When the Fog Lifted

Three cups of bitter coffee couldn't wash away the swamp chill clinging to my bones. The airboat's fan sliced through pea soup fog as we glided into Everglades' backcountry. My fishing buddy Jimmy kept squinting at his depth finder like it owed him money. 'Should've brought the spinnerbait,' he muttered, watching mullet jump where our lures sat ignored.

By noon the humidity had melted my sunscreen into eye-stinging streaks. I was re-tying a fluoro leader for the ninth time when the water exploded. Not the good kind of explosion - an alligator's tail sent Jimmy's hat spinning into the sawgrass. We sat frozen, laughter bubbling up as adrenaline faded.

That's when the fog lifted. Golden light revealed tarpon rolling in the suddenly visible channel. My first cast landed behind a cruising silver king. The line came tight with that electric 'thrum' only tarpon create. For eight glorious minutes I danced with living mercury until the hook shook free.

We motored home sunburned and fishless, yet somehow satisfied. Sometimes the glades gives trophies. Sometimes it gives stories. Today, we got both.