When the Fog Lifted

3:47 AM. My wife's childhood alarm clock glowed red as I slipped on the same frayed fishing jacket that's survived six seasons. Lake Marion's parking lot gravel crunched louder than ever beneath my boots - the kind of stillness that makes you check your phone just to see if the world still exists.

Dawn arrived as thick cotton. My kayak left ghostly trails in the mist, each paddle stroke sending ripples through mirrored clouds. I could taste last night's rain still hanging in the air, that metallic tang mixing with wet pine from shore. The first cast with my trusty spinnerbait felt like slicing cold butter.

By 7:30, the coffee thermos was empty and my optimism drier than the biscuit crumbs in my pocket. Three missed strikes, two snagged lures, and one bluegill that barely qualified as bait. 'Maybe the thermocline shifted,' I muttered to a disinterested cormorant, retying my line for the ninth time.

The fog burned off at 8:17 exactly. Sudden sunlight revealed concentric rings blooming 20 yards east - not the lazy circles of surfacing carp, but the violent splash-dash of predators corralling shad. My hands shook as I reached for the spinnerbait, its blades catching sunlight like pirate treasure.

What followed wasn't fishing - it was warfare. Smallmouth after smallmouth, their bronze flanks gleaming like freshly minted pennies. The rod's cork grip grew slick with algae and adrenaline. When the biggest one rolled at boatside, its tail slap sent a cold shower across my face that smelled of victory and lake water.

Driving home, I realized fog does more than obscure - it teaches us to trust the waters we can't see.