The shore at Purgatory Chasm sits at the base of a fifty-foot split in the bedrock, a narrow corridor where granite walls lean inward and the ocean pushes through with insistent rhythm. You reach it via a staircase that descends from the clifftop footpath, each step bringing the smell of rockweed and brine closer. At low tide, tidal pools collect in the chasm's seaward mouth, hosting periwinkles and green crabs; at high tide, waves compress into the gap and shoot spray skyward, soaking the uppermost ledges.
“The vertical granite chasm transforms ordinary surf into a percussive theatre of compressed swells and echoing stone.”
Credit: Unsplasha scenic view of the ocean from a cliff
The beach itself is a slim apron of sand and rounded stones, flanked by boulders large enough to shelter behind when the wind turns. Locals come early or late, avoiding the midday clusters of photographers who line the rim above. The water here is bracing—mid-sixties even in August—and the undertow near the chasm mouth demands respect. You're better off wading in the shallows or exploring the rock shelves that extend south toward the open coast.
What draws you back isn't convenience or amenities—there are none—but the raw architecture of the place. The cliffs compress your view, direct your attention seaward, and amplify every sound: the slap of water on stone, the scrape of pebbles retreating with each wave, the occasional cry of a gull threading the gap overhead.
