A friend once told me about a flounder spot beneath one of the bridges to St. George Island. It's one of those places that gets a lot of use because of the drive-up access and a wide, comfortable seawall. Visitors seem to find their way there most likely because that's where they saw somebody else fishing.

My friend likes to show up there two hours into an incoming tide with a dozen or so chub minnows, as he calls them--the local moniker for striped killifish--a spinning rod, a hook, and a 1-ounce slip sinker.

He politely asks permission to squeeze in between those already there. "They're usually fishing with something like a whole squid," he explains, "or a shrimp that's been frozen and thawed back into mush. And they're always casting as far as they can away from the wall and the bridge."

My friend follows the same routine each time. He hooks on a minnow, drops it only a couple feet off the seawall, waits a couple minutes, then to the amazement of everyone, pulls up a flounder.

Then he does it again.

And again.

"It's usually between the third and fourth flounder that someone breaks down and asks where they can get some of those minnows," he says. In the way of most anglers, my friend ends up giving away the rest of his bait.

I decided to give his spot a try. I cast netted a few chub minnows from a nearby sandbar, and moved into position beneath the bridge. We dropped baits into the water, and in a few minutes my wife pulled up the biggest flounder I've ever seen. It worked over and over--chub minnow down, flounder up.

Over the three years I've fished there, I've always taken at least a couple flounder each time. It's the surest thing I've ever found in fishing. Admittedly, I don't light the grill before I go, but I don't bother to thaw out any hamburger either.

Then a couple of months ago I heard that same friend telling someone else about his "hot flounder spot beneath the bridge." And as I stood there ready to jump in with my own testimonials, I suddenly realized he was talking about a different place. For two years I had been fishing at the end of the wrong bridge!

There are two bridges over to St. George Island, connected by a causeway. I had been fishing the south end of the north bridge, rather than the south end of the south bridge.

That says something about this fishing--find the right conditions for flounder in Apalachicola Bay--sandy bottom, shade, current and structure--and chances are good the flounder will find it also. And if you catch at least one flounder in such a spot, you can figure that another one will be along soon to take its place. I think they sometimes wait in line for their turn to occupy an ambush site.

If you can find a couple of these spots, you can salvage many a slow day of fishing, and still have something for the plate if that's your intention, and it should be. Let's face it, although they fight pretty good sometimes, so would a garbage can lid. Nobody fishes for flounder for sport any more than they fish for tarpon for food.

And it's unlikely anyone will ever pay a flats guide to pole them over some good flounder habitat. Unless you're using a bow and arrow, you'll probably never hear the whispered words, "Flounder at two o'clock, 35 feet."

But what these odd-looking creatures lack in fighting spirit they make up for on the dinner table.

Even that's hard to believe from their looks. Flat, drab green, and with both of their eyes on one side of their head. Throw in that single mohawk-punk-rocker fin that runs around their body, and you have a creature some people don't even want to touch.

Despite their goofy appearance, flounder are in fact excellent predators. They don't waste time grubbing around in the mud like redfish, or slashing through schools of baitfish like a mackerel, nor do they roam the grassflats like a seatrout hoping to stumble upon an unsuspecting pinfish or shrimp.

Instead, like a good turkey hunter, they rely on patience and camouflage to close the distance between them and their prey. Once the target comes within range they strike, rising from the bottom with eye-blink speed, and a tenacious attitude; they clamp sharp teeth on the surprised baitfish and hang on like a junkyard dog.

You might say it's a minimalist approach to feeding that exerts the least amount of effort for the maximum return. And that in turn dictates the way they should be fished for--basic and simple, the right bait at the right place and right time. They'll do the rest.