You push your torso up past the water level, then beach yourself against the sand, dropping your backpack nearby. Your senses scream at the wrongness: you cease sensing electrical currents in the water, everything feels heavier, and the dry air starts to prick against your skin, your hair. Your body adjusts itself accordingly: your tail warps and shrivels into human legs. The feeling of separation, of a cleave, always makes you feel like a piece of you is missing. Your skin loses its blue base color and warms up to a brownish tinge that's unsettlingly human.
You wobble up to stand vertically, pushing your legs out wide as you stagger with the gangly sticks. Tamru smiles affectionately at your awkwardness while Flynn gasps and turns red. You ignore them both. You hate feeling incompetent with something they consider simple. Then you look down at your body and realize that Flynn's awkwardness may be more directly tied to your immodest appearance. You have a waist wrap in your backpack; you could wear it a little low.