W hen people hear “California,” two things immediately come to mind.

The first is the beach. The Golden State is blessed with miles and miles of coastline, some of it dramatic and rocky, some sandy and luxurious.

The beach looms so large in the culture of the state — you know what I mean: surfing, Beach Boys, Malibu, Muscle Beach — that it often crowds out the other thing that people immediately associate with the state.

It only makes sense, then, that California’s biggest asset, the beach, is a victim of its biggest liability: the rat’s nest of regulations, codes, laws, and commissions that form the state government.

So despite the fact that I lived within 500 yards of Venice Beach and Santa Monica Bay, one of the largest metropolitan beaches in the world, when I wanted to take my dog to the beach, I needed to drive about 45 minutes south to Huntington Beach, where state and local officials have designated a tiny strip of sand as a dog beach.

I was happy to do it because, in the first place, my dog was a Labrador retriever and was born to race along the sand and dive into the water. And in the second, if you let your dog run anywhere else in the area, you were looking at a $450 fine.

She loved it. She would begin her symphony of frantic whining and backseat pacing pretty much the second we turned onto Seal Beach Boulevard. She knew the way, of course. True to her breed, all she really wanted to do for the rest of her life was have me flip a tennis ball into the ocean and watch as she dove in, paddling furiously, to retrieve it.

Which I was happy to do because, let's face it: You don’t get that many opportunities in life to make another living creature deeply happy with so little effort on your part.

I had a plastic tennis ball-tosser kind of deal, so the ball could get as drooly and sandy as it liked. The arch of the plastic tosser thing was flexible, so with minimal effort, I could fling it pretty far out there, over the cresting waves for sure, and give my dog a serious challenge.

She'd dive into the water, bodysurf back to shore, take the occasional wave head-on and do a flip — it was quite a thing to see. Many times, other folks on the beach would stop what they were doing to watch in awe.

Often, they would compliment me.

"Thank you," I’d reply.

As if I had anything to do with it.

She did all the work, she's the one who got wet and cold and winded, she took the waves, she did the dives, she did everything.

All I did was watch, and when someone threw a compliment her way, I would offer my thanks like it was a compliment in my direction.

In entertainment industry terms, I was the executive producer of a dog at the beach. I merely provided the ride and a minimal amount of physical energy but took all the praise.

In political terms, I was the Cabinet secretary, the senator, the committee chairman — hell, the president — of a dog at the beach.

Occasionally there would be signs in the parking lot directing dog beach users to a small table where we could sign a petition to support the beach. “Let’s THANK the Coastal Commission for Providing this AMAZING resource!” the handwritten sign would say, and we would all dutifully sign the petition, giving credit to a faceless bureaucracy for regulating the state coastline and generously, kindly allowing us an inconveniently located sliver to use to keep our dogs healthy and happy.

“Great beach!” we’d say.

“You’re welcome,” they’d say.

It’s often that way. When you're cold and wet and swimming against the current, there's always someone dry and relaxed on the shore taking the credit.

And at the end of the day, when you're snoozing in the back seat after a daylong workout, there's always someone in the front seat, usually a producer or a politician, talking about how exhausting it all is and how lucky you are to have them in charge.

Rob Long is a television writer and producer and the co-founder of Ricochet.com.