When the Ripples Spoke in Silver

3:47 AM. The digital clock's glow illuminated my fishing vest thrown over the motel chair. Lake Champlain's night breeze carried the sharp tang of decaying lily pads through the open window. My fingers automatically checked the fluorocarbon line spooled on the baitcaster - still smooth from yesterday's conditioning.

By dawn's first gray whispers, my kayak floated where the weedlines fingered into deep water. A northern pike's explosive strike came unexpectedly, bending the rod double before I'd even settled. 'Not bad for warm-up,' I chuckled, admiring its emerald flanks before release.

The morning sun brought frustration. My favorite swimbait kept surfacing with shredded tails but no fish. 'Maybe they want it wounded,' I muttered, modifying the retrieve. When the twin shadows materialized beneath the kayak, breath caught in my throat. Two smallmouth bass - easily 4-pounders - circling like submarines.

Three casts. Four. On the fifth, the lead fish inhaled the jighead with a suction pop audible over lapping waves. The fight became a dance: rod tip painting cursive S's in air, drag singing protest songs. At boatside, the bronze warrior leaped, showering me in liquid diamonds that caught the rising sun.

As I released her, a bead of water slid down my wristwatch. The second hand continued its march, indifferent to moments that stretch lifetimes. Somewhere below, the twin shadows resumed their patrol.