When the Darkness Started Biting

2:17AM blinked on my watch as the truck tires crunched over oyster shells. The braided line in my back pocket dug into my thigh - I'd forgotten to transfer it to my tackle box again. Chesapeake Bay stretched before us like liquid obsidian, the only light coming from bioluminescent algae that sparked where waves kissed the jetty.

'You're crazy,' Tom muttered, his headlamp illuminating the mist between us. 'Stripers don't feed in dead tides.' I pretended not to hear, focusing on the way my swimbait trembled in the current-less water. Three hours passed. Our coffee thermos emptied. The clicking of our reel drags became a metronome of frustration.

Then the water moved.

Not a ripple, but a swallowing of stars. Something massive drifted beneath the algae's neon glow. My next cast landed with a slap. Two heartbeats. Three. The rod nearly wrenched from my grip as forty pounds of striped fury exploded vertically, showering us in salt and disbelief. Tom's scream mingled with the zinging of peeling line as the beast sounded, dragging my fingertips across the spinning spool until they burned.

When we finally boated her at dawn's first gray whisper, we found my treble hooks embedded in a bunker she'd swallowed whole. The bay kept its secrets that moonless night - but left us one silver-edged clue.