When the Tide Started Lying

3:17AM. My boots sank into the marsh mud as the outgoing tide whispered secrets through cordgrass. The redfish should've been gorging on 软饵 in this drainage channel, according to my tide charts. But the brackish water felt lethargic, a hungover giant stretching too slowly.

My kayak slid through the mist, rod holder trembling with each paddle stroke. 'Should've brought the spinning reel,' I muttered, knuckles whitening on the fly rod. The third false cast sent a shrimp imitation plopping where the drop-off should have been. Nothing.

By sunrise, I'd become a human windsock - legs braced against the current that suddenly reversed two hours early. Salt crusted my lips. That's when the 纺车轮 started singing. Line peeled off like spider silk in a hurricane. The rod bent double, cork grip groaning under pressure.

Twenty minutes later, I cradled a 28-inch redfish whose bronze scales mirrored the rising sun. Its gills flared once, twice, before the fish torpedoed back into the murk. The tide continued its deceitful retreat, leaving me knee-deep in revelation: sometimes the water lies so the truth can bite harder.