When the Redfish Taught Me Timing

The moon still hung over Padre Island when my boot soles crunched on oyster shells. I could taste salt in the 3am breeze - the kind that makes soft bait smell alive. My grandfather's rusty compass (always in my left pocket) felt warm against my thigh as I waded into the ink-black lagoon.

First casts landed like poetry. The popping cork's bloop-blip echoed across the flats. But by sunrise, my cooler held only shame and three pinfish. 'Maybe the tides...' I muttered, adjusting my leader line for the twelfth time. That's when the water coughed.

A bronze tail fanned the surface thirty yards out - not cruising, but prowling. My hands forgot last night's tequila shakes as I tied a crab imitation. The cast fell short. The redfish turned. My heart sank... then leapt as three more tails broke the surface behind me.

What happened next felt like ballet with a bulldozer. The strike bent my rod into a question mark. Braid sizzled through water, the redfish painting neon green streaks across the morning. When I finally gripped its copper flank, the compass in my pocket vibrated - or maybe that was just my pounding heartbeat.

As released fish vanished into the glittering haze, I finally understood: tides wait for no one, but sometimes... sometimes they circle back to gift the prepared.