When the Fog Held Secrets

3:17AM. The dashboard thermometer blinked 54°F as my truck tires crunched over oyster shells at Port Aransas boat ramp. Salt-tinged mist clung to my beard—the kind of damp cold that seeps into knuckles and makes spinning reel handles feel like ice cubes. I always bring Grandpa's rusted Zippo, not for smoking, but for the click-clack sound that somehow says 'today's the day'.

'Redfish don't read tide charts,' I muttered, watching my kayak disappear into the milky darkness. The GPS showed I'd reached the grass flats, but visibility stopped at my rod tip. First cast sent a soft plastic shrimp sailing into nothingness. The pop-pop of surface strikes teased from every direction—invisible fish mocking a blind man.

By sunrise, my coffee thermos held more saltwater than coffee. That's when the east wind arrived, peeling back the fog like stage curtains. Emerald seagrass swayed beneath crystalline water, revealing torpedo shadows gliding toward the mangroves. My next cast landed short. The shrimp imitation twitched once, then got inhaled by a copper flash that bent my rod into a rainbow.

Twenty-three inches of spotted seatrout thrashed in my lap, its gills puffing briny breath onto my camera lens. I held it facing the receding fog bank. 'You thought you could hide them,' I told the vanishing mist. The fish answered with a slap to my thigh before disappearing into the glittering surface.

The drive home smelled of seaweed and diesel. At the red light, I noticed Grandpa's Zippo in my cup holder—lid open, unlit. Maybe tomorrow it'll spark.