When the Bass Stole My Breakfast

The predawn mist clung to my thermos of coffee as I stepped onto the dock, its wooden planks creaking like an old fisherman's joints. My spinning reel hummed a familiar tune as I cast toward the lily pads - the same spot where Old Tom claimed he'd lost a lunker last week.

First three casts yielded nothing but dewy silence. Then I felt it: that electric tap-tap against my soft plastic worm. My heart raced faster than a spooled drag as I set the hook. The water erupted like a shaken soda can, silver scales flashing in the newborn sunlight.

'You're mine now,' I muttered through gritted teeth. The rod bent double, my forearms burning. For seven glorious minutes we danced - the bass vaulting over submerged logs, me scrambling along the moss-slick bank. When my net finally scooped her up, I noticed something green wedged in her jaw: a chunk of my missing ham sandwich from yesterday's trip.

As I released her, the fish gave a defiant slap of its tail, spraying water across my notebook. The last smudged words read: 'Lesson learned - never picnic where you cast.'