When the Fog Held Secrets

The dock's wooden planks creaked under my waders as pre-dawn mist clung to my beard like liquid spiderwebs. I always bring my grandfather's lucky coin – rub it three times before first cast. Today, the quarter felt heavier than usual.

Shallow ripples betrayed baitfish schools near the lily pads. Three casts with my trusty soft plastic craw yielded nothing but phantom strikes. 'Maybe the big girls slept in,' I muttered, watching a heron stab unsuccessfully at the water.

Sunlight burned through the fog just as my line twitched differently – not the tentative pecks of bluegill, but a deliberate pull. The rod arched violently when I set the hook. Drag screamed as the unseen brute plowed through submerged timber. 'Don't you dare,' I growled, thumb pressing the spinning reel like a panic button.

When the 22-inch smallmouth finally surfaced, its golden flanks glowed like submerged treasure. As I released her, fog fingers retreated across the water, taking their secrets back to deep water.