
Our boat decks were awash in a sickly green light, like nuclear phosphorescence. I played out cord, lowering the submersible fish light and thus diminishing the greenness on deck as it sank deeper. We were night fishing, suspended in our center console boat between the blank black lake below and the twinkling lamps of the stars above. A bank of clouds hid the gibbous moon, which nevertheless threatened to break free. Minutes passed, and baitfish began to flit into the light—tentative at first, like moths to an emerald flame, then in force. Within an hour we had a tornado of bait, circling, pulsating: a perfect beacon of light and food for striped bass.
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