When the Storm Saved the Trip

Dusk was painting Lake Sinclair in liquid gold when I noticed the first ripple. My battered Yeti cooler still held three untouched beers – the kind of slow start that makes you question every life choice leading to this moment. I twirled my lucky jig, its red strands faded from too many encounters with snags and smarter-than-average crappies.

The water turned mirror-flat just as thunder rumbled. 'Typical Georgia afternoon,' I muttered, watching mayflies perform their last waltz before the downpour. That's when my line jumped with purpose, not the tentative nibbles from earlier. The rod arched like a question mark as rain began tattooing the aluminum boat floor.

'You've got to be kidding me!' The words evaporated in the wind as 10-pound test fluorocarbon line started singing that high-pitched hymn only serious fish produce. For seven glorious minutes, the world shrank to screaming drag and the electric smell of ozone.

When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flank glowed like buried treasure in the stormlight. The scale's glowing numbers (4.8 lbs) blurred through rainwater-streaked glasses. I released it just as lightning forked behind the pines, the fish disappearing into ink-dark water with a mocking splash that soaked my last dry shirt.

Sometimes the lake doesn't give – it reminds.