When the Fog Lifted at Dead Man's Cove

The smell of brine still clung to my windbreaker from last week's storm as I backed the truck down the boat ramp at 5:17AM. My lucky compass - the one with the chipped enamel that always points to fish - showed due northeast. 'Today's the day,' I muttered, patting the worn 纺车轮 that's outlived three rods.

By sunrise the fog had turned milk-thick. I could barely see past the gunwale, but the rhythmic plop of my 软饵 kept time like a metronome. 'Should've stayed in bed,' I grumbled when the eighth cast came up empty. Then the water blinked.

Not a ripple, but an actual flash of silver beneath the surface. My next cast sailed into the mist with a prayer. The line went tight before I finished cranking. For twenty heartbeats that tasted like copper, the rod formed a perfect parabola with the fog. When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its golden flank glowed like molten metal in the newborn light.

The fog burned off by noon. I sat chewing jerky, watching shadows of bigger fish dart beneath the boat. Sometimes the water doesn't give answers - just better questions.