When the Lily Pads Started Whispering

Three cups of coffee still couldn't warm my fingers as the aluminum boat cut through pre-dawn mist. The swamp smelled of wet moss and yesterday's rain, a scent that always makes my spinning reel feel heavier in hand. Somewhere beyond the cypress knees, largemouth bass were pushing through duckweed carpets for their breakfast buffet.

My fifth cast landed perfectly in the pocket between two lily pads. The frog lure's rubber legs twitched like they had a nervous condition. 'Any second now,' I whispered to the heron watching from a dead branch. The bird didn't blink.

By sunrise, my optimism had sunk faster than a Carolina rig. I was down to my last bag of pumpkinseed worms when the water erupted twenty feet left of my target. Not a fish strike – a goddamn alligator's tail slap sent my hat flying. The heron finally moved, but only to switch perches.

As I retied my leader with trembling hands, ripples began circling a half-submerged log I'd passed six times. The cast landed softer than a dragonfly's kiss. Two heartbeats. Then the line went tight with that electric moment when prey becomes predator. The drag screamed like a teakettle as thirty feet of braid disappeared into coffee-colored water.

When the bass finally surfaced, its gills flared wide enough to swallow my fist. We stared at each other through the murky water – me panting, it calculating escape routes. The scale needle trembled at 7 pounds before dipping back toward six. Doesn't matter. Some weights aren't measured in ounces.