When the Tide Turned at Dawn

My boots sank into the pluff mud as the predawn salt air stung my nostrils. The outgoing tide whispered secrets along the Charleston jetties where I'd come chasing tailing redfish. A weathered spinnerbait from last season hung like a talisman on my backpack – my grandmother always said rusty lures attract wiser fish.

For forty-three minutes, the only action came from baitfish skittering from my casts. 'Maybe the dolphins scared them off,' I muttered, watching a pod cruise the channel. My coffee thermos gurgled empty when suddenly, three quick tugs nearly yanked the rod from my hands.

The reel's drag screamed as line melted away. 'Not today you don't,' I growled, thumb burning against the spool. The fish porpoised silver in first light, revealing crimson scales that matched the emerging sunrise. Our tug-of-war concluded with a 28-inch redfish thrashing in the shallows, its gills flaring like Spanish fan dancers.

As I released my prize, the incoming tide washed blood from my scraped knuckles. The saltwater sting felt like applause.