When the Fog Lifted

03:47 glowed on my weathered wristwatch as the truck tires crunched over oyster shells. Mosquito Lagoon's pre-dawn chorus hummed with promise - until the fog rolled in thicker than chowder. I fumbled with my topwater lure, its treble hooks catching moonlight like pirate's treasure. 'Should've brought the depth finder,' I muttered, watching radar-red glows of other boats dissolve in the milky haze.

By sunrise, my cooler held nothing but melted ice. Then it happened - that telltale pop! of a snook striking baitfish near mangroves. My arms remembered before my brain did, sending the walking bait arcing toward the sound. The strike bent the rod double, drag screaming like a banshee. For three glorious minutes, silver scales and dawn's first rays danced together.

The 28-incher slipped back into tea-colored water, leaving me grinning at fog-burned palms. Sometimes the best guides aren't GPS units, but fish themselves.