Somewhere in California, north of Bodega Bay, a small weathered beach house perches precariously on a sixty foot cliff overlooking a restless sea below. Two massive tectonic plates grind together here, forming the San Andreas Fault. I'm fascinated by knowing that the other half of the mountains where I was born - 400 miles to the south - are here, carried north over billions of years by the movement of the fault.

This is one of the most primal and treacherous places I know. The surf is unpredicatable and deadly, sweeping dozens to their deaths. The cliffs can give way without warning. A few yards to our right is a small shrine, handmade crosses and faded plastic flowers clinging to the side of the drop. We're not sure who died here or how, but we can imagine their cries in the wind.

You’d think it would be stressful here, sitting on the edge of the earth, but this is where we come to relax. We feel more alive in this place than anywhere else, lounging on the deck (the half that didn’t fall into the ocean) while sipping local wines. We’re hypnotized by the action of the waves below. Watching water wear away ancient stone, one wave at a time, is like watching the passage of time. Comforting in its slowness, unsettling in its inevitability.

This gap bisects what was once solid rock. When a wave comes in, the water rushes through it, under ever-increasing pressure as the channel narrows. A large wave can submerge the rocks completely, while a strong backwash can suck all the water out of the channel, exposing plants and mussels.. Starfish are abundant elsewhere, but not in the gap. The current is too strong for them.

There are few places I can taste, smell, and hear as I paint. This primeval place, where water and earth meet endless skies above and the restless earth below, is one of them.