When the Fog Lifted

3:47 AM blinked on my watch as pickup tires crunched over oyster-shell gravel. The salt marsh's brine clung to my tongue before I even unstrapped the kayak. My lucky buckeye nut rolled in the cup holder - the one I'd found on last year's record redfish haul.

Mist swirled around my headlamp beam like liquid smoke. On the third cast, something grabbed my shrimp lure with a vengeance. 'That's no sheepshead,' I muttered, feeling the telltale headshakes through frozen line guides.

Dawn broke pink as the drag screamed. For eight breathless minutes, the unseen fighter danced between crab traps. When the braided line finally surfaced, it led to... a waterlogged Christmas wreath. From the adjacent channel came the unmistakable splash of giant tailing black drum - laughing at me through the fog's sudden retreat.