When the Ripples Spoke

Three cups of coffee couldn't warm my stiff fingers as I launched the kayak into the mist-shrouded river. The spinning reel clicked like a metronome with each practiced cast, its rhythm syncing with the woodpecker's morning cadence. By sunrise, my cooler held nothing but condensation and regret.

It was the peculiar swirl near submerged timber that broke the trance - not the lazy circles of feeding fish, but tight concentric waves suggesting something deliberate. My jerkbait landed a hair too left. The water erupted in a silver explosion that sent my hat spiraling into the drink.

Forty-seven seconds. That's how long the smallmouth bulldogged, its tail slapping surface algae into emerald confetti. When I finally lip-landed the bronze battler, its gills flared like diesel engine valves. The release felt anticlimactic - no trophy photo, just fading ripples whispering secrets I'm still deciphering.