The sail cat

The sun hadn’t quite poked over the mangroves off to the east, so it hadn’t had the chance to burn off the thin film of humid mist hanging over the dark waters of Matlacha Pass. With each uncertain stroke, I powered the much-too-small, lime-green borrowed kayak across the bay, headed toward a cut in the mangroves about a half-mile away in hopes of arriving early enough to stake out some prime fly fishing water.