When the Tides Whispered Secrets

3:17AM flashed on my dashboard as the truck tires crunched over oyster shells. The salt marsh air hung thick enough to taste – equal parts decaying cordgrass and promise. I patted the worn popping frog in my shirt pocket, its paint chipped from last season's redfish battles.

Moonlight revealed the telltale V-wakes cutting through flooded spartina grass. 'They're chasing bait in ankle-deep water,' I muttered, wading through pluff mud that suctioned my boots like nature's quicksand. Three casts yielded nothing but mocking splashes. The fourth... silence.

Then the water exploded. My braided line hissed through gloved fingers as the redfish turned the shallows into a rooster tail spectacle. The drag sang its metallic hymn, counterpoint to my pounding heartbeat. When I finally lipped the copper-colored warrior, dawn's first light gilded its scales.

As released fish vanished into the rising tide, I noticed my lucky keychain floating nearby – must've ripped off during the fight. The marsh always claims something, leaves something better in return.