Come, let’s go before the tide makes islands of us all.
The beasts fall into shadow in the distance, biding their time till the fog returns and they can rise from their slumber. The wait is never long.
A foghorn sounds in the distance as the first tendrils of fog smudge the horizon. The beasts blink sleep from their eyes and watch as the mist cloaks them in its shroud. One by one they vanish.
Then, and only then, do they rise from their beds and march into the water, scouring the ocean floor for treasure and bits of salted seaweed. Their bellies full, they lounge upon the currents, tugging at riptides, and tickling stray whales.
The fog hovers along the shore, waiting for them grow tired and return to their beds. When all are asleep it rolls out once more, leaving the land as it was.