The Ghost of the Mangroves

From the Field Notes: The Ghost of the Mangroves

The late afternoon sun here in the Keys does something magical to the water, turning the shallows into a liquid canvas of emerald and gold. It’s in these moments, perched quietly with my sketchbook, that I feel most connected to the world. For over twenty years, my explorations have taken me to see lions on the Serengeti and macaws in the Amazon, but some of nature’s most compelling art is right here, lurking in the submerged galleries of the mangrove roots. Today, my subject is the Common Snook (Centropomus undecimalis), the ghost of the inshore waters.

To call the snook a fish is like calling a jaguar a cat; it’s technically true but misses the poetry of the creature entirely. They are masters of the ambush, using the tangled prop roots of the red mangroves as their studio and their hunting ground. I’ve spent countless hours watching them, marveling at their sleek, torpedo-like bodies that allow them to strike with explosive speed. They hang almost motionless, perfectly camouflaged, waiting for an unsuspecting mullet or pinfish to stray too close.

What truly sets them apart, from an artist's perspective, is that bold, black lateral line—a single, perfect stroke of ink running from gill to tail. It’s their signature, a dramatic flourish against their silvery-gold flanks. This line is more than just decoration; it’s a highly sensitive organ that detects vibrations in the water, allowing them to hunt effectively in the murky, tannin-stained water they call home.

The explorer in me is fascinated by their life cycle. Did you know that most snook are born male and later transition to become female? This biological marvel, known as protandric hermaphroditism, is a remarkable adaptation to ensure the continuation of the species.

To sketch a snook is to try and capture lightning in a bottle. It’s a challenge of speed and memory, of recalling that fleeting instant of raw, predatory elegance just before it vanishes back into the shadows. They are a symbol of this wild, brackish world—powerful, elusive, and utterly beautiful. They remind me that sometimes, the most extraordinary discoveries aren't on a distant continent, but waiting patiently in the sun-dappled waters right at the world’s edge.