Native tribes called the Sonoma Coast the “place of churning waters.” The mighty Pacific never stops splashing, crashing, snaking into fissures, wearing away cliffs, grinding rocks into stones, stones into pebbles, pebbles into sand. But the force that parts the seas and moves the waters comes from the wind, which propels the seasonal explosion of life known as Upwelling.

With the surging ocean as a Hollywood-worthy backdrop, I pantomime the invisible drama unfolding beneath the waves for visitors at the Bodega Marine Laboratory and Reserve.

“Imagine a snow plow,” I say, thrusting my docent binder in my outstretched arms and marching from north to south. “The fierce winds scrape off the surface water. In what is known as the Coriolis Effect, the spinning of the earth pushes this layer west, away from the shore.”

Then, something nearly magical unfolds. Dark, cold water, rich with nutrients from the decomposed remains of countless creatures, “upwells” from the deep, ferrying the chemical building blocks of life toward the sun’s light. Through the miracle of photosynthesis, phytoplankton—the ocean’s microscopic version of terrestrial grasses—bloom. Their vast numbers nourish zooplankton, tiny marine organisms such as fish larvae and crustaceans.

Together they set the table for what I think of as the great Pacific floating food feast. Shrimp-like krill, a favorite of gray, humpback and other baleen whales, spread in clouds of liquid confetti. Anchovies, sardines and small fish abound, attracting hungry grazers and hunters of all shapes, sizes  and dietary preferences that migrate from distant shores to share in the bounty.

Although it occurs in many oceans, seasonal Upwelling  dominates in only four regions: the waters along the Western coasts of North America, South America, South Africa and the Canary Islands. These zones make up just one percent of the ocean’s area but rank among the richest, most biodiverse ecosystems on the planet.

From Point Arena to Big Sur on the California coast, Upwelling typically begins in late Spring and peaks in the alleged summer months before waning in early Fall. I used to grumble about the raging winds, bone-chilling cold and relentless fog. Then a persistent marine heat wave and potent El Niño dampened the Upwelling, triggering a cascade of deadly consequences.

Without upwelled nutrients, phytoplankton and zooplankton didn’t propagate in their usual abundance. Vast schools of fish disappeared. Dense forests of kelp, the redwoods of the sea, weakened. The bodies of emaciated common murres and other seabirds, too weak to fly, washed onto beaches. Skinny, malnourished whales, venturing closer to shore in search of food, collided with ships or became entangled in fishing gear.

Eventually the winds regained their full force, and the ocean cooled. But as climate change has accelerated, the Upwelling season has fluctuated more often and more intensely than in the past.

Now, when I stand at the continent’s wind-blasted, wave-battered rim, I give thanks for the Upwelling’s life-giving vigor. In nature, I’ve learned, upheaval brings more than disruption;  it also can herald renewal. Sweeping aside the old and the stagnant allows buried riches to rise from the depths.

Upwellings of various sorts inevitably disrupt our lives, stripping away the certain and the familiar. But what seems like chaos may be a necessary churning. What feels like loss may be a clearing. Perhaps the soul, like the sea, carries hidden reserves, waiting for the right season to surface. What wells up from within in the wake of upheaval may be exactly what the world—and we ourselves—most need