When the Moonlight Bites Back

3:17AM. The dashboard clock's pale glow illuminated empty coffee cups as my truck bounced down the oyster shell road. Mosquito Lagoon's brackish scent already permeated the cab – a mix of crushed Spartina grass and promises. My lucky copper spinnerbait rattled in the cup holder like a anxious chaperone.

False Starts & Silver Shadows

First casts sliced through mist that clung to the water like gauze. The redfish should've been chasing mullet in the flooded mangroves, yet my line stayed stubbornly light. 'Maybe they're sulking,' I muttered, reeling in another clump of seaweed. The fourth cast snagged something solid – not a fish, but a barnacle-encrusted crab trap. 'Nature's middle finger,' I chuckled, picking shell fragments from my braid line.

The Strike That Stole Silence

Dawn's first blush stained the sky when it happened. My paddle tail jerked mid-retrieve, then the water exploded. The tarpon launched itself skyward, gills flaring silver in the pink light. Drag screamed like a tea kettle as salt spray stung my lips. Twenty minutes later, I cradled its muscular form, marveling at sea lice clinging to its flank. The fish kicked free before I could snap a photo, leaving me grinning at empty hands.

Driving home, I realized the moon doesn't care about our schedules – but sometimes, if you meet it halfway, it lets you play in its light.