When the Fog Lifted

The dock's wooden planks creaked under my boots as pre-dawn mist clung to my beard. Somewhere beyond the pea soup haze, smallmouth bass were staging their morning revolt against crankbaits. I tightened the drag on my spinning reel, fingertips remembering last week's braided line burn.

'Should've brought the thermos,' I muttered, breath crystallizing. The third cast landed with a satisfying plop near submerged boulders. Nothing. Seventh cast. Twelfth. My frozen lips started composing the 'skunked again' text to fishing buddies.

Then - that electric tap-tap only veteran anglers recognize. The rod doubled over like a question mark. 'Is this snag or...?' The line zinged sideways. Adrenaline vaporized the chill.

Twenty minutes later, cradling a bronze-backed warrior, I noticed the fog had lifted. Sunbeams danced on water where my jig head now rested peacefully in the fish's jaw. The smallmouth's gills flared once before it vanished into liquid gold.