When the Bass Blew My Hat Off

The predawn chill seeped through my flannel shirt as I stepped onto the dock. Somewhere in the tea-colored waters of Lake Marion, largemouth bass were slurping bluegills off the surface - I could smell the faint fishiness carried by the east wind. My lucky fishing hat, sweat-stained from twenty seasons, sat crooked as usual.

'Should've brought the bug spray,' I muttered, swatting mosquitoes drawn to my headlamp's glow. The first cast sailed toward lily pads with surgical precision, my spinnerbait kissing the water like a wounded shad. Nothing. By sunrise, my coffee thermos sat empty and my knees bore imprints from the dock's weathered planks.

A sudden swirl erupted behind a submerged stump. Heart racing, I sent my lure arcing through the honey-lit air. The strike came violent - rod bent double, drag screaming like a scalded cat. 'This one's personal!' I growled as the bass breached, shaking its head and showering me with lake water.

When I finally lipped the 8-pounder, my hat floated three feet away. We stared at each other, fish and fisherman, before I let her slide back into the murk. The hat dried by noon. The grin? Still there at sundown.