When the Fog Lifted

Three cups of coffee couldn't warm my fingers as I launched the kayak into the pre-dawn mist. The marsh smelled of decaying vegetation and promise. My grandfather's lucky spinnerbait clicked rhythmically against the rod holder - its chartreuse skirt faded from twenty summers of deceiving bass.

By sunrise, I'd perfected my casting technique... for catching water lilies. A family of otters surfaced nearby, their chirps sounding suspiciously like laughter. 'Maybe the old man's charm wore off,' I muttered, reeling in another clump of weeds.

The fog thickened at 8:17 AM according to my waterlogged watch. That's when the swirl happened - a toilet-flush vortex behind a submerged cypress knee. My braided line hissed through the guides as I sent a frog lure sailing. Two pops. Then nothing.

Heartbeats later, the marsh exploded. My rod doubled over like a question mark, drag screaming as something primal headed for open water. For seven glorious minutes, we danced - the fish making runs, me stumbling in the kayak's footwell. When I finally lipped the 8-pound beast, its golden eye held the reflection of every dawn I'd ever wasted sleeping in.

The fog burned off during my paddle back. So did my doubts. Some legends, it turns out, just need new hands to carry them forward.