And here's the sell from Sothebys: The Cotton Estate
gained national prominence when, in 1927, it was featured in
Architectural Digest. In 1970, the home would again appear in the
magazine, this time featured as the cover photo and described as
"The Western White House," highlighting the importance of its
second owner, then-President Richard M. Nixon. La Casa Pacifica
rests on one of Southern California's largest and most scenic
sections of coastal residential real estate. It comprises two
parcels totaling 5.45 acres, and the site features 450 lineal feet
of beachfront. The entire compound sits behind private walls and
fences. The property is mostly flat with a garden that gently
slopes seaward. The natural elevation is ideally suited to maintain
privacy and enhance the sweeping ocean, island, and sunset views.
The beach is easily accessible from La Casa Pacifica's private
gate. The primary design language is a romantic interpretation of
Spanish Colonial Revival architecture. The gleaming white
structures provide a perfect canvas for the vibrant colors and
textures of the gardens, paving, and tile work. The period
craftsmanship of La Casa Pacifica is superb—there are
one-of-a-kind, hand-painted ceramic murals and tiles throughout the
property, as well as original installations comprising patterned
ceramic tiles characteristic of early California, Spanish, and
Moorish designs. There is approximately 15,000 square feet among
all the structures on the property, including a main residence of
approximately 9,000 square feet; a pavilion, with a grand main
room, bar, guest suite, and den; a two-bedroom guest house; pool
and pool terrace; a lighted tennis court; a gazebo on the bluff;
expansive lawns, formal and cutting gardens, vegetable and
succulent gardens—many with exotic specimens; a greenhouse;
multiple garages; a catering facility with separate entrance; a
separate staff building with multiple garages, four staff
residences with separate access; security annexes; as well as a
private well for landscaping water. | Photo: Sothebys International
Real Estate
Want to own a house that's the shortest of walks to
the Hurley Pro? Buy here!
The Hurley Pro, as you know, is tuning up at the
wave called Lowers, which is at the south end of
the surf arena called Trestles. Further north is Uppers and
even further around is the deep-water wave Cottons. Mostly, it
ain’t much but in a big south-south-west swell and a light east
wind? Oowee, she can boil.
If you’ve surfed there, you might’ve seen glimpses of the grand
Spanish-style mansion called La Casa Pacifica that was
owned by the American president Richard Nixon from 1969 until 1980.
Located at 4100 Calle Isabella San Clemente, Nixon bought if off
the original owner Hamilton H. Cotton’s widow and used it as a
presidential hideaway, until he split back to New Jersey.
It’s a helluva spread. Almost six acres of beachfront land. And,
today, you can own it for $US69 million which is a full six million
dollars less than it was one year ago.
The sprawling 5.45-acre compound occupies an ocean bluff in
a gated enclave. While the 37th U.S. president lived there he
replaced an existing tennis court with a swimming pool and built a
1,500-foot-long wall to enclose the property.
The California Colonial Revival main house, built in 1926,
spans about 9,000 square feet with tile and hardwood flooring,
arched doorways and detailed groin-vaulted ceilings. Many of the
main rooms open to a center courtyard with a tiled
fountain.
Among other features is an ocean-view office used by
Nixon and an entertainment pavilion. Including a two-bedroom
guesthouse, staff residences and offices, there are about 15,000
square feet of living space, nine bedrooms, nine full bathrooms, a
three-quarter bathroom and four powder rooms.
A greenhouse, a pool, a tennis court, formal gardens and
expanses of lawn complete the grounds. Views take in Santa Catalina
Island, the open water and the coastline.
World leaders to have visited the property have included
former Japanese Premier Eisaku Sato, former South Vietnamese
President Nguyen Van Thieu and former Soviet leader Leonid
Brezhnev.
Crooner Frank Sinatra, actor John Wayne and the Rev. Billy
Graham also made the guest list.
The property was priced at $75 million last year but was
taken off the market after three months.
The seller of the oceanfront estate is former Allergan
Pharmaceuticals Chief Executive Gavin S. Herbert, who bought the
property from Nixon in the 1980s.
The third instalment of JJF’s series,
Twelve, dropped today. Like everything
featuring Double John, it’s good.
Can’t call this one great. Smacks of filler. Too much about
Brazil, too much about Fiji. I’ve seen those waves. Know what
happened. And John John doesn’t do a great job shedding light in
his voice-overs. Because he’s too well adjusted.
For which his mother deserves some sort of Parent of the
Millenium award. Raising three boys on the North Shore without a
single one turning into a tweaked out scumbag is damn
impressive.
Tolstoy said it. “All happy families are alike; each unhappy
family is unhappy in its own way.”
It’s our struggles that make us unique. Interesting. I know what
happened, John. Please, tell us how you feel at your worst!
I have been confused why they’ve titled it,
Twelve. Only seven segments. Just figured it out.
Because they’re filming it over a year. Twelve months. Am I
right?
Part three isn’t bad, unless you compare it to parts one and
two. They were magnificent, this is merely pretty good. I suppose
it’s due to the nature of the format. Film and edit installments as
you go, sometimes life slows down. Nothing to be done about
that.
I am surprised that John John doesn’t hire a team of bodyguards
while he’s in Brazil. Those crowds are terrifying. When he’s
signing autographs next to a fenced off crowd of screaming lunatics
I half expected a knife to slither out and stab him in the neck.
He’s pretty damn famous now. Enough so that you just know he’s
gotta have at least one crazed stalker with a shrine in the living
room and a plan to shed his blood.
As per usual with most surf clips, I could have done with a
fraction of the lifestyle shots. But that’s old, jaded, Rory
talking. Teenage Rory would’ve eaten it up with a spoon. It’s the
type of stuff that sells the dream. The notion that it’s all fun
and games. That near non-stop traveling and competing doesn’t, at
least occasionally, turn into a soul crushing grind.
I’m calling this a weak moment in what’s been, thus far, an
amazing series. I’m looking forward to number four in October
almost as much as I look forward to absolutely anything featuring
Mason Ho.
I am not a horse track man, generally. It ain’t
that I don’t like the pomp and circumstance, that I don’t like to
throw away money, that I don’t like livin on a prayer. It’s just…
just… I don’t know. Maybe I should be a horse track man.
Only four-ish days ago I went and sat in the turf club, suited,
drinking mojitos, winning some. I can’t bet anything other that for
the win because I believe betting for the place or the show is
spineless. I only care for winners.
Also, I have no idea how to box or pick exactas or trifectas or
etc. because I am not bright.
Do you know what I know, though?
Professional surfing!
And I had the most wonderful thought while I sat in the turf
club, suited, drinking mojitos. What if professional surfing
treated itself exactly like horse racing?
What if the bettors could go, before a heat, and look at the
surfers standing on sand. Really study their physiques etc. Does
Jordy have a little bigger beer belly than yesterday? Does Filipe
Toledo have a touch of cowardice in his eye? Kelly. Does Kelly
appear motivated or confused?
What if a horn announced the surfers going into the water? A
crisp, clear bugle call? And off they paddle! Six at a time,
though, not two because we need to box and pick exactas and
trifectas etc.
What if there were claiming heats wherein the winning bettor
could purchase a surfer for $20,000 or so dollars? Would you claim
Brett Simpson? He is very handsome and a wise choice but what would
you have him do? Could he sleep inside or would you keep him in the
garage with your bicycles?
What if the World Surf League launched a closed circuit TVG
style thing wherein people around the globe could sit in smokey
rooms and bet the same as those sitting on the beach?
What if when a surfer got hurt, maybe a knee pop or a dislocated
shoulder, a vet would attend to him and if the injury was very
severe would set up a tent around the surfer’s body and euthanize
him or her on the spot?
What if surfers had to wear silks instead of wetsuits and their
weights posted in the Surfing Forum alongside their stance and
record?
Oh I think this may be the best idea I’ve ever had and could
lead directly into the glorious future WSL CEO Paul Speaker
prophesied a year and a half ago when he looked at the newsman and
said, “For sure. Surfing will be bigger than footall. Duh.”
A hot whisper suggests that the World Surf League
is trying to undermine Hurley. Shall we investigate?
As co-proprietor of your
beloved BeachGrit it should come as no surprise that
rumors come in fast and furious.
Bam!
Bam!
Kelly Slater is a chemtrail?
Bam!
New wavepool for San Clemente?
Bam!
Sometimes their veracity is worth chasing. Worth spending the
time, energy and resources to dig for underlying truths. Mostly it
is not and do you want to know why? Because 7 times out of 10 the
rumor is true and the other 3 times it is funny!
And lets nibble a fresh one! It has been suggested by a
tremendously good, tremendously inside source that Hurley, your
second favorite eponymous surf brand after Mayhem, that exactly
zero dollars has been spend marketing the upcoming Hurley Pro.
Zero by the World Surf League. Zero, as mandated by the World
Surf League, by Hurley.
Allegedly!
No marketing!
And I kind of believe it because I have not been served one pop
up ad whilst shopping for Christian Louboutin smoking slippers
online, I have not seen one print ad (in the Los Angeles
Times) and I have not seen one billboard or streetlight
signage even in San Clemente.
Furthermore, the same tremendously handsome source has also
suggested that the entire contest will be run in the double, or
overlapping, heat format.
Purportedly!
But why? And the only thing I can imagine is that the WSL is
aggravated by Hurley for some reason.
Maybe WSL CEO Paul Speaker thinks it is rude for your third
favorite eponymous brand, after Mayhem and Maui and Sons, to
simply squat on the mainland USA’s only Championship Tour surf
contest without caring about his bigger, fabulous, 24 billion
people picture?
Maybe the WSL is trying to flex its muscle and force Hurley’s
parent company (Nike) into doing a major spend, becoming title
sponsor of the whole deal like it is title sponsor of professional
skateboarding’s Street League? Like, an all or nothing kind of
play?
Maybe WSL CEO Paul Speaker has Graham Stapelberg in the wings
really begging and pleading to be the sponsor and is thus making it
very uncomfortable for your fourth favorite eponymous surf brand,
after Mayhem, Maui and Sons and Stubbies, to wring any value
out?
“Please…” Graham implores WSL CEO Paul Speaker while on his
knees “…please my lord. Give me the Trestles contest. If it is
mine, if it is the Graham Stapelberg Pro, then nobody will ever
slap me again. I will be all-powerful! I will be the Graham
Stapelberg Pro!”
Maybe?
Who knows but guess who’s not going to dig any further?
Was not expecting that. Figured I’d never hear from her again.
Slowly forget her name and face. She’d eventually be remembered
only as that-one-girl-from-Nicaragua.
Turns out she’s been reading your beloved BeachGrit,
wants to add her own take on the situation. I get a kick out of the
idea. Between her and the wife I’m becoming some sort of writer
pimp. Getting together a stable, putting them to work for me. The
wife’ll be bottom bitch. Keep the others in line.
Probably not the most lucrative form of flesh-peddling.
“Bitch, where’s my money at?”
“Oh, Daddy! You know I be workin’. Look at all this exposure I
got for you!”
“What’s this HuffPo bullshit, ho? You know exposure ain’t gonna
pay no fuckin’ bills!”
“I’m sorry, Daddy! It’s just so hard to find paying work.”
“Don’t give me that shit! Now get your ass back out on the
street and get submittin’! Don’t make me slap a ho!”
What a life that’d be. A man can only dream.
Anyway, here’s what she sent me. I’m sure some of you will find
yet another installment rather tedious, but I think it’s
interesting how three people shared the same situation while taking
away vastly different experiences.
(I should also probably add, the wife is not a fan of the “for
her age” comment. Which, I think, is a fair reaction. Even if it is
technically true. She’s got a killer pair of tits for any age, but
most especially for someone in her early thirties.)
Rory, how are you and how are things back home? I went on your
Facebook a few weeks ago, after I got back from surfing north of
Gigante to send you a message saying thanks for letting me tag
along on your holiday and to tell you that I think you and (Rory’s
Wife) are absolute legends.
Then I came across the beach grit article about the potential
threesome with me (which I found hilarious by the way) and then I
felt bad because a threesome never in fact happened and then I
thought I should explain why and I thought I’d try do it in an
article.
The article is below. Feel free to change the ending to include
the steamiest of threesome descriptions in history and post online
if you feel your readers need answers.
“I went to Gigante for a threesome and all I got was a
lousy beach grit tank.”
Sitting at microbrewery in San Juan. Their $4 craft beers burn
holes in my backpacker pockets but its oak bar top and range of
hops make me feel less like a salty drifter who has been on the
road for 8 months and more like a human. Worth every cordoba.
Men’s 50km walk is showing from Rio, my concentration is hooked
to the tv, naturally. In the ad break I look around, spot a white
middle aged couple to my left- man has tie dye shirt on and is
sweating profously, woman has extremely nice breasts for her age,
both chain smoking.
I make conversation. Man writes for surf magazine and is free
diving enthusiast, woman is lawyer and is passionate about the
legalisation of marijuana. Both live in Hawaii, both very cool.
They invite me to a seafood feast and I decline politley. They
insist and my body- which has been surviving on pasta and Natura’s
prepackaged sauce for the past month accepts.
We have a delightful night and (Rory’s Wife) wants to order more
food so she can package it and feed it to stray dogs- fucking
legend. I take them to the park where I think the dogs most in need
of fish croquttes and lobster are. They invite me to Playa Gigante,
(Rory’s Wife) says she needs a spa buddy whilst Rory goes spear
fishing. I ain’t got no plans so accept…and pray I ain’t getting
catfished.
No spear fishing for Rory but massage, nonetheless for (Rory’s
Wife) and myself. We are all getting along like a house on fire,
they discover I am a fan of Fleetwood Mac and give me a beach grit
tank.
One night I start to feel under the weather- high fever and my
body aches, didn’t surf that day because my kook mates working at
the surf camp ran their boat battery flat. It must be Zika. Rory
and (Rory’s Wife) take me back to the hotel, feed me codeine and
put on Rick and Morty- the parents I never had.
I feel better the next day. That night (Rory’s Wife) is
wing-manning so hard for Rory she deserves wife of the year
award.
Threesome is put on the table.
I have smoked copious amounts of cannabis with my kook mates at
surf camp and is no way as drunk as she. I contemplate the offer
and she sees it in my blazed eyes. Says offer is there for tomorrow
night.
Can I have a threesome with this lovely couple who have nursed
me to health and have shared multiple conversations about how using
water to clean residual feces is better than paper?
I think about it, perhaps too much and decide no. I roll a
consolation joint for them in the morning, say my goodbyes and head
north to catch the last days of good swell. I hope they meet a
young lass in the Granada and treats them with less kindness so a
threesome materialises.
NB: I really like my beach grit tank and where it every day.
