When the River Whispered at Dawn

3:17 AM. The digital clock's glow illuminated my dusty tackle box as I snapped shut the rusted latch. Full moon shadows danced across the garage where my frog lure sat waiting - its yellow legs still crusted with last season's algae. The James River never sleeps, but tonight it hummed a different tune through my screen window.

Dew soaked through my boots before I even reached the kayak launch. That particular chill crawling up denim legs - nature's caffeine. My headlamp caught pairs of glowing eyes along the bank, raccoon sentries monitoring this human foolishness. 'Just one cast,' I lied to myself, knowing full well that first cup of coffee would grow cold in the thermos.

Two hours of fruitless pitching between cypress knees. My braided line started fraying from overzealous backlash corrections. Then the surface boiled - not the lazy pop of bream, but the violent swirl of something that shouldn't be here. The chartreuse frog disappeared in a suction cup explosion.

Twenty-three pounds of scales and fury bent my rod into a question mark. 'You're supposed to be in saltwater!' I shouted at the striped bass hybrid now towing my kayak toward the shipping channel. Its gills rattled like maracas as we played tug-of-war through duckweed islands.

When the sun finally crested, I sat soaking wet with my back against a sycamore. The released beast's tail slap still echoed in my ears. Somewhere downstream, my favorite hat floated toward Richmond. Somewhere upstream, a fisherman's myth was being born.