Urban Night Fishing

Written by John Cote | 31 March 2009

What's bridge fishing like for a kid on a bike at 3am? The memories are indelible.

As a young boy, Angler and Artist, John Cote, learned to fish in the trout streams of New Hampshire. But when his family moved to Florida in his early teens, things changed. Rather than wandering fields and forests, "my fishing grounds were now bounded by how far I wanted to peddle my bike loaded down with tackle box, bait bucket, and a couple rods in hand." Here's his story of one night's fishing from a downtown Fort Lauderdale bridge....

The tide had just turned and was slowly heading out. I knew in an hour or so the snook should start showing up under the bridge.

I went to my usual spot near a bright street light where snook, tarpon, and moonfish like to feed. At night, those bright street lights blind the drifting shrimp and mullet to the predators that lurk beyond the shadow line. Big snook hang in the darkness, facing the current, just waiting to ambush unsuspecting prey that would drift their way.

There was no one else fishing the bridge at three that morning. The still air was clammy and my nostrils filled with its salty, musty scent. Things were uncommonly quiet except for the occasional car flying by precariously close to me. Often these people's driving abilities seemed impaired so I was always on my guard. Further, it was not unusual to have something thrown at me as I was preoccupied with fishing. Beer bottles, rotten eggs, water balloons, and the morning paper are just some of the things that have been tossed my way in the night.

In 1978, in Fort Lauderdale, I would do almost anything to catch this great game fish. Fishing the bridge on Sunrise Boulevard where it crosses the Intracoastal waterway, can be just as wild underneath the bridge as it is above

People often yelled at me or honked their horn trying to scare me. Some offered drugs, many asked for directions, and several tried to steal my gear. One bold person even stopped nearby and squirted ketchup on me from a bottle as I was cleaning a moonfish. Only this time, I got the final laugh. Grabbing the bloody fish by the tail I flung it like a frisbee as the car sped off. It landed on their front windshield and created a mess on their car.

I yearned to catch snook by some mangrove lined shoreline like I had seen in magazines and TV shows -- places where it was quiet and serene and the presence of man was not so common. But I lived in the city. I had no boat back then and could not afford to go to those far away places. Catching these urban snook would require me to take some chances and I was more than willing to take them.

When the shrimp are running, small popping sounds can be heard from the moonfish sucking them in. The slashing strikes from tarpon crashing into shrimp or mullet create flashes of silver in the darkness. The stealthy snook is the more patient predator. Waiting silently till the shrimp is positioned right above its snout, it explodes with lightning speed as it opens its jaws and inhales the topwater prey creating an explosive, popping sound. However, this was not one of those nights. The shrimp were not running and things were quiet. However, I knew that could change at any moment.

photo courtesy hornetbear.com

The silence was finally broken by a huge pop directly beneath me on the bridge. I leaned over the railing and started intensely looking for any dark shadows roaming underneath. Finally, I saw what had created the commotion. It was a huge snook. My heart began to pound out of my chest. Never had I caught a snook that large! And that big boy was hungry. Nervously, and almost in a panic frenzy, I got my large twenty pound test rod and started to rig it up. Unfortunately, I only had one shrimp left. Gently I picked up the lively shrimp and held it up to the light. Its translucent body made it easy to see the black spot, which if pierced, would kill it. The newly sharpened hook was inserted right below the horn on its head. I wanted the shrimp to look as natural and as active as possible.

I prayed a moonfish would not take this one as I began to float it under the shadow line. As my nervous shrimp drifted into the shadows and disappeared my body was in such a state of suspense I couldn’t breath. My finger lightly held the line, hoping to feel something nail it. The anticipation was so tense I could hardly bear it. The shrimp was about ten feet under the bridge when bam, it hit! I yanked the rod up sharply to set the hook. I felt a heavy weight at the end of my line and knew I had a solid hook up. My line began to scream under the bridge as the snook took my line further underneath. I heard a large splash and then nothing. That big, bad snook threw the hook. My heart sank as I knew my chances of catching it now were probably nil. I stood motionless there on top of the bridge, wondering what I could have done differently. I had my chance and I blew it. Five seconds of glory and then it was over.

I stared into the water wishing I could have a second chance at that big guy.. What I wouldn’t give in exchange for another shot at this beast. All of a sudden, there it was again right below me. This time it came out in the light for a few seconds as if to taunt me. It was then that I noticed a large scar on its back. This was an old fella that has seen many battles. Maybe it had escaped another fight against the sharp barnacles on the pilings. Or maybe a cuda or shark hit it when it was much smaller. He was a wily one. But seeing him down there just made me more determined to try again.

Without any live bait, I tried just about every snook lure in my tackle box but had no luck. Then I heard another splash under the bridge and I knew it was still around and feeding. I decided I needed some live bait, so I took my cast net and went to a nearby park that had a lagoon. There were several lighted boat launch areas where I have often caught mullet. Hard as I looked, there was no mullet to be seen. My arms ached from carrying my cast net around the lagoon. I noticed some blue appearing in the black sky and soon it would be light and the snook gone.

Gathering my net, I decided to blindly cast it into the dark water. As I pulled my net in I saw a flash of silver in my net and thought I had the bait I needed. Eagerly, I dragged the net up to the grass and emptied it. Expecting to find a mullet or pinfish, I was disappointed that the silvery object was a small, ten inch barracuda. I thought a snook would never eat a cuda, but I had no choice. I quickly raced back up the bridge with the net and cuda in hand. After hooking the cuda up, I slowly perched myself on the bridge railing, careful not to cast any shadow below from the bridge light above and spook the fish. Time was my enemy as the blue in the sky was growing more intense and soon the shadow line would be gone and so would my prize below.

The little cuda slowly drifted into the shadow line. The current was ripping now and it drifted quickly. I held on in suspense. Seconds seemed like minutes as the bait drifted.

Right as I was going to flip it out again in front of the shadow line I felt a jolt that almost yanked the rod from my hands. I jerked the rod up hoping to set the hook in deep. Immediately, I heard a large splash. The rod arched over so far I had to lean ever farther out so the line would not touch the bridge’s piling or the bridge itself. I hung on for dear life as the snook went further and further under the bridge.

That first run is usually the longest and I thought if I could just hang on I might have a chance to tire him out. It must of been quite a sight for any cars going by as most of my body was over the railing! The snook was so far under that I knew if it went to the left or right I would lose it to a barnacle covered piling. Several times I had to lock down my drag as it attempted to dash behind a piling. Each time I expected the line to break but it didn’t. About twenty minutes had gone by and Mr. Snook was beginning to wear down. The runs were not quite so furious or far.

photo: John Cote

After a particularly strong run and surface splash it just stopped. I looked down again and there it was. My prize was just floating there. Its beautifully striped side was shining at me like a flag of surrender. He fought his last fight valiantly. The battle was over and I had finally won.

Slowly I worked the snook around each piling toward the rocky base of the bridge. I have done this many times before with tarpon and snook. Usually I was fishing with a friend who would run down below to help land the fish. If I was by myself I would bring the tired fish as close to the seawall as possible then leave my rod on the bridge and run as fast as I could down the bridge and to the seawall to grab the line by hand and land the fish. Hoping all along that the fish does not revive itself and drag my rod into the water. But I did not want to chance that with this trophy fish. The tide was very low exposing many jagged rocks that could sever my line. Landing this big fellow would not be easy.

As I contemplated what to do I saw a man nearby. He was down there under the bridge. Most likely he was a homeless man that lived there from time to time. He had noticed the situation I was in and probably was awakened by all the commotion. Looking down from the bridge I awkwardly said hello. He kindly offered to help me. Did I have any other choice but to trust this stranger to land my trophy?

John Cote still hunts snook. He is a featured artist and donates proceeds of his personalized watercolors to the Snook Foundation.

I worked the fish as close as I could to this man under the bridge. The exposed rocks made it impossible for him to reach it from the seawall so he carefully climbed down the rocky bridge base and walked into the water a few feet to get to the tired snook. The man reached into the water and as he got a grip on the fish he slipped on a slimy rock. He was knee deep in water.

Instinctively, I wanted to shout at him “Don’t let go of the fish!”. But instead I asked if he was alright. He said he was fine and then he happily showed me that he still had a grip on the fish. He dragged the snook up onto the seawall. I ran down to help pull the fish onto the grass. I shook his rough, wet hand and thanked him for assisting me with my prize. He seemed delighted and even proud that he was able to help.

The sky was turning a beautiful cobalt blue as the sun was about to rise. It was a beautiful morning indeed. Although I never did get the man’s name, I will never forget what he did for me that night, under that bridge where the snook and this man called home.