When the Monsoon Whispers to Mangroves

My boots sank into chocolate-colored mud as predawn lightning silhouetted the flooded mangroves. I'd been chasing peacock bass in this estuary since the rains began, their emerald flanks flashing through tannin-stained waters like submerged jewels.

'Should've brought the kayak,' I grumbled, wrestling my topwater lure free from aerial roots. The monsoon had transformed familiar trails into labyrinthine waterways, where armored catfish now swam through what were hiking paths last month.

Three hours of fruitless casting left my polarized glasses speckled with rain. Then it happened - the gurgling strike that turns guides into believers. My braid sawed through mangrove prop roots as a cobalt-streaked warrior dove deep, its tail kicks telegraphing through the rod like Morse code. When I finally lipped the thrashing bass, monsoon water dripped from my hat brim onto its psychedelic flanks, blending our struggles into one liquid moment.

Walking back through the rising tide, I realized the mangroves weren't flooded at all - we fishermen were simply temporary guests in their aquatic kingdom.