Moonlit Whispers and the Silver Striper

The crunch of crushed oyster shells beneath my boots echoed through the empty marina. 3:17 AM according to my watch's glowing face, the exact moment when Chesapeake Bay breathes between tides. My thermos of bitter diner coffee left condensation rings on the boat's console as I navigated by memory toward the channel markers, their red eyes blinking in approval.

By dawn's first gray blush, the rigging on forty other boats began clinking like wind chimes. But the striped bass remained ghosts. My lucky Zippo lighter – the one that survived Iraq and two divorces – felt useless in my palm as hours bled away. 'Maybe the storm's stirring them up,' muttered Old Pete from the adjacent slip, his voice swallowed by the growling sky.

Rain came horizontal at noon. Just as I reached for the ignition key, my line screamed. Not the steady pull of current, but the electric staccato only living muscle creates. The rod bowed like a worshiper as lightning painted the waves chartreuse. 'Are you seeing this?' I yelled to the empty cockpit, laughing madly as 28 inches of quicksilver emerged from the foam.

Back at the cleaning table, stormwater still dripping from my eyebrows, I found sea lice clinging to my sleeves. The bay always takes something, leaves something. Tonight, it's the memory of that primal connection – when fish and fisherman become just two creatures fighting the same storm.