When the Moonlight Revealed Redeye Secrets

Three hours before sunrise, the full moon hung like a silver lure over the Caloosahatchee River. My waders made sucking noises in the mud as I tested the tension on my spinning reel - the same one that failed me last season when a snook snapped my leader. 'Tonight's different,' I whispered to the fireflies dancing over the lily pads.

First casts with topwater frogs brought only disappointed swirls. By moon-high tide, my ankles were numb from standing in the tea-colored current. 'Should've brought the jerkbaits,' I muttered, watching a gator's eyes glow red in my headlamp beam. That's when the mullet started jumping upstream.

Rigging a drop shot with trembling fingers, I felt the line hesitate mid-cast. The rod arched violently as something bulldogged toward submerged cypress knees. 'Not snagged... breathing!' I realized when the drag screamed. For six heartbeats, the world narrowed to fluorescent green braid slicing through moonlit water.

At the net's edge, the redeye's bronze flanks flashed like buried pirate treasure. Its crimson iris locked with mine as I removed the hook, both of us panting mist into the predawn chill. The splash of its return sent concentric rings chasing the vanishing moon.

Walking back through spiderwebs I'd swear weren't there earlier, I tasted copper on my lips - maybe from adrenaline, maybe from the river's iron-laced kiss. The frogs were singing a new chorus now, or perhaps I'd just learned to listen.