At the outer bar, my pocket radio usually picks up a cheerful mixture of weather and static. Tonight it delivered one low hum, then stopped. I tapped it twice. The water answered with a heavy slap against the hull.
I had brought a spinner made from a shell-shaped metal blank. In daylight it looked unimpressive. Beneath the purple evening sky, its pale underside caught the last light each time I turned the handle. A broad wake began to follow it.
A signal through the salt
The bass struck just outside the circle cast by my lantern. For several seconds, I knew it only by weight. Then it rose, silver along the shoulder, large enough to hide the reflection of the tower. I forgot the radio completely.
I guided the fish beside the skiff and freed the spinner without lifting it from the water. As its tail disappeared, the receiver crackled back to life. I switched it off. There was nothing on any channel that could improve that ending.
Some silences deserve your complete attention.
