When the Moonlight Tugged My Line

Eleven thirty-seven on my waterproof watch when the first catfish rolled. I remember because the spinning reel had just started making that faint whining sound it does when the bearings get damp. The air smelled like wet pennies and dead mayflies - that particular musk only found in Mississippi backwater sloughs after midnight.

'Should've brought the bug spray,' I muttered, swatting at the third mosquito drilling into my neck. My thermos of bitter coffee lay overturned near the tackle box, its contents slowly seeping into the rotten dock boards. The green glow of my Coleman lantern turned everything into some alien landscape.

For two hours I'd been casting soft plastic lure into the ink-black water, feeling for that telltale tap-tap of cautious catfish. My lucky raccoon vertebra (don't ask) hung from my rod tip, clattering softly with each cast. Then it happened - not the gentle nibble I expected, but a savage pull that nearly yanked the rod from my grease-smeared hands.

The fight lasted seventeen minutes by moonlight. My braid sawing through calloused fingers, drag screaming like a banshee, left boot heel wedged in a dock crack. When I finally lipped the thrashing beast, its sandpaper jaw scraping my palm, I noticed the moon had ducked behind clouds. The lantern's hiss sounded suspiciously like laughter.

I released the old warrior, watching its tail vanish in a swirl of phosphorescent algae. As I packed up, a bullfrog croaked from the shallows - nature's slow clap. The coffee stain would never come out of my waders, but some lessons stick better that way.