Half a century ago, Californians saved the coast. Will Trump threats spark another uprising?

Los Angeles Times

08-03-2025

In 1972, thousands of Californians came together in what was a defining moment in state history. They were united by fears that the spectacular coast was in danger of becoming overdeveloped, heavily industrialized, ecologically diminished and irreversibly privatized.
Rue Furch, a Sonoma State University student, signed on as a volunteer for Proposition 20, which called for a commission to 'preserve, protect, restore, and enhance the environment and ecology of the coastal zone.'
'I was just one of the worker bees, and it felt great to be doing something positive,' said Furch, whose role was 'collecting signatures and holding signs and showing up to rallies.'
In Sacramento, a young legislative assistant named Sam Farr (who would later become a U.S. congressman), helped organize a coastal bike ride, led by state Sen. Jim Mills, that galvanized Proposition 20 support and drew hordes of reporters as cyclists pedaled from Land's End in San Francisco to Balboa Park in San Diego.
'The highway patrol kind of designed the route,' said Farr, who recalled that cyclists camped at state parks along the way and dined on food donated by supporters of the rolling 'save our coast' call to arms.
In Los Angeles, teams of young environmentalists sabotaged dozens of campaign billboards, hung by the opposition, which originally said,'The Beach Belongs to You – Don't Lock it Up. Vote No on Proposition No. 20.' The activists painted the word 'Yes' over the word 'No.'
So why am I telling you this a half-century later?
Because voter-approved Proposition 20 led to the 1976 California Coastal Act and the creation of the Coastal Commission, which is now under threat like never before, targeted by the Trump administration, federal legislation and other critics.
In a January visit to Los Angeles after the devastating wildfires, Trump said the Coastal Commission is 'considered the most difficult in the entire country' and said when it comes to rebuilding, 'we are not going to let them get away with their antics.'
If that seems personal, it is. Trump, who bought a Ranch Palos Verdes golf course at a discounted price in 2002, after the 18th hole fell into the ocean, has had disputes with the Coastal Commission over waterfalls on the property and a 70-foot tall flagpole erected without a permit.
In February, Trump special missions envoy Ric Grenell painted a bullseye on the coastal commission, saying that fire relief assistance could be held up if California doesn't bow to the administration's wishes. He called the Coastal Commission 'an unelected group of people who are crazy woke left' and said that 'putting strings on them to get rid of the California Coastal Commission is going to make California better.'
To be clear, the commissioners are selected by elected people, which is often how commissions work. And speaking of powerful unelected people, the name Elon Musk comes to mind, and Trump's Oval Office playmate has his own beef with the Coastal Commission. Musk's SpaceX company sued the commission last fall after commissioners rejected a bid to increase the number of rocket launches from the U.S. military's Vandenberg Space Force Base near Lompoc.
Military officials have said in support of SpaceX that they'd like to increase the number of launches from a handful to as many as 100 annually. The commission argued that most of the launches are for private interests rather than for military purposes, and that sonic booms and environmental impacts are a problem.
And it might be wise to hold off on increased launches following Thursday's explosion of a SpaceX craft that ripped apart after takeoff from Texas. A shower of debris led to the grounding of flights at several Florida airports, and this was the second such SpaceX disaster in seven weeks. At the very least, SpaceX employees — just like federal employees targeted by Musk — should get memos asking what they had done in the seven days prior to each crash to justify keeping their jobs.
To be fair, the Coastal Commission staff and its commissioners are not beyond reproach, nor have commissioners always served with honor, so scrutiny and pushback ought to be part of the process. Nearly a decade ago, my Times colleagues and I examined the ways in which wealthy property owners and developers used lawyers, lobbyists and political connections in attempting to influence commission decision-making.
In the case of the recent SpaceX case, commissioners made bone-headed political comments about Musk in rejecting the bid for more launches, naively handing him lawsuit fodder.
And the commission — which is made up of more than 100 staff members and 12 voting commissioners — has a history of irritating property owners and even governors with painfully long reviews of applications (caused, in part, by decades of under-staffing) for everything from new coastal construction to property improvements of various types.
Several recent bills by Democratic legislators have tried (with limited success) to chip away at agency authority and clear the way for more housing, and Gov. Gavin Newsom recently signed an executive order limiting commission oversight in the interest of speeding up rebuilding in the Palisades fire zone.
Republicans, meanwhile just want to tear it all apart. On March 5, U.S. Rep. Kevin Kiley (R-Rocklin) called for stripping the commission of its power, saying the agency is 'out of control and has veered from its purpose of protecting the coast.'
Susan Jordan of the nonprofit California Coastal Protection Network, quickly sized up what that would mean.
'This is like the federal government putting a big for-sale sign on the California coast,' she said. 'It basically takes away the state's ability to comment on and provide feedback on projects … It's like an open invitation to oil drilling, to any commercial venture, to liquefied natural gas terminals.'
There's a reason that has not already happened, and it has a lot to do with that movement that began in 1972 (the story has been captured in a new documentary on the people who were determined to save the coast).
There's a reason that as you travel the coast, you see all those roadside beach access signs.
There's a reason that when beachfront property owners put up illegal 'private property' signs or otherwise attempt to drive away those who have a right to enjoy the beach, they're cited and fined.
There's a reason the 1,100-mile natural wonder that stretches from the Oregon border to the Mexico border does not, for the most part, resemble the blighted, overdeveloped coasts of other states.
There's a reason any and all development proposals are exhaustively reviewed, with the perils of sea level rise in mind, and in the interest of protecting marine and shore habitats.
The reason is the California Coastal Act of 1976, a people-inspired, legislatively approved framework that guides state and local governments on the use of land and water in the coastal zone, and embodies the idea that this natural wonder is not owned by anybody, but by everybody, and that it must be treated — with careful, unwavering stewardship — like the public treasure that it is.
The first director of the agency, the late and legendary Peter Douglas, recognized that there would always be threats to the commission and to the shore.
It's why he said:
'The coast is what it is because a lot of people worked really hard and sacrificed to protect it. And if we want it to be there for our children, we have to keep fighting to protect it. In that way, the coast is never saved, it's always being saved.'
If it takes another bike ride, I'm ready to roll.
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