The Cast That Broke the Silence

3:47AM blinked on my weathered dive watch as thermos coffee burned my tongue. White River's fog clung to my waders like cold syrup. I always start with the spinnerbait Grandpa gave me - its chipped paint smells like childhood summers.

First casts sliced through mist with metallic whirs. Nothing. Not even the usual smallmouth nipping at my line. By sunrise, my shoulders remembered last week's shoulder surgery.

'Try the damn nightcrawlers,' muttered Jake from his folding stool. Our decades-old competition hung heavier than the fog. That's when I saw them - subtle ripples beneath the sycamore snag even the swallows avoided.

Three casts. Five. The sixth landed with surgical precision. The strike nearly yanked the fluorocarbon line clean off my reel. Drag screamed like a banshee as 30 yards disappeared upstream. 'Paddle!' I roared, though Jake was already poling the johnboat.

When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flank glittered with river secrets. My shaking hands measured 22 inches before the release. Jake wordlessly handed me his whiskey flask - our truce in a single swallow.