When the Fog Lifted

3:17AM showed on my dashboard clock as headlights sliced through the marsh mist. The familiar 纺车轮 sat passenger seat, its spool loaded with fresh 10lb fluorocarbon that glowed faintly under streetlights. I rubbed the worn rabbit's foot on my keychain - my grandfather's lucky charm that's seen more fish than most tackle shops.

Dawn arrived as smoke-gray tendrils rising from the creek. My third cast landed a 软饵 beside submerged timber with surgical precision. Nothing. The fourth. Fifth. A bluegill's feeble nibble. 'Maybe the moon phase was wrong,' I muttered, tasting yesterday's coffee still bitter on my tongue.

Sunlight burned off the fog just as my line jumped. Not the tentative taps before, but that electric 'thunk' every angler dreams of. The rod arched dangerously as drag screamed. 'Easy girl,' I croaked, knuckles whitening. For eight breathless minutes, the world narrowed to singing line and throbbing rod grip.

When the 22-inch snook finally slid onto the bank, its gills pulsed like engine pistons. I stood shin-deep in tea-colored water laughing at the mud streak across my cheek. Somewhere behind me, a heron squawked - nature's slow clap for persistence.