The Current's Game

3:17AM. My waders hissed like angry snakes as I stumbled down the mossy bank. Suwannee River's black water swallowed my spinnerbait whole, the silver blades catching moonlight for half a heartbeat before disappearing. 'They're feeding on shad tonight,' the bait shop guy had insisted, though the lifeless surface suggested otherwise.

By sunrise, my coffee thermos held more regrets than caffeine. A blue heron watched from the opposite shore, head cocked in what I swore was mockery. Just as I debated switching to plastic worms, the line twitched – not a strike, but that peculiar shimmy when bass mouth your lure without committing.

'Play the game,' I muttered, making the bait hop like injured prey. The river erupted. My rod arched into a trembling U, braided line singing against current. For six glorious minutes, we danced – me reeling, it surging, both of us forgetting this wasn't some wilderness showdown but a Tuesday morning work escape. When I finally lipped the 4-pounder, its gills flared crimson against dawn's peach tones.

The heron took flight as I released the fish. Maybe next time, old bird. Maybe next time.