There is a quiet, rhythmic beauty in the way the Michigan shoreline gives up its secrets to those who know where to look.
I remember early mornings on the pier when the mist was so thick you could only hear the low groan of the foghorns and the slapping of cold water against the pilings.
We would wait for the commercial boats to return, their decks slick with the silver scales of whitefish and trout that had been swimming in the deep just hours before…