A good bird dog could not have gone on point any better.
Chuck Porter leaned forward, nose in the air, and turned his head slightly. Then he locked up solid. He slowly stretched out his arm and pointed to a tiny pocket of open water in a small clump of cypress trees about 30 feet in front of us.
It was a nearly windless morning and the sun was just turning a black night into the grayness of predawn at Atlantic Beach.
Twin 250 Yamaha four-stroke engines mumbled quietly as they warmed up, and the turbulence of the engines vibrations on the otherwise quiet water of the boat harbor foretold which boat was being readied for a day of fishing.
I tossed a medium-running crankbait across one of my favorite points at Tuckertown Lake while my fishing buddy, Emery Hollar of Lexington, followed suit. My bait bounced along the gravel bottom, slowly loaded up, and ceased to wobble.