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Subject: Larry's 1st snook
From: backman@ftp.com (Larry Backman)
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Envision a Southwest Florida evening. Palm trees swaying, warm balmy
breezes. Thin cotton clothes and shorts. Crescent moon hanging low
over the water with Venus bright below it. Christmas evening.
Sannibel Pier is located on the southern end of Sannibel Island, a
lovely barrier beach off the coast of Ft. Meyers, Florida. It shelters
and protects the waters of San Carlos Bay and Pine Island Sound,
both huge expanses of inshore water, from the gulf of Mexico.
The pier juts out 200' into the entrance of the Bay, just around the corner
from the tip of the 12 mile long island. It is a T-shaped pier, with the
ends of the T going 50' out from the central part of the pier. It sits
high up off the water, maybe 10-12' and is massively built with solid
pilings and cross members. It is a fisherman's dream, with a light
at the beach end, benches with a roof over them under the light, a fish
cleaning station over the water and a fish ruler painted on the dock
at the junction of the T.
The current whips past the pier quite well and the water at the inside
angle of the T is reportedly 20' deep. An ideal place to dunk bait one
would think.
So, back to that balmy 45 degree Florida night, with a 20 knot wind bringing
the windchill down below freezing. New England striper surfcaster's night.
A Sannibel Christmas evening. Ho, ho, ho, and brr, brr, brr! The kind
of night where 4 layers aren't enough. Sadly, all my neoprene was
1500 miles away.
I had watched people fish the pier the previous evening and asked the
appropriate questions. I didn't have the right rig for bait, nor for that
matter did I have any bait. I did have a light 6' rod, a Penn 4400 spooled
with 10# test and an assortment of northern type jigs, poppers, and swimming
plugs. Last evening I had watched experienced pier fishermen toss jigs
tipped with shrimp upcurrent and hook up both redfish and snook as the
shrimp drifted under the shadow line 20' from the central part of the pier.
They then had to muscle the fish away from the pier before the fish used
the current to get under the pier and cut the line.
The standard pier outfit appeared to be a 6' boat rod, 30# test line,
a Penn Jigmaster, and 2-3 oz. of lead weight. And good sized live bait
fresh caught from a cast net. What chance did I have with my 1/2 oz.
jigs and lures?
To optimize my chances I started by fishing down current. It was immediately
apparent that the presentation was wrong, wrong, wrong. The current and
high pier combined to keep the lure on the surface in an unnatural
position. I realized that if I were to have a chance I had to fish the
upcurrent side.
Fortunately I had a reel of 80# mono leader so I cut a 4' section of
that as a protection against the threat of the pilings. I moved to the
very end of the upcurrent end of the T, facing back towards Florida
as the tide raced out under me. I started by casting parallel to
the pier towards the shore and then quickly altered my cast to
aim 45 degrees upcurrent. This cast would allow the jig to get down
a good ways as it quickly drifted into the pier. If I retrieved
just right I could flutter it back along my arm of the perpendicular part
of the T and hopefully lure up a fish hanging by the pilings.
20 minutes of this chilled me and convinced me that it was time to
switch to a more active artificial lure. I had recently read an article
on luring snook by bridges by swirling spoons and minnows in figure-8's
under the bridge and using the shadow line to cause the lure to flash.
I had an assortment of silver spoons, none of which would possibly sink
and a gold Rapala minnow spoon which had never caught a thing up north.
In fact my fishing compatriot had laughed at it one day in Woods Hole.
With nothing else in my arsenal as likely a lure, I tied it on.
Quickly I learned that casting it was a waste. It surfed the top of the
water as opposed to dancing along beneath the surface. Almost as a last
hope I switched presentations completely, leaning down over the pier railing
and pointed my rod at the surface. This way, the tip was perhaps 2' off
the surface and the lure would sink. After a series of casts and retrieves
with no sign of action I was ready to give up. However, I did recall that
article and just as a last ditch experiment flicked the lure 10' upcurrent
and let it run down the inside of the T of the pier. When it almost reached
the central part of the pier, I would sweep my rod forward, causing the
lure to slide forward slowly against the current right up to the shadow
line halfway between me and the central part of the pier.
Over and over I did this, 10 times, twenty times. Nothing. One last trick,
I rowed the rod in a figure eight, just like the book said, swirling the
lure back and forth up, across, and down the current.
On the second swirl the lure was hit by a truck. The rod bent in a U, the
drag screamed and the lure and line headed almost directly under my feet
for the pier and instant doom. Without conscious thought I extended
my arms outwards and forward and TURNED THE FISH! The line came up and
50' straight out, and maybe 40' from the main part of the pier a long
shape thrashed on the surface.
"Snook! BIG SNOOK!!" yelled a guy on the central part of the pier, "keep
it off the pier while I get the net!". Great advice if only I could
do it.
Fortunately the fish was thrashing on the surface without running and
again, without conscious thought, I let it expend itself there, taking
a bit of drag as I just hung on. Better that it exhaust itself out there,
far away from the lethal barnicle encrusted pilings.
I was almost in another world, I realized I had more fish than I could
handle in a bad spot, with not enough equipment to be able to control or
even influence the fish. I had no margin for error, any mistake would
be immediately followed by a cut line.
The man was by my side now; with a long handled aluminum pier net. The fish
had by now made 2 moves inwards towards the angle of the pier, where the
arm and base joined. Each time I had extended outwards and down, using the
rod's whippyiness to turn its head. I never tried to muscle the fish, I
just led its head around.
Then the fish made a mistake. It went deep and outwards, running upcurrent
as if it were on an invisible extension to the pier arm. Gladly I let it
take drag. As long as it headed in that direction I was relatively
safe. The man was yelling, "where is it? Bring it up, bring it up!".
I ignored him ass I fought my own desperate battle. The fish turned, but
stayed deep as it came back. I poited the rod in towards shore and
influenced it to go back into the inside of the pier arm as opposed to
going under the pilings. The rod was bent in a U. I pointed it down
before it or the line snapped as I started to lift the fish.
THERE! On the surface a long white shape with a black line down its side and
a yellow tail. A snook. A BIG SNOOK! My new found advisor lunged with
the net, over the rail, and missed the fish by 10'. Fortunately he also
missed my line. The fish thrashed outwards 10' and I let it splash.
Again without conscious thought I told, yelled, imprinted on my friend.
"Put the net in the water. Let ME bring the fish to the net!".
He listened. The net went down and he waited. I let the fish thrash,
turned its head and led it past the net. He foolishly swiped at its
tail and it thrashed again. This time it went pierward and got to the
edge. I extended outward again in a lunge, straining with my forarms
to get it away from the pilings. It came.
Another swipe with the net. Another miss. Another surface thrash.
I was in a different zone of consciousness, I was not thinking or reacting,
I was just doing.
Four or five times I led the fish past the net, one time he got it
half in, but it was longer than the mouth of the net and it thrashed out.
Each time I calmly and without much force controlled the fish, using
leverage as opposed to strength to lead it where I wanted.
Finally, on the seventh try I led the fish netwards, the head went in,
he twisted the net mouth and captured the tail. Still not safe.
Big fish and a 15' lift over the top of the pier railing. I flicked open
the bail, dropped the rod on the pier and kicked in inwards and out of the
way. I grabbed the net 3' below my friends grip and together we lifted
the net and fish, one arm after another until the fish was just below the
rail on the outside. As he pulled back on the handle, I grabbed the
net mouth and together we lifted it over the rail.
The fish lay there, the gold spoon in the corner of its mouth.
"What a snook!. I've been trying for one like that for ten years" said
my buddy. I grabbed it by the mouth and slid it out of the net. I twisted
hard, and unhooked the spoon. I tried to pick it up with one hand.
No way. A two hand grip and I hoisted it. It stretched from my hip to
the dock. I took it over to the measure and lay it on the dock. The
tail stretched over the 34" mark. I have no scale, but this fish is
over 15#. I don't know snook sizes well enough to guestimate closer than
that.
Knowing full well that snook season was closed I ignored my pal's
comments about "you should keep it" and took a good look at it.
A long look. A hard and long look to imprint its image on my mind.
Then I lugged it over to the net, put it back in the net and lowered
the net under the rail down to the water.
This fish was not a fish I was just going to toss or kick over the edge
to fall 10' in a smashing shock. With the fish in the water and the
weight off my arms, I swirled the net a couple times. The fish splashed.
I twisted the handle and it came out of the net. A splash of water, a
glimpse of yellow tail and it was gone.
I've replayed the moment in my mind a dozen times, talked about it
with people who know snook. My first snook was a trophy snook, a fish
people spend a lifetime trying for. A fish that overmatched both
my equipment and myself. I was lucky, very lucky, enormously lucky.
For which I give thanks.
Larry Backman
December 24, 1995