When the Fog Lifted

3:47AM according to my waterproof watch. The thermos of coffee burned my palm as I stepped onto the dock, its weathered boards creaking like an old fisherman's joints. Something about pre-dawn hours makes even familiar waters feel alien – the lapping waves whispering secrets in the dark.

My spinnerbait sliced through the mist with a satisfying plop. For ninety-three casts (yes, I count), the only tension came from imagining my wife's eye-roll if I returned empty-handed again. 'Should've brought the lucky hat,' I muttered, watching a heron judge me from the shallows.

Then the fog thickened. Not metaphorically – one minute I'm reeling in another dud, the next I'm marooned in a cotton ball. My fluorocarbon line hummed as I blindly cast...until the strike. Not the tentative nibbles from earlier, but a heart-stopping yank that nearly sent my rod overboard.

What followed was less fight than negotiation. The smallmouth bass breached as sunlight pierced the fog, its bronze flank glittering with victory. My trembling hands measured 21 inches before releasing it. The heron squawked – maybe approval, maybe hunger. I sipped cold coffee, tasting patience.