You are in the coastal lagoons of Germany, 150 million years ago.

The air was thick with the scent of salty limestone, and the sun of the Late Jurassic had just begun to break over the Solnhofen lagoon, painting the water in brilliant copper. You stood silently behind the fringe of cycads, watching the tidal pools. That’s when the Rhamphorhynchus flock descended.

They weren't solitary creatures; there were dozens of them filling the sky, moving with a manic energy similar to modern seabirds, letting out a chorus of sharp, gull-like cries as they did. Their long, stiff tails, tipped with a diamond-shaped vane, acted as rudder-like stabilizers, allowing them to make sharp, agile turns. Their bodies were covered in a short, fur-like fuzz, and their heads were elongated, armed with forward-slanting, interlocking teeth designed for one purpose: catching fish.

One by one, they swooped low, their wings—leathery membranes stretching from a long fourth finger to their feet—grazing the surface. They didn’t dive deep like modern gannets; they skimmed, snatched, and soared, call-and-response shrieks filling the air. You watched, mesmerized, as some Rhamphorhynchus grabbed a small fish, each of their needle-sharp teeth closing with a quick snap.