When Dawn Breaks the Fish's Alarm Clock

The metallic tang of pre-storm air clung to my nostrils as I untangled fluorocarbon line from Hank's favorite lure. 'This feels like Bandy's sabotage,' I muttered, fingers tracing the raccoon-sized teeth marks on my tackle box. The lake surface mirrored gunmetal skies, its stillness broken only by concentric ripples from waking shad.

'Try the jerkbait,' Hank growled, spitting Copenhagen into choppy waves that slapped our aluminum hull. 'Cold front's got 'em moodier than my ex at a bass tournament.' I obliged, sending the hard bait skittering across emerging weed beds. My lucky moose hair pendant swung wildly with each cast – its musk blending with algae-scented mist.

Three hours of fruitless retrievals left my thumb bleeding from lipping imaginary fish. Then it happened: the telltale 'thunk' of smallmouth inhaling a pause. Rod tip quivered like a dowsing stick as thirty feet down, the beast head-shook with the rhythm of a jackhammer. 'Don't horse it!' Hank barked, net at ready. My braid sang against guides, each friction burn whispering secrets of depth and desperation.

When the 21-incher finally surfaced, rain began tattooing the lake in earnest. We whooped like teenagers, our triumph drowned by thunder. But Bandy got the last laugh – the brat stole my PB&J during the tussle. Some lessons are eternal: always secure your sandwiches, and never underestimate fish (or raccoons) that feast at dawn's dimming curtain.