Stavanger Bay he finds wings

Ja, Moorhen agreed, and repeated, one-wave is small, and seven-wave is big. She glanced back at him and made a sharp tcht sound. Do not stare at paws. One eyes is always on sea. This close, at least, and while on the rocks.

They were to one of the little inlet pools, now, able to look down at a churning bowl, the walls made up of sharp rocks and muscles. Moorhen was looking off to the ocean, however, waiting for this set to end. Yes; the moon pulls the tides along with its phases, and along with its path through the sky. She had time to explain a bit about which times were low tide and which times were high, which I don't have time to research at the moment so feel free to fill in the blanks. These "sets of seven" stuff is also maybe bunk? But anyway, soon enough, the window of opportunity was among them.

This is seven-wave, she said, and instructed him to watch the sea while she scrabbled her way down into the still-draining pool. The rocks slid painfully against her paws until she reached the bottom, where a collection of stones had been smoothed by the toss of the waves. These were shifted laboriously until a flash of color caught her eye — her dark head splashed under the surface, and she emerged with a blue-green crab about twice the size of her paw clutched delicately in her jaws.

Ai! she laughed through her teeth as she clawed her way back out of the pool, just as the next wave crashed in with enough force to soak her from head to toe. She flung the crab toward the flatter parts of the beach, shaking out her dark pelt (right in Wintersbane's face, incidentally) as she darted after her catch.

Gríptu það! Gríptu það! she cheered.