When Dawn Broke the Lily Pads

The air smelled of wet moss and diesel fuel as I pushed the jon boat into the shallows. Somewhere beyond the curtain of morning mist, largemouth bass were tearing through baitfish in the water grass. My fingers grazed the chilly aluminum hull—a sensation that always jumpstarts my fishing instincts.

By sunrise, I'd already lost two frogs to the lily pads' rubbery stems. 'Should've used weedless hooks,' I muttered, watching another swirl vanish near my spinnerbait. The lake seemed to laugh through the croaking bullfrogs. Just as I considered moving channels, a violent boil erupted fifteen feet starboard.

Three casts later, the rod arched like a drawn longbow. Line hissed through the spool, burning my thumb. The bass breached in a shower of duckweed, its gills flared like fighter jet air intakes. When the net finally scooped the thrashing green torpedo, I found three leeches clinging to its jaw—nature's mocking reminder of who really owns these waters.

Driving home, I kept replaying that primal strike. Not the catch itself, but the way morning light had fractured through flying water droplets. Some days, you don't catch fish—you catch cinema.