When the Fog Lifted at Devil's Elbow

3:17AM according to my Casio's cracked face. The truck cab smelled of stale coffee and nightcrawlers left too long in the July heat. I flicked my lucky Zippo - the one with the bass engraving nearly worn smooth - watching its flame dance across the thermos. Somewhere beyond the pea-soup fog, Lake Marion's bass were staging their morning revolt.

My waders squeaked protest as I waded into the shallows. First cast with the chatterbait went unanswered. Second. Tenth. The mist played tricks - was that a boil near the submerged oak? I switched to a jighead, fingers remembering the exact knot tension Dad taught me. 'You'll know,' he'd said, 'when it's right.'

Sunrise came as orange streaks through the fog. Just as I considered retreat, the line twitched unlike any snag. The drag screamed its metallic hymn. Fifteen minutes later, a smallmouth the color of storm clouds broke surface, gills flaring like opera curtains.

Back at shore, I relit the Zippo. Its flame caught the fading mist just so, casting shadows that looked for all the world like fingers giving a fisherman's blessing.