The Foggy Morning Bargain

3:47AM blinked on my wristwatch as truck tires crunched over oyster shells at Cedar Key boat ramp. Salt-tinged fog clung to my beard, that peculiar Gulf Coast humidity that makes every breath feel like sipping lukewarm broth. I paused to tighten the fluorocarbon line on my reel - yesterday's snapped leader still fresh in memory.

'Should've brought the thermos,' I muttered, watching moonlight fracture through thickening fog banks. My lucky copper jig felt heavy in trembling fingers. The fifth cast sent concentric ripples through water smooth as obsidian. Then nothing. For three hours, nothing.

Sunrise painted the mist peach-colored when it happened - two quick tugs followed by screaming drag. The spinnerbait disappeared into a silver whirlpool. Rod bowed like Excalibur's scabbard, salt spray stinging my eyes. 'Not today, old friend,' I growled through clenched teeth, forearm muscles burning as the unseen beast surged seaward.

When the redfish finally rolled sideways at knees, its bronze scales glowed like molten pennies. I knelt in the shallows, marveling at gills flaring in primal rhythm. The release sent crystalline droplets arcing through dawn's first proper rays - nature's fist bump. My empty thermos suddenly didn't matter.