Pterodactyls are alive, all wearing Albatross suits. They wheel and spin off headlands in the unter-Pacific, eating wind for breakfast. They burn more calories duck paddling than flying. Wing bone autolock, meteorological subversion, and general magic powers. Ten thousand pelagic kilometers in a single hunting trip, they twirl here over land after dumping distilled fish oil into their young. That goop becomes feathers, nerves, muscles - the battleground of roaring wind versus incontrovertible gravity for the next fifty years. Either that, or they're reanimated spirits of dead aviators, sailboat tramps, and Quetzalcoatli.
Tiaroa Head, Dunedin