When the Fog Lifted at Breakneck Cove

Saltwater stung my nostrils before I even cut the engine. The 4:15am fog hung thick enough to chew, swallowing my flashlight beam whole. I patted the 软饵 box in my vest pocket - my secret weapon for stubborn redfish.

'Should've brought the kayak,' I muttered, watching waves slap the dock's barnacled pilings. My third cast landed with a satisfying *plop* near the oyster beds. For forty silent minutes, nothing. Not even the usual baitfish ripple.

Then the northeast wind came - that sweet, salty bulldozer shredding the fog curtain. Sunbeams revealed what the mist hid: a V-shaped wake carving through flooded spartina grass. My hands shook threading a new leader. The first cast overshot. The second caught the mangroves. The third...

The 纺车轮 screamed like a tea kettle. Line burned through my glove's worn thumb slot. 'Not another damn catfish,' I pleaded as the drag groaned. When the copper flash broke surface, I nearly dropped the rod. That redfish fought dirty, tail-slapping my cheek as I lipped it.

The ice in my cooler melted faster than usual that morning. Or maybe I just forgot to close it, grinning like a fool at the tide-stained measuring tape: 27 inches.