When the Raindrops Became My Rhythm Section

3:17AM blinked on my wristwatch as truck tires crunched over oyster shells. The salt marsh smelled like a forgotten shrimp net left in July heat – brine and decay and possibility. I always bring grandpa's tarnished lure box, its hinges squeaking louder each season. 'Might be your last trip,' my wife teased at midnight, not knowing about the secret spot GPS coordinates burning in my pocket.

First casts sliced through fog so thick I tasted wool. My topwater frog landed with a kiss-soft plop. Nothing. Then the sky ruptured. Raindrops drummed my hat brim as lightning sketched the marsh grass in blue-white chalk. Just as I reached for the bail arm, my line snapped taut. The drag screamed like a teakettle left too long on the stove.

Twenty minutes later, soaked to bone and laughing at thunderclaps, I cradled a redfish glowing like new copper. Its tail slapped one final drumbeat against the measuring board before sliding home. I stayed out until dawn, collecting raindrop tunes on my jacket hood, finally understanding why grandpa called storms 'God's own bite alarms'.