It all started early on the morning of the Fourth of July.

I went down to the beach to set up chairs and tent so we could enjoy sand and surf and all the things we fought the British for — OK, we didn't fight the British for this particular beach, but let's not get historical.

Once, in a simpler time, I would have set them up when we arrived (a couple of days ago) and would not have moved them till we left (a week or so from now). But a few years back, some people — recent arrivals, mostly — began spreading the word that our tents and chairs hindered endangered sea turtles from coming ashore and laying their eggs. The federal government (your government and mine) got involved, and county officials, feeling the pressure, passed "Remove it or lose it," which authorized authorities to confiscate stuff left on the beach overnight.

So they confiscated.

And folks got mad.

So county officials, always sensitive to public opinion, started calling the ordinance "Leave No Trace," apparently hoping that a softer name would turn away wrath.

It didn't.

Instead, the angry folks told county officials that the deep tracks in the sand made by the big trucks they sent out to collect the stuff were a greater hazard to the turtles than the stuff that was collected.

And they put pictures in the newspaper to prove it.

Red-faced county officials, who were already spending a bugoodle of money enforcing the ordinance, then spent a bugoodle more on something the big truck could drag behind to smooth out the sand.

Meanwhile, folks like us — who could not keep up with what was legal and what wasn't — began picking up our stuff every night and dragging it inland to the dune line, where no turtle treads. Then the next day, by dawn's early light, we'd drag it back to the beach.

That's what I had just finished doing on the Fourth of July when my neighbor hollered over to tell me that he had read in the newspaper that county officials had once again revised the stuff-on-the-beach regulations. So, naturally, I rushed to get a copy. Sure enough, right there it was: "Walton officials will warn people about items left on beach before they are removed."

The article went on to explain what seems to me a reasonable approach to the problem, which I won't go into now because it is no fun to read about government being reasonable.

But what really caught my eye was the announcement that in addition to revising the regulations, the Walton County Tourist Development Council will employ a "Beach Ambassador" who will wander the beaches and "talk to beach goers about the 'Leave No Trace' law as well as beach rules and safety."

Whoa, I thought, someone could get into a lot of trouble wandering along the beach, approaching half-naked young women and announcing, "I'm here to tell you how to 'leave no trace.' "

How you gonna keep them from getting whopped upside the head?

Why, give them a uniform, one that would identify them as an "Ambassador" authorized to approach half-naked young women and talk to them on such a subject.

But what? What could and should be worn to identify someone as the sorta passionate person willing to inconvenience everyone else for the sake of nesting turtles? Someone who would take it as their duty to go out and tell the less passionate what they should do to conform to the rules the more passionate got passed?

And what could be seen at a distance to warn the less passionate to get into the water and avoid the lecture?

During the day, while others celebrated our nation's independence, I pondered this, and with input from cousin Benny this is what we decided:

A "Beach Ambassador" should wear: Black Ban-Lon socks. Sandals. Plaid Bermuda shorts, double-knit, white belt. Knit shirt, avocado. Panama hat. Zinc oxide on the nose.

No way to mistake them for what they are not.

"Ambassadors" should also affect a Yankee accent, which would give them the necessary "I have all the answers and what anyone else thinks really doesn't matter" persona that helped pass these rules and regulations in the first place.

But right off I saw a problem.

Instead of the job going to some local guy or gal who really needs it but will have to be trained to carry it out, the post of "Beach Ambassador" would go to one of those snowbirds who come down in winter when the Panhandle is warmer than Michigan and cheaper than Miami. They've already got the uniform and the accent.

And, when hired, they would stay here year-round instead of leaving when the snow melts back home.

Maybe I won't suggest a uniform after all.

Harvey H. ("Hardy") Jackson is Eminent Scholar in History at Jacksonville State University and a columnist and editorial writer for The Star. E-mail: hjackson@jsu.edu.