When the River Glowed

Moonlight silvered the Chickahominy's sluggish current as my waders sank into muddy banks. The fluorescent lure glowed like witchfire on my line – perfect for channel cats, old Jim claimed. I didn't believe him until the third cast, when something gargantuan rolled near the willow snag.

Midnight found me ankle-deep in doubt. Bait after untouched bait, the thermos long empty. 'One last cast,' I whispered, tasting diesel-tainted air from a distant barge. The nylon line hissed through guides as the lure plopped beside the snag. Three heartbeats. Five. Then the rod bent double, drag screaming like a banshee.

Twenty minutes later, moonlight revealed the beast – a blue cat wider than my thigh, barbels writhing like Medusa's hair. Its tail slap sprayed river musk across my face as I released it. Walking back, fireflies winked in the cattails like the river's secret laughter. Some nights, the fish aren't the catch – they're the hook.