When Dawn Gave Me a Second Chance

The air smelled of wet pine as I launched my kayak into the mist-shrouded lake. My 路亚竿 trembled in the chilly predawn stillness, its neon green braid disappearing into water so black it seemed to swallow the beam of my headlamp whole. Somewhere beyond the curtain of fog, bass were hunting - I could hear their morning symphony of surface strikes echoing like popcorn kernels bursting.

Three hours later, the sun burned through the haze to reveal my humiliation. Empty livewell. Snagged lures. Blisters from frantic casting. 'Maybe the thermocline shifted,' I muttered, reeling in another untouched swim jig. The lake chuckled with lazy ripples, mocking my 纺车轮's mechanical whine.

Then I saw them - concentric rings radiating near a submerged oak limb I'd passed twelve times. Heart pounding, I sent a purple worm sailing. The line jumped alive before I even started the retrieve. What followed wasn't fishing - it was warfare. The smallmouth breached twice, shaking dawn's last raindrops from its bronze flanks like liquid armor.

When I finally lipped her, sunlight glinted off the lure's hook point barely nicking the jaw corner. The fish had chosen to bite, not been forced. As she swam away, her tail kick painted a shimmering question mark on the water's surface.