The first night, though, brings a shock. Having judged the grinding note of the refrigerator a little too insistent, I leap from the pullout to embrace the white monster and wheedle it away from the wall to get at the socket. Blessed silence rings through the room once I unplug. But not five minutes later the ringing of the bells at hell's gate breaks in, and a blaring reedy horn: the Surfliner, a train that passes right by the beach—hence right by us. The boys sleep straight through, and, after the first night, so do we.

The thrill and challenge of surfing keeps the boys focused. One jumps up off the beach while waiting for Bob to finish with the other, and sprints into the foam screaming, "Is it my turn? Is it my turn?" Waves, sand, a big yellow board, balance, speed—all irresistible to a boy. Plus, we don't mind their watching TV in the morning because later there'll be concentrated physical activity. While they soak up Jimmy Neutron and SpongeBob, we lounge in bed sipping Papuan coffee from a local store.

Most of the town, where we shop, is inland, away from the surf scene. The supermanicured suburbia is fascinating. Up the main street, stores offer essentials like giant candles, decanters, Danish throws, and family acupuncture. In gleaming glossy Southern California, every car seems to have had a morning rinse, and even the sidewalks shine. You can feel the portfolios rising like dough all over town.

We consider an excursion. The options are: SeaWorld, the San Diego Zoo, the Wild Animal Park, and Legoland. Each sets a family of four back around $200. The boys, with rare unanimity, plead for Legoland, and there's a twinge of guilt in my chest as I drive us to the more educational SeaWorld, trying to drum up enthusiasm for Shamu, its famous killer whale. But fate plays a joke: terrible traffic on the freeway. After a half hour, the first exit we creep up to happens to be Legoland's. We give in, and the boys give us that signal joy of witnessing their extreme delight in the plastic pleasure land.

When we leave San Clemente for home, we all half-wonder if we don't want to move here: surely a sign of a good holiday.