When the Fog Lifted at Deadman's Cove

3:47AM. My thermos of bitter coffee vibrated on the dashboard as the truck bounced down the gravel road. Through the cracked window came the smell of damp sphagnum moss – nature's alarm clock for bass fishing addicts. I patted the lucky Zippo in my chest pocket, its dented surface warm from body heat.

The cove greeted me with a curtain of mist so thick, the headlamp beam looked like a lightsaber. Waders squeaked as I rigged up a Texas rig, the bullet weight cold against my knuckles. 'Should've brought the damn depth finder,' I muttered, remembering last week's blown fuse.

First three casts: nothing but submerged logs that made my heart stop. Then the drag scream. Not the staccato pull of a snag, but the sustained wail that turns grown men into giddy children. The rod bent double, tip kissing the water as something massive surged toward the lily pads.

Twenty brutal minutes later, my arms shook like maple leaves in a hurricane. The monster bass breached in a spray of silver, its tail slapping my left cheekbone hard enough to leave a bruise. 23 inches. My hands still smelled like fish slime when I texted a blurry photo to Jake. His reply buzzed as I drove home: 'Photoshop won't save your pride at the tournament.' The rising sun burned off the fog, revealing three new scratch marks on my forearm – the cove's parting gift.