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You're up with the sun, coffee in hand while the marsh wakes up.

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Your captain idles out through the bayou, past the crab traps and oyster beds, into the shallows where the grass meets the water. He cuts the motor. Now it's quiet—just the push pole, the wind, and your eyes scanning the water.

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Then you see it. A bronze tail breaks the surface, catches the light, disappears. Another one. Your captain calls the clock. You strip line, false cast twice, and drop the fly three feet ahead of the fish.

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The tail goes down. The line goes tight.

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This is why you came.