When the Line Sings Back

Pre-dawn mist clung to Lake St.Clair like phantom breath as my baitcasting reel whined in protest. 'Hank, this feels heavier than your ex-wife's alimony payments!' I yelled over the chattering waves. My gambling buddy just grinned, his thermos steaming with suspiciously aromatic 'coffee'.

The fourth cast's jighead kissed the drop-off ledge when it happened - that sacred tremor through braided line. My index finger pressed against the vibrating cord, reading Morse code from the deep. 'Walleye?' Hank whispered. 'Nah,' I breathed, 'this brute's got the rhythm section of a metal band.'

Sudden north wind slapped our cheeks raw as the drag screamed. The rod bowed like a willow in tornado alley. 'Play it smart, Jack!' Hank barked, though his hands shook worse than during that ill-fated poker game with Detroit mobsters. Thirty yards out, a silver shadow breached - muskie dorsal fin slicing dawn's blush like Satan's steak knife.

When the monster spat the lure back at my feet two eternities later, Hank found my lucky raccoon-tail pendant floating nearby. 'Bandy's final apology?' he chuckled. The empty water laughed loudest, etching new hieroglyphics into my calloused palms.