When the Bass Stole My Breakfast Sandwich

My thermos of coffee steamed against the 43°F dawn as the truck tires crunched over oyster shells at Mosquito Lagoon. I'd specifically packed two bacon-egg sandwiches - one for me, and one for the mythical redfish that had haunted my dreams since October. The spinnerbait in my tackle box clinked like jail keys as I waded through knee-deep muck.

First casts landed with satisfying plops. But by sunrise, my line only collected strands of sargassum seaweed. 'Should've brought the kayak,' I muttered, watching a pelican dive-bombing baitfish twenty yards out. My left sandwich disappeared mysteriously while I was untangling line - probably that sneaky raccoon from last time.

Then I felt it - a subtle tap-tap through my fluorocarbon line. The water erupted in silver confetti as a 24-inch redfish inhaled my jerkbait. Drag screamed like a teakettle as it plowed through mangrove roots. 'Not today, princess!' I growled, thumbing the spool until my fingernail turned white.

When I finally lipped the bronze beauty, her gills flared like Venetian blinds in the golden light. She left me a muddy boot print on my shirt before disappearing into the tannin-stained water. The surviving breakfast sandwich tasted especially sweet with fish slime seasoning.