When the River Whispered at Midnight

Moonlight silvered the Caloosahatchee's surface as my waders whispered through cattails. The humid air clung like wet velvet, carrying faint topwater frog lure splashes from distant lily pads. I always fish with my grandfather's rusted thermos - its faint tang of decades-old coffee somehow calms my nerves.

'Should've brought mosquito repellent,' I grumbled, swatting at the cloud around my head. Three hours in, my cooler held nothing but melted ice. Then the water exploded.

A violent swirl erupted ten feet from my braided line. Heart pounding, I cast parallel to the disturbance. The frog lure landed with a perfect *plop*. One twitch...two...suddenly the night erupted in flashing scales and screaming drag.

When I finally netted the 8-pound snook, dawn's first blush was staining the horizon. Its gills flared defiantly before vanishing into tea-colored depths. The thermos' last lukewarm sip tasted like victory.