Landscape unravels as the path bends through the pines. Golden light caresses mounds of sand, sprawling across the landscape, populated by small shrubs and hardy foliage. Gorgeous weather. A bit cold, despite the sun. Walkers surrounded by packs of dogs leisurely meander along the trampled path. In places, steps have eroded, where locals have made new paths around the hazardous obstacles. Beyond the sand hills, dogs and greenery, the roar of the ocean can be heard, it’s violent and tumultuous waters churning with unknowable force. That roar, it pulls. Up to the nearest peak. From here, the whole world seems visible. Heart racing. Edge of the cliff. Soft sandstone that could crumble at any given moment without a second of warning.

Northward, the beach stretches linearly until it disappears abruptly over the horizon. Similarly to the south. Due west, however, there is nothing but the mighty Pacific. An unconquerable, uncomprehensible force of nature. Late afternoon light, warm, illuminating. Below, wave upon wave rolls in. Masses of saltwater that run parallel with the beach for miles; untapped energy dissipating into the atmosphere. Wading in the shallows, a flock of sanderlings move in concert with each other, the ocean dictating their feeding habits. Beaks in the sand, they search for unseen invertebrates in the wet sand. A large wave breaks, flooding their hunting grounds. Flock divided. Their precise, uniform movements are overshadowed by an urgency. Priorities shift from feeding to reuniting. A second surge, water laps at the group again. Bomboras of the set. The water recedes, and slowly, cautiously, the birds regroup. Together again. The hunt resumes.

South along the cliff faces, higher views through beachside bush. Trunk and limbs twist and bend, creating a passageway over the path. Sunlight flickers momentarily through sage green leaves. Dappled through the netting of branches that block out the sky. Sweet, woody aroma envelopes the body. Ahead, break in the trees gives way to a small sandy crevice which slopes precariously to the edge. Wildflowers run up its steep sides. It is the plant life that gives the area it’s shape, its structure. Networks of roots running through the sand and earth, holding these monumental cliffs in awful suspense above the beach two hundred feet below. Decrepit remains of the military base along the clifftop prove the danger of clearing too much of the flora. Massive slabs of concrete and rebar lie forgotten along the beach, the hubris of humankind’s military might. Obsolete gunner’s towers ripped in two by the sheer force of gravity, once-proud remnants above patiently awaiting their own inevitable demise.

Songbirds sing from within the scrub, their melodies drowned by the roar of the ocean. Gust of wind blows through the small chasm. Blue expanse above is speckled with black streaks; crows playfully dart around in groups of two or three. Leisurely relaxing, wingspan fully extended, comfortably sitting in updrafts, propelling them high above the clifftops, until caught in a crosswind, gilding back down to land amongst the colourful mesh of the Carpobrotus chilensis (Chilean sea fig). The succulent lines the embanked cliffs, bright pink flowers sprouting from bright green. Perched patiently, a crow waits for a companion, who swoops in, magnificent, sunlight catching the tips of feathers on outstretched wings. For a moment, they sit there, together amongst the scrub, observing the world, miniscule below. Anticipating the next current. Gracefully leaping into it when it comes, thrust away somewhere down the beach, out of sight. Days spent riding winds.

Seaspray flicks high in the air; a golden haze of foam blows off the choppy peaks. Far offshore, black neoprene dapples the horizon. Surfers perched, facing west, facing the surely setting sun. Light glistens, reflecting off wet hair, off ocean swell. Awaiting the perfect break, or at least one worth fighting the current back out to such depths. Game of patience. One set after another swelling beneath fibreglass boards. Judging the perfect moment to strike. Suddenly, movement. One surfer, rotating towards shore, starts paddling, going bat out of hell as a wave creeps forwards. A mistimed effort, the wave fails to break timely and lifts its passenger momentarily. The surfer, undefeated but unimpressed, turns and attempts to regain the ground lost to the Pacific. Down the break, a second surfer strikes, paddling, hands on rails, pushing up into a crouched stance. Manoeuvring the board across the face of the wave, applying bodyweight forward, backwards, a constant fight to remain in control. Wave breaks evenly, foam and seaspray churning as the daredevil braves its steepening incline. Energy propels the surfer towards shore. From the clifftop, the figure carves silently, elegantly through the ocean, only dismounting the board into the frothing sea as the wave’s energy disperses and flattens. Pair of huskies wading playfully in the shadows, suddenly aware of the new figure, stand attentive One looks over its shoulder, its owner trailing along the beach, basking in the surprising warmth of the winter sun. The surfer offers a friendly wave towards the pair, remounts and begins the slow paddle out to go again. No better way to spend an afternoon.

Afternoon gives way to evening. A promise of summer hangs heavy in the air. Clear afternoon skies, the cool, relaxing ocean breeze. Warmth of the sun on the neck. Yet as the sun sinks lower in the sky, it starts to disappear prematurely. Invisible band of clouds hangs across the sky, a false horizon. Winter not quite over yet. The clouds seem to be moving, gradually pushing towards land. Fog. Within moments, the sun has disappeared. Evening has a different atmosphere without it. Cool breeze begins to feel like a cold wind. Heading slowly down the hill towards Skyline Boulevard, evening gives way to night. Blankets of fog race down the hillside, encompassing everything within the vicinity. Thirty seconds pass, and the boulevard below cannot be made out. Only indication it still remains in place is a pair of red taillights, fading softly into the distance. A quiet night in the fog.