When the Jig Met the Tide

3:17AM. The Numbers Game app showed incoming tide in 43 minutes. My waders squeaked with every step toward the marsh channel, the kind of sound that carries too far on still nights. I paused to adjust the fluorocarbon leader – 12-pound test for these spooky redfish, or so the YouTube experts claimed.

First casts landed with the precision of a metronome. Pop...pause...twitch. Nothing but phantom strikes and seaweed. 'Should've brought the damn shrimp,' I muttered, watching a shrimp boat's running lights blink on the horizon. My lucky jig head felt heavier with each retrieve.

The turning point came with the gurgle of water reversing direction. Suddenly my line started tracing Z shapes between oyster beds. Strip set. The rod doubled over as if hooked on a submarine. Twenty yards of backing disappeared before I remembered to thumb the spool. 'Talk to me, baby,' I crooned to the thrashing silhouette, salt spray stinging my lips. When the 27-inch red finally slid onto the mudflat, its bronze scales mirrored the first sunrise colors.

Driving home with tail slaps still echoing in the cooler, I realized: Tides wait for no man, but sometimes they leave gifts when you dance to their rhythm.