When the Marsh Whispered Secrets

Three hours before sunrise, my waders squelched through pluff mud as barred owls exchanged questions across the Louisiana marsh. I came searching for bull redfish, though my soft plastic lure was currently snagged on an oyster bed - again. 'Should've used heavier braided line,' I muttered, spitting out the bitter tang of saltwater spray.

The fourth cast landed behind a clump of spartina grass just as dawn cracked the sky. Something slapped the surface with a crack like pistol fire. My rod doubled over before I finished counting down the lure. 'Not another damn sheepshead,' I groaned, but the blistering run told a different story. For twenty breathless minutes, the unseen beast towed my kayak through tidal creeks, peeling line until my spinning reel's spool showed bare metal.

When the copper-colored brute finally surfaced, its tail left a bruise on my thigh during the release. The rising sun revealed why it fought so dirty - my lure dangled beside a healed scar where some charter boat's leader still trailed from its jaw. As the redfish vanished into the coffee-colored water, I swear it winked.