When I woke with the morning’s sunrise, the outdoor thermometer read 61 degrees. The dead season is almost over. All the little gits that cut you off at the local break will be back in school. Boats pulling tubers through prime topwater bust locations will disappear. Jet skis will decline precipitously. This is our time*. We just need the fish to hold up their end of the bargain. Come on, predators, show us what you got.   *With the exception of sailors and their fall races, which don’t really bother anything anyhow.