When the Marsh Whispered Secrets

3:47 AM. The alarm clock's buzz merged with cricket songs as I laced mud-caked boots. Through the screen door, the marsh exhaled wisps of mist that clung to my beard like ghostly fingers. My lucky topwater lure danced in the tackle box, its frog-painted belly catching moonlight.

The airboat sliced through blackwater, its fan scattering a constellation of fireflies. I anchored where cypress knees pierced the water like dragon teeth. First cast: the popper's gurgle echoed across the stillness. Then... nothing. For ninety minutes, nothing.

Dawn came pink and treacherous. 'Should've brought coffee,' I muttered, reeling in slack line. That's when I saw them – nervous water ripples moving counter to the tide. My hands shook wrapping fresh fluorocarbon line as a mullet rocket-launched from the shallows.

Three casts later, the explosion defied physics. Water became teeth as a bullsnake shape demolished my lure. The drag screamed like a banshee. Twelve pounds? Fifteen? We'll never know – the line went slack at boatside. But in that heartbeat between strike and loss, the marsh had whispered its oldest truth: sometimes the prize isn't in the landing, but in the chase.