When Fog Became My Fishing Partner

03:17 blinked red on my dashboard clock as the truck tires crunched over oyster shell parking lot gravel. Mosquito Lagoon's brackish scent already seeped through closed vents. I always rig my fluorocarbon leader the night before, but tonight's full moon had me rechecking knots by dome light.

'Should've brought the bug spray,' I muttered, slapping at a no-see-um dancing near my ear. The flats boat glided through mercury-colored water, depth finder dark. My fingers found the chipped edge of the lucky Costa del Mar logo on my polarized lenses - same pair that survived the Great Redfish Frenzy of '19.

First casts kissed the flooded mangroves with plastic shrimp imitations. Nothing. Not even the usual mullet slap. By sunrise, my coffee thermos held more promises than my livewell. The fog bank rolled in thick as cream cheese, swallowing my anchor light.

That's when the tailing started - subtle V-wakes no larger than my palm. I stood frozen, knee-deep in discarded monofilament thoughts. The paddle tail swimbait landed with a plop that echoed like cathedral doors closing. Strip set. Drag scream. Twenty inches of spotted sea trout flashed silver through pea soup air.

I released her facing east, where the fog began lifting in tattered curtains. Somewhere beyond the haze, a dolphin's dorsal fin cut through the morning like shears through silk.