When the Moonlight Bit Back

3:17 AM blinked on my waterproof watch as I stepped onto the dew-slick dock. The St. Johns River breathed mist that clung to my beard like phantom spiderwebs. I always fish the soft plastic worms during false dawn, but tonight's full moon demanded something different - the chrome spinnerbait I'd sworn off after last season's skunk streak.

'You're chasing ghosts,' my buddy Jake had laughed when I texted him the plan. But the water's rhythmic lap against the pylons felt like encouragement. First cast sailed over a lily pad cluster, the spinner's blades catching moonlight like liquid mercury.

Two hours. Three bait changes. My Thermos emptied of coffee. The night herons stopped mocking me after the sixth fruitless retrieve. Just as I considered texting Jake an admission of defeat, my line snapped taut with the primal urgency that makes every fisherman's adrenal glands ignite.

The drag on my spinning reel screamed like a banshee. 'Not snag... not snag... PLEASE not snag,' I chanted as the rod arced toward the constellation Orion. When the beast breached, moonlight glinted on armored scales - not a bass, but a prehistoric-long gar longer than my leg. We danced our strange waltz until dawn's first blush, its jagged teeth finally severing the leader with a contemptuous flick.

Now the empty hook sways from my rod tip, whispering promises. The river keeps its secrets better than any married man.