When the Tides Whispered Secrets

The predawn salt air stung my nostrils as I waded into the brackish water, my headlamp cutting through the mist like a light saber. Somewhere in this Georgia estuary, redfish were tailing - if the tide charts and my rusty fishing reel could be trusted. My lucky copper penny (always in my left wader pocket) felt heavier than usual.

First casts with the popping cork yielded nothing but angry pinfish. 'Should've stayed in bed,' I muttered, watching a shrimp boat's running lights blink on the horizon. Then the water exploded twenty yards upstream. Not the polite *bloop* of feeding fish, but a car-crash splash that sent mullet airborne.

I nearly tripped over an oyster bed scrambling toward the commotion. My hands shook as I tied on a swimbait the color of bruised mullet. The lure landed with a perfect *plink*. One twitch. Two. Then the line came alive, zipping sideways like a rattlesnake's tongue.

What happened next was all shoulders burning and drag screaming. The fish plowed through a cordgrass island, then tried to wrap me around a crab trap buoy. When I finally lipped her - 31 inches of spotted bronze armor - we both paused, gasping. Her gills flared against my palm like war paint.

As I released her, the rising sun turned the marsh gold. The shrimp boat's diesel thrummed closer. I smiled, knowing exactly why they call it 'fishing' instead of 'catching'.