When the Fog Lifted at Willow Creek

3:17AM. My thermos of black coffee steamed up the truck's windshield as I pulled into the deserted boat ramp. The spinnerbait in my tackle box rattled with each pothole - a nervous symphony that matched my heartbeat. Full moon tides were supposed to make the redfish swarm the mangrove edges, but the fog... this damn fog turned everything into a ghost world.

My kayak sliced through the mist, guided more by memory than sight. The familiar 'clack-clack' of my paddle hitting oyster beds told me I'd reached the honey hole. First cast landed with a perfect 'plop', the chartreuse popper dancing through coffee-colored water. Nothing. Three hours later, my casting arm felt like lead and the sun still hadn't burned through.

'Should've stayed in bed,' I muttered, reaching for my last soft plastic. That's when the fog lifted just enough to reveal concentric ripples near a half-submerged log. I froze mid-cast - the kind of stillness where you can hear line peeling off your reel before you've even set the hook.

The drag screamed like a banshee. Twenty yards of braid disappeared into the murk before I felt the headshake - that glorious, heart-stopping tremor through the rod. The redfish surfaced in a golden flash, tail slapping the water like a defiant drummer. When I finally lipped it, scales left glitter on my wedding band.

As I released the fish, sunlight finally pierced through. The fog hadn't lifted - it moved. And somewhere in that shifting mist, I realized stubbornness isn't always a vice.