Perhaps it would be a sudden squall, thrusting the waves against the wall of rock and then upward 20 to 30 feet in the air like a geyser of water shot from a whale's blowhole. Homer waited, ''wearing out the balcony,'' his brothers would say, for that often unfortunate, yet very real conflict. Although two houses now obstruct the view to the east, the scene to the west and straight ahead to the south have changed little since Homer's presence on these shores. The exclusive home of his father and oldest brother, Charles, called the Ark, still stands to the right of the studio. Juniper trees, planted by Winslow, slope down from his backyard to the moors, eventually reaching the ubiquitous Maine gray rock that lines most of the Neck's shoreline, detritus that remains from a glacier retreating more than 10,000 years ago.
Geologists call it a drowned coastline.
Then there's the great expanse of ocean where, in the distance, a mile or two out to sea, stand Bluff and Stratten islands. I chose to visit Prouts Neck in autumn, a time that Winslow Homer cherished and produced his greatest work. The halcyon days of summer, when the sun beat down on the calm waters of the Atlantic, had very little appeal to him. He would often work well into November and December, the time of year when waves come crashing out of the ocean to hurl themselves against the cliffs. It is these wrenching yet very real images of Prouts Neck that set the groundwork for Homer's best works.