When the Tides Whispered Secrets

The predawn chill clung to my bones as I waded through knee-deep marsh grass, headlamp casting ghostly shadows on fiddler crab holes. Mobile Bay's brackish water licked my waders, carrying the iron tang of impending storms. I gripped my fluorocarbon line tighter - redfish have a sixth sense for hesitation.

'Should've brought the bug spray,' I muttered, slapping at the third mosquito drilling into my neck. My casting rhythm faltered as dawn revealed acres of featureless flats. Two hours and three untied leaders later, doubt crept in like the rising tide.

A sudden swirl near a half-submerged log froze my breath mid-exhale. Not the lazy circles of feeding mullet, but the violent 'J-stroke' of a bull red claiming territory. My hands trembled threading a topwater frog - the same lure that failed me last season.

The explosive strike sent saltwater into my nostrils. Drag screamed like a banshee as line melted from my spool. 'Not this time,' I growled, planting boots in sucking mud. When the 28-inch brute finally lay glistening in my net, I noticed the storm clouds had skirted the horizon, leaving sunlight glinting off his coppery scales.

As I released him, a wayward wave soaked my lunchbox. The bay's laughter echoed in the soggy ham sandwich - fair trade for today's lesson in reading water's subtle tells.