When the Fog Lifted

3:17AM read my watch's faint glow as I waded through marsh grass thicker than my grandmother's oatmeal. The air tasted of wet moss and diesel fuel from the marina three coves over. My frog lure clinked against the carabiner on my hip like a demented wind chime - the only sound in this pre-dawn soup.

'Should've brought the bug spray,' I muttered, swatting at the cloud around my ears that buzzed like a broken amplifier. The mosquitoes were drafting formation patterns around my headlamp. First cast snagged on something that felt like Poseidon's beard. When I finally yanked free, the splash sounded suspiciously like laughter.

By sunrise I'd perfected my 'disappointed grunt' symphony. That's when the fog peeled back like God's curtain call. Ripples fanned out from the lily pads in perfect concentric circles. My hands shook wrapping fresh 20lb fluorocarbon onto the baitcasting reel. The frog landed with a kiss-soft plop...then disappeared in a swirl that defied physics.

The fight lasted three eternities. When I finally hoisted that 7-pounder, its gills flared like a Venetian carnival mask. I stared into its grumpy gold eye. 'You've been here the whole time.' The fish's splashy return flipped water into my left boot. Best wake-up call I've ever had.