Trolling for treasures

I read somewhere that one of Johnny Carson’s wives nabbed him by walking back and forth on the beach in front of his Malibu house in a bikini.

I decided to try it and see if I could land a generic gazillionaire.

I selected a secluded, little-known beach in one of the priciest sections of Malibu. I purchased a Calvin Klein bikini (in “steel,” to match my nerves). I decided to troll once a week. I selected a weekday, because I figured if a guy was around his house on a Wednesday, he probably didn’t have to work. I would bring my Newfoundland, Auggie, the only dog of his breed who is afraid to swim. I find that endearing, and men usually do too.

To get to my selected beach, you have to walk through a nature preserve, down a long flight of stairs and across a big field of rocks. But it is worth it, because it is a pristine, nearly empty stretch of sand. There often are seals and dolphins about. I soon realized that it is also a prime surfing spot. The surfers almost distracted me from my mission. Tall, lean and muscular, with sea-salt-bleached hair, they epitomized California male beauty. But I digress.

The beach is at the base of a tall cliff lined with gazillion-dollar homes. Most have private staircases leading to the sand. So I plopped myself at the base of one of the staircases and waited.

I didn’t have to wait long. On the third Wednesday, a gent came down the stairs with his little fluffy dog, sat next to me and started chit-chatting. He was of indeterminate middle age, middle height and middle weight. “I just got back from Hawaii. I spend about half the year there,” he told me. “What do you do there?” I asked. “I have interests,” he said. That sounded promising.

“Do you surf?” he asked me. “No,” I said.

“Do you want to learn?” he asked. “No,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked. “The water’s too cold,” I said.

“You could borrow a wetsuit; I’ve got some right there in the boathouse,” he said, motioning behind him. “You could pick a surfboard too.”

I had a vision of him standing behind me on a surfboard with his arms wrapped around me to steady me. Ugh. “No thanks,” I said.

What was I doing? What about the plan?

My new pal decided to surf. I could not help but compare him to the bronze gods already in the water. He did not compare favorably.

A couple of hours later he rejoined me on the beach. “I think I’ll go,” I said. “Do you want to use my private staircase, so you won’t have to walk across the rocks?” he asked. “Sure,” I said.

Halfway up the staircase he showed me his guest quarters, built into the side of the cliff, with its own private patio surrounded by scarlet bougainvillea and an unobstructed view of the ocean. At the top of the staircase, outside his palatial home, he asked, “Would you like something to drink?”

“No,” I said. Did I just say that?

“Would you like a drive to your car?” he asked.

“No,” I said, and Auggie and I beat a hasty retreat.

Munching a fish taco at the La Salsa on PCH, tossing tortilla chips into Auggie’s mouth, I went over my day. I had success in my hand and I balked. Why? Because he was a little old, a little gray and a little pudgy in the middle. I just couldn’t.

I guess I’m too shallow to be a gold-digger.

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Samantha Bonar can be reached via e-mail at samantha.bonar@latimes.com.