When the Fog Lifted

3:47AM showed on my waterproof watch when the truck tires crunched over crushed oyster shells. Mosquito Lagoon's brackish scent mixed with the bitter coffee in my thermos. I fluorocarbon line through the guides, the 12lb test invisible against predawn's gray canvas.

'Should've brought the bug spray,' I muttered, slapping at my neck. The first cast landed with a satisfying *plop*. For forty minutes, only snagged hydrilla rewarded my efforts. A mullet's panicked leap made me jerk the rod like a rookie.

Sunrise burned through fog just as my swimbait snagged. The 'weed' started moving. Drag screamed. My thumb burned from spool friction as a redfish's copper flank broke surface. Its tail slapped the measuring board at exactly 27 inches - slot limit perfection.

Back at the ramp, two teenagers eyed my catch. 'What'd you use?' they asked. I smiled, tossing my remaining bait into their bucket. 'Just keep casting.'