When the Mangroves Whispered Secrets

3:47 AM. My boots sank into marsh grass still glittering with nocturnal dew as the airboat's spotlight carved tunnels through fluorocarbon leader. The Everglades breathed around me - a symphony of gurgling tides and distant mullet leaps. I'd come for Florida's silver ghosts: tarpon that turn dawn into liquid mercury.

The third cast hooked nothing but mangrove limbs. 'Should've brought heavier tackle,' I muttered, watching another spoon lure disappear into brackish shadows. By sunrise, my knuckles bore crimson hieroglyphs from braided line burns.

Then the tide turned. Literally. Water began draining from the flats like bathwater swirling down a drain. In the newly exposed mud, nervous baitfish flickered. My fly landed with the subtlety of falling coconut. The eat wasn't a strike - it was the entire ocean inhaling.

For seventeen breathless minutes, the tarpon danced on its tail, gills flaring scarlet in the newborn light. When the release finally came, my trembling fingers traced its flank, memorizing the map of stardust scales.

The mangroves keep their time in tidal rhythms, not hours. And sometimes, if you listen between the splash and struggle, they'll tell you exactly when to cast.