Sailfish and bass are two of Florida's favorite species, and while they both have their fans, the dedication with which snook anglers chase their favorite fish approaches mania. When was the last time you heard of a bass fisherman climbing down a steel ladder in a thunderstorm to get to a bridge bulkhead so his jig would flow "just right" through the light? And how many sailfish have been caught at night by anglers who still had to get up and go to work in three hours? 

Fish tattoos? I have enough trouble swallowing fish tacos. But I wasn't even a little surprised by the inky rendition of a snook on my friend George Greene's forearm. Knowing the kind of dedication he puts into his fishing, I guess I should have expected he'd like to make a snook a part of his daily life.

That's the way it is with snook fishermen. They're borderline cultists, consumed with every aspect of a single species of saltwater fish. As a brotherly brethren of the lunker linesider club, I was tempted to follow tattoo suit, and even went as far as to get the newspaper I was writing for at the time to finance the project under the guise of a story angle, but wussed out at the last second.

But what is it about a snook that turns normally sane fishermen into driven anglers willing to forgo every aspect of their daily lives?

Possibly, that thump. Or maybe it's the way a snook will blast a surface plug five feet into the air, then come back and do it again on the very next twitch. Or the stop-and-go thrill of a big linesider grabbing a jig and forcing its way under a bridge, or the habit of rushing out from under a mangrove root to eat a bait, then returning back to the exact same spot before the surface detonation exposes the strike. The fact that snook are excellent on the table doesn't scare off any anglers either.

Getting four species for the price of one also has its draw. While the common snook grows the largest, the humped back and thick body of a fat snook give these chubby piling-huggers their own following. Anyone who's ever seen the elongated fin spines of a swordspine snook knew they had a rare catch, and the large eyes and deep face and body of a tarpon snook is one mutation that may combine the best features of Florida's top saltwater inshore gamefish.

I have no idea what causes the allure, but I do know I can hook a good number of fish and expect to have a reasonable shot at landing them, but I've never caught a single snook I didn't feel lucky to land. At one point in the fight, every fish had a chance to beat me, be it around an object, by throwing the hook or parting the line with its body.

A snook has the power to punch to the nearest piling with a wide, swooping tail, plus a double set of razor-sharp gill rakers. An angler has to fight tooth and nail to keep one of these fighters from cutting itself free, one way or the other. So we power up with heavy monofilament leaders, high-speed reels, braided lines and rods so thick you could remove the tips and play pool with them. And they still hand us our lunch.

The habits of snook are particularly unnerving. Nocturnal feeders that don't necessarily feed at night, they eat according to the wind or tides, or moon or food source, depending on whom you ask. And just when you've found a pattern, they change-up on you, like a major league pitcher past his prime.

They stack like cordwood under a light, eating tiny minnows but shunning everything cast their way. But tie on a hook with three or four sparse strips of silver Mylar, and the fish will fight over the first cast, only to refuse the fly the rest of the night.

And who has never heard the loud pop a snook makes when it sucks a shrimp off the surface on a cold winter night? Echoing against the backdrop of a bridge piling, it sounds like someone dropped a bait bucket perfectly on its bottom or capped off a low-caliber round close to the cement.

Bridge snook wait for the current to bring their next meal.

In the winter, snook flood the backwaters and offshore reefs, seeking creature comforts while continuing their terror tactics on just about any fish or crustacean that will fit within their maw. When a severe cold front pushes the freezing mark, they become lethargic zombies--yellow-and-white submarines listing on their sides. They're easy prey for nets and even just a pair of hands, which is why the December 15 to January 31 closure is so important.

On the warmer days, snook move from the deep water to the nearby flats, feasting on every available baitfish species that crosses their paths. Many times, it's the tiny bay anchovy that suffers their ravenous wrath a hundredfold.

As spring approaches, their thoughts turn to food, then love, like an awakening bear fresh from winter slumber. Only this bear is on a mission to thin the early arrivals of pilchards, sardines and menhaden. At night, they gather along the shadow lines of bridges and piers, waiting in ambush for meandering mullet or menhaden. They stake out the channels and cuts through the flats, popping pinfish and sand perch. The fish feed voraciously, building up their fat supplies for the summer, when they'll mass in huge schools at inlets, passes and along the beach for a warm-water "Love Connection."

During lulls in the summer spawning ritual, snook compete for the limited amount of current-swept forage and are more vulnerable to angling based on sheer numbers. Protected status through the months of June, July and August allows the species optimal chances for reproduction.

Come fall, the slimmed-down fish will follow the mullet and other baitfish back inside, building their fat reserves for the winter ahead. It's a full-bore, two-month feeding-fest, and every mullet coming around a point of land, seawall or dock can count on taking to the air. Mullet rain, the locals call it--feeding time, for the snook.

Gradually, the fish work their way up into the deeper creeks, where sun shining on the dark bottom will warm their weary bones on the coldest days. As temperatures drop, snook move around less and thus their nourishment needs diminish. They feed on warmer days, fast on the rest.

There are as many techniques for catching snook as there are food sources, but it's hard to beat a live, hand-picked shrimp. In the cooler months, when the wind and tide come together to make the shrimp run, snook stake out dock and bridge lights at night, holding motionless in the current and plucking off the tasty crustaceans riding the tide.

A live shrimp freelined across the surface is an easy snook target. Placed 24 inches behind a pencil weight, the shrimp is led down the shadow line of a bridge like a dog on a leash, only to suffer through one of those shell-crushing audible pops.

In deeper, moving water, a shrimp pinned to a jighead is hard to beat, especially around docks and rocky areas bordering sandy bottom. No pop, this time. Just a solid thump!

Snook sure do love their shrimp when they can get them. But it takes a lot of shrimp to make a meal. Given a choice, most snook would opt for larger prey.

When the members of the sardine, herring and menhaden families are around, big snook aren't ever far off. Because these baitfish have such high protein content, the lunker linesiders shadow the schools like truant officers waiting to bust anyone skipping ranks.

On light plug or spinning gear, a whitebait (Gulf Coast for Spanish sardine) cast into a sandy pothole or along a mangrove shoreline is a living snook magnet, diving and surfacing as it searches out its own demise. Hooked through the nose, back or belly, the whitebait has a life expectancy of about two-and-a-half minutes, if any snook are around. 

Live mullet make good snook indicators when they're schooling. Hook one through the back so it swims downward, and it'll rush to the surface if a snook crosses its path. Finger mullet catch snook of all sizes. Larger mullet catch snook that have to be released, and a throat-hooked, 12-inch silver mullet fished on 100-pound test off a bridge is about the best ride you'll get without having bungee cords strapped to your ankles.

Take a dead mullet, cut off its head, hook it through the lips and pitch it out at the mouth of a marina or canal, and the first time the line comes tight, you'll believe in the technique but probably lose the fish because you're under-gunned. It's a fact that 70 percent of the people who purchase heavier tackle do so with the categorical "I just lost a huge snook! Einstein hairdo." The other 30 percent have either "Tarpon Fever" or are sporting a hand cramped into a claw from a deepwater grouper.

But snook don't just feed on the real deal. They're suckers for a chartreuse or white Red Tail Hawk jig, worked just above the bottom where the bushy silhouette is just "too good" for a snook to ignore. Diving plugs get their share as well, as do darters, spoons and just about any lure that mimics a baitfish, shrimp or crab.

Probably the most exciting is the topwater plug, for the main reason that snook get really creative in their approach to this type of lure. The first time, a fish might track the lure from behind, rise and gulp it down with a lightly audible "puuh!" The next one will blow it out of the water. The next will hit it from the side, leaping first and crushing the plug on the way down.

Sometimes, a snook will strike the plug repeatedly, never finding the business end of three separate treble hooks. When the lure is returned to the same spot, the bombardment begins anew, yet with the same results.

In the end, it doesn't really matter what tackle you like to use; that first good thump from a snook will draw you into the cult forever. Spin, plug or fly--who cares? Just get out and fish. Catch one snook--one really good fish--and it'll change your life forever. Really.