Stavanger Bay generations

It was late; there was a calm in the air as heat from the day slowly sapped across the beach, and the waves were a distant, yet constant, presence. The den was warm and cozy, wherever it was—and the darkness thick with more than shade but also a heady humidity that could only be described as claustrophobic.
The caribou-boy had discovered the peaceful nature of the dark already. He was aware of the bodies pressed all around him—a brother, a sister, a mother, perhaps his father too; but there was no real telling their bodies apart in the dark, with his limitations—and try as he might to rouse someone with a kick or a nibble, he could not.
Those paws which had been crossed beneath his full belly now braced against the earth, and he rose from it in the manner of a homunculus built of fresh clay: not quite ready for firing, and so soft he might lose cohesion at the slightest touch. No doubt about it, as within moments of rising Salaksartok felt the world sway; he tipped one way, then the other as he naturally overcompensated, and again, in a fine display of sea-legs; but this was no ship, and the world did not shudder beneath him as he imagined.
A reaching leg—his sister's, not that he'd know it, nor would she likely remember—crossed his path and bumped his chest, and with a squeal Salaksartok shoved his open mouth at it, his milk-teeth bared in a primal display, although the movement missed its mark completely—and now close-lined, Salaksartok bowled forwards over Nasamiituq and towards the den mouth.
Outside was a whispering darkness—and even as Salaksartok's nose grazed the open air, he felt briefly calmed, deep in his spirit.