When the Fog Lifted at Deadman's Cove

The thermometer read 43°F when I kissed my thermos of bitter coffee – a ritual older than my marriage license. My waders squeaked like tortured mice as I navigated the dew-slick dock. Somewhere in the predawn murk, a composite spinnerbait waited in my tackle box, its skirt still damp from last week's missed strikes.

First casts sliced through mist that smelled of drowned pine needles. For ninety minutes, my fluorocarbon line drew nothing but spiderwebs of reflected sunrise. Then the screaming started – not mine, but the drag system on my Shimano as something primal bent the rod into a question mark.

『You'll need bigger net,』 I muttered to the thrashing shadow, remembering how last season's trophy snapped my landing net like kindling. The bass breached in a shower of liquid diamonds, its gills flaring wider than my spread fingers. When my thumb finally brushed its sandpaper jaw, the fog lifted to reveal six other boats silently encircling my honey hole.

Back at the ramp, a teenager eyed my catch. 『What'd she bite?』 he asked. I just smiled, listening to the ice crystals melt in my forgotten coffee. Some secrets float better than others.