When the Fog Lifted

3:47AM. The glow of my coffee maker cut through the predawn darkness like a lighthouse beacon. My fingers lingered on the soft plastic lure in my tackle box – chartreuse paddle tail, same one that fooled that monster redfish last spring. The air smelled of impending rain as I backed the trailer into Lake Pontchartrain's mist-shrouded boat launch.

By sunrise, the fog had thickened into cotton batting. My depth finder blinked uselessly; even the seagulls sounded disoriented. 'Should've brought the compass,' I muttered, blindly casting toward what I hoped were oyster beds. The third retrieve snagged something solid. Not a fish – my line sawed through the mist with an unnatural tension.

Then it moved.

Drag screamed as the unseen beast peeled off 30 yards of braided line. The rod bowed dangerously when suddenly, sunlight pierced through the fog bank. In that golden moment, I saw the bronze flash of a bull redfish tailwalking through dissolving mist. Its gill plates flared crimson, matching the numbers bleeding across my line counter.

When the net finally closed around the 28-incher, I noticed my lucky hat floating three yards astern. The fish had stolen it during the fight. 'Fair trade,' I told him before release, watching my cap become a speck in the newly-clear horizon.