You are in the coastal shorelines of North America, 85 million years ago.

The wind whipped around the limestone cliffs of the Niobrara Sea. You were scanning the horizon when a flash of brilliant white appeared against the dark blue water—a flock of Nyctosaurus, at least a dozen strong.

They looked alien, far more slender than their Pteranodon cousins, with their bizarre, antler-like head crests shining in the sun. They cruised effortlessly on 6-foot wingspans, sailing on the wind with the skill of modern albatrosses.

Suddenly, they descended in a chaotic, skillful dive, hitting the water’s surface in unison. You watched from the edge of the bank as they skimmed the water, their toothless jaws snapping up small fish. The air filled with their soft, clicking calls—an eerie, rhythmic sound in the vast quiet of the Cretaceous afternoon. One of them landed on a jagged rock just a few meters away, curiously cocking its head, its enormous, pronged crest tilting sharply.