By late afternoon, rain had flattened every colour in the harbour. The cranes were grey, the buildings were grey and even the orange buoy looked tired. I stood beneath the workshop awning until a broad wake crossed the water beside the north rail.
The copper spoon was too bright for my mood. I chose an old dark spinner, almost black except at the edges. It made a low pulse through the rod as I worked it along the shelter of the wall.
The tide changes the timetable
The bass took halfway through the retrieve. I felt a solid weight, then a sudden movement toward the open harbour. Rain ran off my sleeves. The fish surfaced once, showing a pale flank against all that grey, and changed the entire picture.
I brought it into the quiet water behind the rail and slipped out the hook. My hands were cold, the notebook was wet and the workshop light looked impossibly welcoming. I dried the spinner beside the stove. It had earned another place in the box.
A difficult-looking day can contain one remarkably clear moment.
