Puppy Drum in Inches of Water (back when it was warmer)

        There's the sound of a splash.  Over there.  Off to the right.  Right on the edge of that thin, stick-like, sparse and spread out bit of spartina grass.  25 yards from the skiff and closing, with the boat drifting ever closer as the tide pulls it out of the tidal salt marsh.  Ever closer.  Won't be long until the fish sees the boat and it'll be too late.  There's a wake, like a bow-wave of some miniature coastal Carolina submarine, chasing bait.  

        Sling a cast just ahead of it.  Bump.  Bump.  The line goes tight, you feel the tension, you set the hook, and the rod bends over.  The fish runs.  Line peels off the spool.  Steer him clear of the oysters.  You work him back.  He runs again.  Work him in, closer and closer.  Closer.  Scoop him in the net.  Doesn't get much prettier.  




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