When the Fog Lifted

3:47AM glowed on my waterproof watch as the truck tires crunched over oyster shells. Mosquito Lagoon's pre-dawn chorus greeted me – bullfrogs bassooning in the cordgrass, a barred owl questioning the darkness. My fingers instinctively checked the fluorocarbon line spooled on the spinning reel, its familiar roughness calming my pre-fish jitters.

'Should've brought the bug spray,' I muttered, swatting at the no-see-ums swarming my headlamp. The red glow revealed what daylight would confirm – water clearer than a bourbon flask, sand holes pocking the flat like Swiss cheese. Perfect for tailing reds. Maybe.

First cast sailed over a dark shape that bolted before my shrimp imitation touched down. Three hours and fourteen fruitless retrieves later, my knees ached from poling the skiff. Then the east wind shifted, carrying the briny scent of incoming tide...and something else.

The fog rolled in like God's dry ice machine, swallowing landmarks whole. My compass spun drunkenly. 'Well, this is new,' I chuckled, the sound swallowed by cottony silence. That's when the water erupted.

Something silver and furious inhaled my topwater plug. The graphite rod doubled as drag screamed. For two glorious minutes, man and fish danced through pearly oblivion until a 28-inch snook materialized at the boat's edge, gills flaring like opera curtains.

Sunburned and disoriented, I followed the outgoing tide home. Sometimes the best navigational tool is a fish's instinct – and a stubborn angler's luck.