in the park. To one side was a lagoon full of shore birds, straight ahead were sailboats against the bright horizon, and to the other side was the rocky south point of a once-legendary surf spot.

It had taken Throckmorton hours of speed dialing exactly seven months ago to get this spot. Veterans of the holiday camp-out know the drill: Call the toll-free reservations service employed by most of the state’s 268 parks and hope you get in. Doheny is in demand year-round, but park rangers say that other campgrounds--like San Clemente State Beach’s--were also full on Thanksgiving.

She had steered her lumbering camper south Tuesday morning and spent the rest of the day baking. Throckmorton, 50-something, finished her pies by the end of that day.

Her Thursday began when she put the bird on the smoker at 4:30 a.m. and crawled back into her queen-size bed for another couple hours of sleep.

By noon, she had boiled her Southern green beans with salt pork, and finished her stuffing and creamed potatoes, all of which she spread across a fold-up table. Only the candied yams were not perfectly browned; her RV oven had broken down.

Until Thanksgiving afternoon arrives, Throckmorton never knows how many guests she will have. There are usually some stragglers: students orphaned for the holiday and drop-ins from other campsites.

As her daughter, Brandy, set the table and her grandsons, ages 9 and 15, tossed a football with other children on the beach, Throckmorton said she wouldn’t dream of celebrating the holiday any other way.

“Think about it,” Throckmorton said, adjusting her visor with a smile. “You always have enough room. The kids love to come to the beach. I never worry about my grandkids tearing up my house.”