Wheeling Gull Isle wrap yourself in blankets and give the ocean an inch.

salt and water lay all around, and the collie froze with fear. the waters pushed against her narrow chest, swelling past her in great churning waves that threatened to dislodge her from her precarious perch atop the sandbar. the isle was not far; merely a hundred taillengths before her, though her slow approach had allowed the sea to grow more dangerous with the coming of a spring storm. the sheepdog's terror had reached its peak.

her paws failed to gain any traction as the water swelled again, surely in preparation for some great wave that would threaten to dislodge her entirely. it was then she snapped, for surely the terror of what may come should she lose her way outweighed whatever she felt in that moment. and so she moved, limbs thrashing against the wet, and the wave drew near.

this time, the water rose to quickly, and the world was made a roaring, blurred mess. salt in her eyes, water drawn into her maw as result of an ill-timed breath, the sudden realization that she knew not which way was up. and then she breached, and again was struggling, the isle seeming no closer with every desperate kick.