I live ten miles from the most expensive golf course on the planet. It’s a 260-acre property with 18 fairways, situated on the Palos Verdes Bluffs that overlook the Pacific Ocean. The view, as you might imagine, is straight from a Renaissance painting. But look past the pastel colors and you start to take notice of the creeping shadows.

In 1999, an ancient landslide sent the 17th and 18th fairways into the ocean. Geologists said it was to be expected. The bluffs rest on a 15-million-year-old layer of bentonite, a kind of pressurized clay that swells and contracts with the groundwater. It’s not the most intuitive place to build a golf course, let alone a home, but that hasn’t deterred local residents. Granted, they can afford to pay the annual millions to maintain the dewatering wells that drain 300 gallons daily. Some might say it’s a small price for the view.

When I’m coasting along on Palos Verdes Drive South, taking in the view of Catalina in the distance, the homes don’t make a bit of difference to my view. It’s not the homes that bother me, but the owners. Someone needs to tell them that coastal erosion doesn’t end when you renovate. From my experience, pretty buildings often belie shaky foundations.

There’s a touch of irony to the fact that the 1999 landslide that bankrupted the then Ocean Trails Golf Club gave way to what is now the Donald Trump National Golf Club. I wonder if I ought to restrain my exasperation—what’s the point? The 18 fairways will ride their course and, someday, slip soundlessly into the Pacific. When that happens, the developers will just pick up their things and a hammer will hit a nail somewhere off in the distance.