When the Fog Lifted

3:17AM blinked on my wristwatch as the truck tires crunched over oyster shells at Lake Conway's boat ramp. The humid air smelled of wet cypress bark, clinging to my shirt like second skin. I patted the worn lucky spinnerbait in my chest pocket - the one that survived last season's hurricane.

Water gurgled under the jon boat as I poled through lily pads. My headlamp caught pairs of red eyes retreating into darkness. 'Should've brought the heavier line,' I muttered, thumbing the 10lb fluorocarbon that felt thinner than fishing spider silk.

Dawn came wrapped in fog so thick I tasted clouds. Three missed strikes on topwater frogs had me switching to a Texas-rigged worm. The plastic bait's garlic scent lingered on my fingers as I worked the drop-off. 'One last cast,' I lied to myself for the twelfth time.

That's when the drag screamed. The rod doubled over like a question mark, line slicing through mist. For three breathless minutes, the world narrowed to singing line and throbbing rod grip. When the 8lb bass finally surfaced, its tail slapped a rainbow from the water's skin.

As I released her, sunlight pierced the fog. The lake whispered its old truth: magic happens when you outwait doubt.