Happening Now
Where the turf meets the surf sounds like a slogan until you are standing in the grandstand on a clear afternoon, watching the Pacific break behind the backstretch while the field comes around the turn.
Bing Crosby helped start this back in the thirties, and the compressed summer meet has kept its own strange culture ever since. Serious handicappers doing math in the clubhouse. Families on picnic blankets out in the infield. The Friday crowd that came for the fashion and could not name a single horse. The Saturday concert crowd that arrives after the last race for a completely different evening on the same grounds. All of them on one property, mostly ignoring each other, all of them correct.
General admission costs almost nothing, the Coaster stops next door, and the turf course is among the finest in the country.
Take somebody who has never bet two dollars in their life. Watch them pick a horse by its name and then scream themselves hoarse.