The Whisper of Dawn

3:17 AM. My thermos clicked open, releasing the acrid tang of burnt coffee that mingled with diesel fumes at the boat ramp. The spinnerbait in my tackle box rattled like loose change as I hauled gear into the skiff. 'Should've stayed in bed,' I muttered, eyeing the mercury-red glow on the horizon - the kind of sunrise that either promises glory or laughs at your hubris.

By 5:30 AM, my optimism had dissolved faster than the fog over the lily pads. Three snagged lures, one snapped line, and a blue heron that seemed to mock me with its side-eye. 'Last cast,' I lied to myself for the seventh time, thumbing the 10-pound fluorocarbon line spooled on my favorite reel.

The strike came as my lure kissed a cypress knee. Line screamed off the drag with a metallic whine that sent egrets skyward. Twenty brutal minutes later, I cradled a bronze-backed brute whose thrash painted my shirt with lakewater and victory. Its final snap of the tail before release sounded suspiciously like applause.

Driving home, I realized the fish hadn't been hiding in the water - they'd been waiting in that fragile moment between frustration and perseverance.