The wind is howling from the north. All along the pathway down the south cliffs, painters have set up camp. The rock scouped against our backs is like a reflector oven. I feel almost, but not quite, warm.
The rocks have arranged themselves wonderfully for my painting. A fog drifts in, shifting the colors to violets and greens. I capture the color notes in the fog, ignoring the brightening colors when it burns away.

In the afternoon, I join my friend Carol on the sand. We both paint the scupted sand cliffs above us. The sands are so full of color, from soft blue-grays to deep rust. The sand is everywhere, in my equipment, in my palette, and embedded in my painting. Evidence that it was painted en plein air.