When Mist Becomes Magic

The predawn chill seeped through my flannel shirt as I launched the kayak into still-black waters. Somewhere in the foggy maze of cypress knees, I knew largemouths were blowing bubbles through their gills, waiting to test my new spinnerbait. My thermos of coffee sloshed in rhythm with the paddle strokes - three splashes then silence, listening for surface strikes.

By first light, disappointment hung heavier than the morning mist. The chartreuse blade I'd sworn by sat useless in my tackle box. Then came the sound: a wet slap against tree roots twenty yards east. Holding my breath, I cast toward the noise. The lure landed with a whisper, its silver blade catching sunrays piercing through fog.

The strike nearly yanked the rod from my hands. For seven breathless minutes, the fish played hide-and-seek through submerged timber. When I finally lipped the 8-pounder, its gill plates fanned my cheek like a raspy kiss. The morning mist swirled around us, turning ordinary water into liquid gold where she'd risen.

Now the coffee tastes different - bitter where it used to be sweet, or maybe I'm just tasting the memory of cypress bark and redemption.