The history of the Malibu Coast is dominated by an unending battle between those who want to preserve it for themselves and those who want to preserve it for all. Drive by on the Pacific Coast Highway, and you see high walls guarding the sanded gentry.

One gorgeous morning, to get a better look at what all the fuss is about, I hiked the freshly carved 2.5-mile Corral Canyon Trail, through hills frosted with pink bush mallow, to a bluff overlooking Corral Canyon/Dan Blocker State Beach.

Below, cars zoomed up and down the highway, tracing a long sweep of sand edged with white foam. In the distance Point Dume jutted into the blue expanse, forming a horseshoe bay that shelters Paradise Cove and the longest sweep of untrammeled beach left in Los Angeles County for a beachcomber to stroll upon. To the south a celebrity's palm-shaded citadel sat on a bluff overlooking the famed Malibu Colony, with commanding views of Santa Monica Bay and the city skyline.

I snagged a picnic table at the nearby Malibu Seafood Café and was busy wolfing down an ahi burger and watching a pod of dolphins cavort just beyond the wave surge when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

"May we join you?" asked a woman in a floppy sun hat and oversized shades.

"Sure," I said.

The skin on her face was taut. Her plastic surgeon must have had a sense of humor, because her lips were plumped in the center and carved into a permanent smile.

"They just opened up a coastal access to my beach," she said to her companion. "For years we've been fighting, but they finally won." She sighed.

"Really? Who are they?" her friend asked.

"Busybodies--people who are jealous of us."

I kept my peace. The "busybodies" she was referring to are a plethora of environmental groups and public agencies that include Heal the Bay, the Coastal Conservancy, and Access for All. The new coastal access is by the house of David Geffen, co-founder of DreamWorks studio. Back in 1983 he agreed to allow a path to the beach in exchange for permits to build his home on Pacific Coast Highway at Carbon Beach. It took 22 years, including three years of litigation, to get him to keep his word to the pesky public.

The public trust doctrine holds that the shores of the sea are common to all mankind. The California Coastal Act of 1976 was passed to make sure the public can reach those shores. In Malibu, the understanding between landowners and visitors is that anyone may enjoy the beach up to the mean high tide line (as required by law), but that sand above that line--the definition of which is elusive and has been subject to much litigation--belongs to those paying millions of dollars to live on the shore. What is not commonly known is that there are easements along the beach that allow the public to stretch out on dry sand and relax without the threat of being washed away. Malibu homeowners have repeatedly been required to remove "No Trespassing" signs put up in an attempt to keep the public off that sand.

Getting up to go, I said to the two women: "I enjoyed sharing my table with you. I think I'll check out my new beach." It was my pleasure.

Malibu turf battles go way back. Feisty Mae Rindge, who owned most of Malibu in the early 1900s, till her death in 1941, tried to stop the Southern Pacific Railroad from laying track through prime coastal land. An obscure law stated that only one railroad could operate in an area, so she built her own, the Hueneme, Malibu, and Port Los Angeles Railway, to deliver her cattle to the pier she built. It operated until the 1920s. Now its route is mostly developed.

The Rindges' daughter and son-in-law built the Adamson House, a Moorish-influenced mansion that sits on a 13-acre property beside Malibu Lagoon. It is now a National Historic Site, open to the public, as are its lush gardens. Today platoons of pelicans fly low in a V-wedge over the lagoon, stopping to rest as they travel the Pacific Flyway between Alaska and Mexico. Children squeal at the shore while parents chatter in a cacophony of international accents and surfers sift in and out of cresting waves.

On the way home I stopped at the new coastal accessway, midway between Topanga and Malibu Canyons, and discovered a long strand of powdery white sand. I took a solitary stroll on the beach lined with shoulder-to-shoulder upscale homes. Listening to the waves, I remembered what the Chumash called the village that existed on this shore: "Where the surf speaks loudly."

Linda Ballou is a freelance writer who lives in Sherman Oaks.