Phil Gordon sits atop a pile of old fishing nets on a tiny wooden platform suspended over a sheer cliff outside of Homer, Alaska. My stomach lurches as I peer over the edge. Some 247 feet below, the Pacific Ocean hurls itself against rocks. Clearly unaffected, Gordon offers wheat crackers dipped in peanut butter and a bottle of bourbon balanced at his feet: “Help yourself. We’re living abundantly.” He smiles as a bald eagle comes in for a landing on a post, then he wanders into the garden to cut a peony for his wife, Kyra Wagner, who is lounging on a cracked white plastic chair.