Somewhere about 40 minutes north of SF on highway 1 is an other-worldly small chapel, plucked and dropped suddenly next to the highway in the middle of a grassy field.

The chapel was built by a stonemason, architect, woodworker, and tile-layer–I think it was one person–and it was an expression of his or her love for the sea. the place is resplendent with curved, asymmetrical lines of constantly changing waves, blues and greys of its depths in all seasons, satiny polish of wood tossed about in rough and fickle surf, and unyielding edges of stone which have been the demise of so many foolish enough to disrespect its power and grace.

Words are inadequate to describe the way I felt sitting inside the chapel. peaceful, awestruck, overwhelmed, and illuminated all at the same time. And these pictures really don’t describe the beauty of this place. you should really just go and see it with your own two eyes, hands, and ears, you’ll know what I mean.

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