Hooked On Snook!

After a week of ‘Disney Hell’ the view from the beach house waseverything I could hope for. Seven days of getting up early, drivingto the various parks, queuing, paying through the nose for everythingthen returning in the dark had taken its toll. Don’t get me wrong Ihad enjoyed myself and more importantly the kids (Karlie 13 and Amy7) had loved it. But now was time to relax – and fish.

By arriving without any reservations and booking late we were ableto secure a lovely beach house on Florida’s Gulf of Mexico at afraction of its advertised cost. Just 50 yards down the beach was afishing pier, aptly named ‘The Rod and Reel Pier’, complete with barand restaurant – what more could a guy ask for?

First evening saw me down the beach in an area I’d earmarkedearlier when collecting shells with the girls. At one point on thebeach a deep channel of flowing water cut very close to the edgeproducing a very fishy looking drop off with a constant flow,regardless of the tide. Armed with a pike Jerkbait rod, ABUmultiplier, 100lb braid and wire trace plus a small spinning outfit Iwas ready for anything. The plan was to catch some livebait with thelighter set-up then fish for skate or shark (the latter apparentlybeing very plentiful) with the jerkbait set up. Did it go to plan? ofcourse not. After about an hour all I had landed was three catfishof about two pounds each on strips of squid. Now there are not manyfish that I actually dislike but these saltwater catfish fall intothat category. The main reasons being they eat anything you cast outand they contain a vicious spike on both pectoral fins and on thedorsal fin, making unhooking an ordeal. The spike, when touched is sosharp that it will penetrate to the bone and although not poisonousgives a constant dull ache and causes the area to swell considerably- lovely!

Anyway, I digress. After about a couple of hours something pickedup the squid giving a really slow take on my ‘bit’ rod. Upon strikingsomething decided to make its way across to Tampa Bay slowly emptyingthe spool of 10lb mono in the process. I would love to say that Iturned it but in truth it just decided to stop swimming away from me,turned around and came and back towards the beach. For about 30minutes it swam around in front of me and in the end I don’t think itgot tired, instead it just got bored of the game and swam ashore forme to unhook it. It turned out to be a stingray and was estimated ataround 25lb and was apparently quite large for this area. Now it justsat in 2 inches of water staring me straight in the eye, daring me topick it up. Amongst the crowd that had gathered on the beach was anAmerican angler who told me how to do this.

“Just grab it behind the head in the gill holes just behind itseyes. You should be OK they don’t normally lash out”

“Err, ….SHOULD be OK” I asked.

“Yeah, about one in ten lash out and if they do make sure you getoutta there buddy”

“What happens if it gets me ? ” I asked. My colour rapidlydraining.

“The pain will be so bad you’ll ask me to cut your arm off,apparently the pain is unbelievable” he helpfully informed me.

“Bye, bye stinger” I said as I cut through the line, allowing himto swim away. I mean, I wouldn’t have minded a photo, but riskingcutting my own arm off with a rusty penknife was a bit extreme.

At this point I set off back up the beach, the light was fallingrapidly and I was ready for a beer or two to celebrate the capture(half capture?) of the stinger. In the sea adjacent to the drop offstood an angler. He was up to his thighs in the sea and was holding asmall spinning rod in one hand. Occasionally he would flick the baitout (a small live fish) in the direction of something he couldobviously see in the clear water. Fascinated I put my gear down andsat quietly on the sand behind him. After a while we struck up aconversation and he invited me to wade quietly out to join him in thesurf.

He told me he was fishing for Snook and told me they were justabout the most exiting fish that swam these waters. He was freeliningsmall ‘pinfish’ and casting to individual fish that moved out of thedeep channel attacking the small fish that bordered the beach. As Ispoke to him a dark shape ghosted out of the depths slowly cominginto focus and revealing a fish of around 10 or 12 pounds. He flickedthe bait in front of it and it advanced forward sucking in the baitin one rapid movement. As he struck the water exploded, the snookbroke the surface tailwalking spectacularly no more than 5 yards fromwhere I stood, its bony mouth shedding both bait and hook in onemovement. He laughed…

“Happens all the time buddy.” He explained “These snook have realbony mouths and its real difficult to get a good hook up, but its funtrying though” he laughed.

I said my goodbyes and set off back down the beach, reliving thatmoment over and over again. I knew already that despite the largevariety of much bigger fish that I could expect to catch the rest ofthe week would be spent trying to catch one of these marvellous fish- I was hooked!

Day two and disaster struck, Anna Marie Island was on the nationalnews. A tropical storm had hit us overnight, ripping the roof off anearby hotel and depositing as much rain as you would expect in anormal weekend in Manchester. It was actually quite worrying; thethunder in the night was so load that the house actually shook and inthe morning the sight that greeted us was not a pleasant one. Palmbranches were scattered everywhere and the roads were more akin torivers than strips of tarmac. In fact we found to our dismay thatthis was to last 48 hours and that part of the island was alreadyunderwater. Great – I may as well have gone to Anglesey!

With nothing else to do we spent the couple of days drinking andeating…and drinking…and drinking. Well I was on holidayafter all. Two days later however and everything was fine, thetemperatures were back in the high nineties with just the usualtorrential downpour during late afternoon. The worst part of theprevious two days was unfortunately all too apparent. The sea insteadof the usual crystal clear colour associated with the Gulf of Mexicowas highly coloured. Would this affect the fishing? unfortunately theanswer was yes. Not only did the coloured water mean that most of thefish I would like to catch tarpon, Dorado, jacks, redfish and ofcourse snook would be well offshore swimming the bluewater line, italso meant the catfish really came on the feed.. arrggghhhhhh!

For the next few days I fished off the pier catching a variety offish including small stingray, salt-water perch and spadefish. Thesewere fun, especially as I could fish with a draught lager in my handbut I kept hearing the locals talking snook. These fish wereobviously highly prized and a few enquiries showed that they wereindeed right at the top of most Florida game fisherman’s ‘mostwanted’ list. Apparently they hit baits hard are often impossible tohit, and even then they usually shed the hook. They fight dirty,leaping continuously whilst changing direction with every burst ofspeed. Unfortunately for them they tasted good as well but this wasof little importance to me as I had repeatedly puzzled the localfishermen by returning everything I had caught.

The next part of this tale seems, I’m sure, far fetched. If thesequence of events leading to the capture of my first (and only)snook on the last night of my vacation (see, I’m even talkingAmerican now) had been told to me by someone else then I would haveput it down to a colourful imagination. But I do assure you, thefollowing events actually happened.

I gazed out over the sea, feeling slightly sad. Today was the lastday of my holiday, I had spent the last couple of hours helping mytwo daughters to unhook a succession of fish they had landed betweenthem off the ‘Rod and Reel Pier’ it had been great fun. Both girlshad caught a multitude of fish; Karlie even landing a three-footbonnet shark took which had taken a live jumbo prawn. But I feltcheated, my chance of a snook had been cruelly snatched from me bythe weather, the water had cleared somewhat now, not like it had beenupon arrival but sufficient for the sport fish to be moving backinshore, I’d missed the best fishing by a week.

Suddenly it dawned on me, I was being defeatist, had I been athome after barbel or chub the conditions wouldn’t have stopped me,made it harder yes, but not prevented me from catching. Sod it,tonight was to be all or nothing I was after snook!

We left the pier early and I went back to the house to prepare.First of all I needed bait, and not just any bait, enquiries at thelocal tackle shop had confirmed that I needed live fish, prawn wasokay but fish was best and it HAD to be live, no chance of a snook ona deadbait. Half an hour later I was fishing a little harbour with an18’s hook tied to 1.5lbs hooklink, a bucketful of bait was now a mereformality. After 2 hours I was still biteless and it was lateafternoon. If I wanted a snook peak time was dusk and time wasrunning out, it was then that my first bit of luck happened.

A local angler, himself out baitfishing decided to show me how itwas done. Two minutes later with a castnet he had a bucket of livesardine (not the ones we use for pike fishing this was a lot smallerand resembles a fat bleak!). I swallowed my pride and went over tohim, offering to buy some of his catch. He declined to sell me somebut kindly offered me a dozen for free as he had more than he neededanyway. To my relief twelve super livebaits were hastily placed in mylittle green bucket and I set off running for the pier. Once Iarrived, the bucket, in which I had already drilled holes to allowwater circulation was tied to one of the pier legs and placed in thewater. Hopefully this would ensure the livebaits did not becomedeadbaits whilst I returned to the beach house to prepare my snookgear.

This consisted of a medium weight 11ft carbon spinning rod, smallShimano reel and 10lb Suffix Synergy mono. Due to the hard, abrasiveouter lips and gill plates I had been told I needed a strong monohooklength to prevent a break off. For this I used 24″ of 30lbBerkely Big Game attached via a swivel. To this a size 3/0 hook wastied using a 4 turn grinner. The plan was to freeline the livebaitbut I had a small box of swan shot with me should I need extracasting weight, or to get my bait down fast.

The weather was now starting to worry me; the sky across the baywas getting increasingly dark, with rumbles of thunder being heardacross the bay. My eldest daughter Karlie had come along with me, shewas getting caught up in the excitement and desperately wanted to seedad catch a snook (probably just so I’d shut up talking about them!).I arrived to find another angler already fishing the area I hadearmarked. I put my gear down thirty yards down from him and checkedthe livebaits. Sh*t ! nearly all dead – I quickly removed the deadfish from the bucket to find just five livebaits remaining, the oddswere narrowing by the minute.

I picked up my rod and lip hooked one of the sardines beforecasting into the surf, the rain started – marvellous! I held the linebetween the thumb and forefinger of my left hand this was just likechub fishing with cheesepaste, waiting for the electric feel of apull on the line. I looked up to see the angler to my left lift afish from the surf. In an instant my rod was dropped and I’m runningdown the beach, if I can’t catch one at least I want to see one.Unfortunately I’m too late and he has returned his catch just beforeI arrive.

“Was that a snook?” I asked gasping for breath.

“Yeah, they’re really having it tonight,” he says as he flicks outanother livebait. Just looking at him tells me I’m talking to a guywho knows his stuff. His small fixed spool reel is fully loaded, therod looks like a slim but powerful blank, on the beach his livebaitbucket purrs away as an aerator ensures that unlike mine hislivebaits stay live!

I decide to spend a few minutes chatting, apparently this is anexcellent spot for snook and they are, in his opinion the greatestsporting fish in Florida. This bearing in mind the multitude of gamefish that inhabit this coast is some endorsement. He talks of doradoand tarpon, I of barbel and chub. He enthuses about my river fishingtales and expresses a deep desire to feel the surge of a barbel.Still, I feel somewhat inadequate and envy greatly his way of life.Image having the option of an hour or two tarpon fishing afterwork…….

As we speak he strikes, the small rod bucks violently beforespringing back. He laughs, I couldn’t believe it, I would have beenmortified.

“Beeeeeeeg snook, that guy was,” he says before winding in hisslack line. ” Snapped 25lb test clean through. Have a go here if youlike, he says but be careful, the weathers lookin’ bad”

With that we said our goodbyes and he wandered off down the beach.I thought for a moment what a great sport this is. When two completestrangers meet and behave like they have known each other all theirlives. I can’t think of any other pastime that brings people togetherso completely.

Back to the fishing, soon I’m in his spot (absolutely no scruples)and the livebait hooked earlier is still wriggling so out he goes.Throughout this time the sky was getting increasingly darker, thelightening strikes getting nearer and more frequent and the continuosthunder getting louder. Then the real rain started, I let out agroan. Please, please, just one fish, just one before the storm getstoo bad or all my bait dies. Then it happened, exactly to script; agentle tug on the line preceded a steady pull as the ‘snook’ movedoff with the bait. I struck, yeeesss – I’m in. But it isn’t a greatfight, I thought these guys were supposed to pull back. In the surfit soon became apparent. A bloody catfish had nicked one of myvaluable baits. He was quickly unhooked with some ‘very’ long nosedpliers and released. Out goes another bait, by now the storm was uponus, I can honestly say I was getting scared, the lightening could beclearly seen arcing down across the bay and hitting the sea, the rainwas getting heavier and slowly it dawned on me how stupid I wasbeing.

I was stood up to my waist in salt water, water which I might addwas full of both bull and hammerhead sharks, holding a 11ft carbonlightening conductor in the middle of a huge electrical storm. Forwhat? A fish that I intended to put back immediately aftercapture!

I looked back to the beach, my daughter was sat on the sandlooking at me “Do you want to go back love” I asked.

“No, I want to see a snook” she said ” Catch one then we’ll go” -Bless her!

Another good pull on the line and I’m in, this time it’s obviouswhat I’ve hooked as a snook of around 7-8lbs tailwalks before takingaround 20 yards of line from the spool. He turns towards me and Icrank like mad, keeping contact as he moves past and beyond me. Itwas at that point the hook lost its hold and the line fell slack. Forsome reason someone up there doesn’t like me.

Three livebaits left and one of them is taken on the next cast bya bloody catfish…..I can’t believe this. I’m beginning to reallyhate the things now. Two baits, left out goes one and then thelightening strike that really shook me up happened. No more than acouple of hundred yards away (although it looked like 30) a bolt oflightening arced through a cloud and hit the water. I swear before myvery eyes it vaporised the cloud, hissing loudly and causing a hugesheet of water to crash down into the sea – scary stuff! The rain gotheavier and lightening was arcing down all around and I became veryconscious that by holding the carbon rod I was putting my life atserious risk. I asked Karlie again if she wanted to go and she saidno, she wasn’t going until she had seen a snook on the beach.

Incredibly another vicious take in the middle of all this saw meattached to another snook, this time he broke the surface three timeson his first run before shedding the hook.N-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O……I wailed into the nightthrowing my rod up the beach in anguish. In the words of VictorMeldrew, ‘I just couldn’t believe it.’

A quick check of the rig showed the hook was still razor sharp butthe 30lb mono was severely marked, with heavy abrasions along thelast 6″ or so. Bad angling I know but I decided against tying a newrig, my last livebait was on borrowed time and to be honest I waspretty scared and just wanted to get the bait out and the ordeal overwith.

So, picture the scene, the sky is black, rain is lashing down,bolts of lightening arcing down all around me, it’s the last day ofmy holiday, the last cast of the day, on the last livebait in thebucket. My daughter has already picked up the remaining gear and isstood, rucksack on back ready to go, I’m praying like I’ve neverprayed before for the fishing gods to smile on me when I felt theline once again pull through my fingers. I had already decided whatto do when or if I got my next take. I struck hard, really hard andplayed the fish like I would a 30lb pike heading for an anchor rope.Every time the snook changed direction I whipped the rod over pullingit off balance time and time again. Every time it jumped clear of thesurf I though I would loose contact but this time the hook held firm.When it surged down the beach I applied the brakes, tryingdesperately not to think about the shredded leader and he turned.After about 5 minutes of this he was under the rod tip swimming backand forth, shaking his head like a terrier with a rat. I walkedbackwards up the beach and by using a wave pulled a bar of shimmeringsilver onto the sand. I dropped the rod and grabbed my prize, slicingthe palm of my hand on his gill plates before running about 20 yardsup the beach and laying him down on the wet sand.

It was a snook, a beautiful, powerful, magnificent snook. Karliewas dancing up and down punching the air and singing, I was on myknees, rain streaming down my face and back whilst crouched over abar of silver in the middle of a tropical thunderstorm – what amoment.

I estimated his weight to be around 8 or 9 pounds but to beperfectly honest the size, really was unimportant at that point. Itook a few moments to admire his beauty, he had a narrow, pointed jawand his overall shape, complete with spined dorsal gave him more thanjust a passing resemblance to a zander. However the large, mirrorlike scales which covered his body and the bony gill plates gave anindication of his tropical origins. I returned him to the sea, therain, relief and excitement combining to ensure I neglected to take aphotograph.

That night in the bar, I relived my tale to all that would listen.And many did, unlike in England it seemed that everyone in Americafished and everyone could relate to my experiences. Well into theearly hours local anglers told me of mammoth battles with hugeadversaries, enhanced I’m sure by the volume of Budweiser that wasbeing consumed. Slowly, one by one the women folk retired leaving theguys drinking and telling stories of snook approaching 40lb throughmuddled brains. And, as a bona-fide snook angler I was allowed totake part. Angling had won again, the special bond produced by thissport of ours crossing the Atlantic and touching a group of kindredspirits as we sat in a small bar, on the end of a pier in the middleof a tropical storm.