My vacation last week was a working vacation -- you know, working around the house and yard. But it was better than the low-cost getaway I took last year. That one taught me to beware of callers bearing gifts.

The call woke me on a Saturday morning. Ordinarily, I resent being awakened on my day off. But the caller was making an offer that sounded so good I couldn't refuse.

How would we like to spend two nights at a beautiful, brand-new seaside resort on the Central Coast for only $79 -- for both nights?

A one-bedroom suite would be ours, with full kitchen, microwave oven and coffeemaker, color television and whirlpool tub, a short walk from the beach. All just a few leisurely hours' drive up the coast.

I needed a getaway. The offer was only good Sundays through Thursdays, but who cared? I had some time off coming, and my boyfriend worked Saturdays anyway.

The resort company would throw in a coupon for dinner for two at a romantic restaurant on the wharf. All we had to do was attend a 90-minute presentation on the glorious benefits of vacationing at the resort. Then enjoy!

We selected a Sunday and Monday in April. Springtime can be the sunniest time of the year on California's beaches.

The drive was lovely. The sun was bright; the breeze, mild. We stopped for coffee in Santa Barbara and for strawberries at a roadside stand.

Mid-afternoon, we left Highway 101 and navigated a curving road through a rustic canyon. When we rounded the last curve into sun-kissed Avila Beach, my spirits soared. In my imagination, we were on the Italian Riviera.

We checked in and headed for the beach. But what was this? The beach was fenced off. Excavation equipment sat behind a fence across the concrete boardwalk. A sign warned that as of the next morning, the beach would be closed -- for contamination cleanup.

The woman on the phone had neglected to mention that an oil pipeline under the town for 30 years had leaked, and now the sand had to be dug up and cleaned. The shops and restaurants on the once-charming boardwalk had been demolished to make way for the cleanup.

That night, the locals had a last bonfire on the beach, to celebrate and to mourn.

At 6:45 Monday morning, we were awakened by the beep-beep-beeping of heavy trucks -- and you know how I feel about being awakened on my day off. At 7 a.m. the wall-shuddering clang of the pile-driver began.

The noise echoed from the hills around the idyllic, little bay as we ate breakfast on the balcony. We learned that it would continue all day. So much for our peaceful getaway. We fled to nearby San Luis Obispo, only returning at 4:30 p.m for the obligatory presentation.

The equipment was silent at last.

The "resort" was a timeshare. You probably figured that out.

A gangly, middle-aged salesman walked us around the grounds. When we reached a vantage point above the bay, he motioned at the tranquil scene and said, "So what do you think?"

Lovely, we said, all except for . . . that little problem.

What problem, he wanted to know.

Oh, you know, the heavy equipment roaring all day for the next who-knows-how-many months, to be followed by construction equipment while the shops and restaurants are rebuilt.

Oh that, he said, brushing it aside like a cookie crumb off the sales table. If you buy in now, think how much your timeshare will be worth once Avila Beach is rebuilt, he said. We didn't think we had that kind of time or money.

He spent another 15 minutes trying to brush aside our objections, then said something to this effect: "Look, it's late in the day. You're my last appointment. Let's not waste each other's time. Just tell me if you're not going to buy a timeshare, and I'll give you your dinner coupon and we can get out of here."

We rewarded his honesty with our own, accepted the coupon and left. Dinner was fine. The "resort getaway" -- not.

Cassie MacDuff's column appears Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. She can be reached by e-mail at cmacduff@pe.com or by phone at (909) 890-4448.

Published 2/8/2000