He nods once, briskly. Alright, that settles that — and now that he knows the goal, he's actually got a half-decent plan. The Free Cities have set up a few supply drops for them; along with the snorkels and goggles, there's also a small pile of nets. He scoops one up, yoinks off his headgear, and treads back across the sand.

After a good dozen or so chunks of ice have gathered on the surface, he kicks into gear. Bamfs out those wings from their pocket dimension behind his shoulder blades, spreading them out white and wide and blessedly healthy after that whole demon molting thing a few months back.

The plan's a simple one — fly over the water, drop the net, skim the surface like a pool skimmer, and then haul the lot of it up out of the water and back over to the shore.