When the Fog Lifted, the Bass Bit

The dock creaked under my boots as I loaded the canoe at 5:17 AM. A cotton-thick fog swallowed Lake Marion whole, turning my headlamp beam into a hazy halo. I rubbed sleep from my eyes while triple-checking my tackle box – last month's forgotten jighead incident still fresh in my memory.

Paddling through the milky stillness, every drip from my oar sounded like a bass breach. I anchored near the drowned oak skeleton where I'd lost a lunker two seasons prior. 'Third time's the charm,' I whispered to the mist, tying on a black/blue chatterbait.

By mid-morning, my coffee thermos sat empty and seven fruitless casts mocked my optimism. The sun burned through the fog just as my fluorocarbon line snagged on submerged branches. 'Perfect,' I groaned, yanking hard. The 'snag' suddenly surged left.

Rod tip plunging toward the tannin-stained water, I braced against the gunwale. The old oak's ghostly limbs thumped the canoe's underside as the bass tried to wrap my line. 'Not this time,' I hissed, thumbing the spool. When she finally surfaced, morning sunlight glinted off armored scales like liquid mercury.

Back at the dock, I watched her glide from my hands into the still-smoky cove. The fog had lifted entirely now, revealing ripples that spread wider than any I'd seen before.