Evidence aplenty that toothy mackerel are tough on flies.

We had barely baptized the chumbag when an unruly horde of pinfish, blue runners and mini mangrove snappers materialized off the transom. They would have made piranhas proud. Hopefully, the stars of the show would respond in kind. As our oily chumslick flattened the waves astern, I pitched a few glass minnows to spice the menu. Ballyhoo dimpled the surface downtide to scrounge their fair share of the goodies.

Satisfied that our food line was at peak production, I reached to unrack a fly rod. My companions, Richard Kernish and Paul Soul‚, beat me to the punch and began winging white sidewinder jigs. Whenever we fly fish for mackerel, Kernish chucks a jig to break the ice. It's understood. But after the first mackerel, he stashes the spinner. If not, I nag him until he does. I cast from the corner of the stern, let my fly line sink and took a deep breath--the air had that arctic bite. Under a bluebird sky, it was 55 degrees. It felt like 40. The northwest wind kicked up a chop that had our flats skiff rocking so I summoned my sea legs and zipped up my jacket. February was in town. Twenty minutes passed without a customer. Not one to sit still for long, Kernish suggested running west of Tripod Bank. I agreed, then glanced at the water. Not a baitfish remained.

They had vanished.

We both recognized the signal--the wolves were at the door.

"Mackerel?" Richard wondered aloud.

Out of nowhere they streaked past the transom in ragged formation, flashing silvery sides. "Yeah, mackerel!" I shouted, and doubled-hauled to send my streamer flying.

Richard's jig was nailed on the freefall and his drag screamed until his fish knifed through the mono shock leader. Soul‚ tossed his jig from the bow and it was blasted immediately. Two big macks skyrocketed 100 feet astern so I fed fly line through my tiptop to let my fly free-drift farther back. While I watched Richard unrack a fly rod, my fly line was ripped from my grasp. I managed to clear it to the reel and the fun began.

After a screaming first run, my fish doubled back. I countered by stripping like a madman to take up the slack and keep a bend in my rod as the mackerel ran under the transom and beyond the bow. I finally brought it boatside and asked Richard, just getting a fly into the water, to net my fish. He shot me a look. "You know the rule--every man for himself," he said. True, during a hot mackerel bite, you're pretty much on your own. I netted my fish on the first pass but it gnawed through the leader and bit through the net as I swung it aboard. It got its second wind, ricocheted around the cockpit floor, and wove my fly line around every obstruction in sight.

Now I really needed assistance but Paul was hooked up again and Richard, laughing at my predicament, raised his fly rod sharply. "I'm on!" he yelled. The reel handle rapped his knuckles, sounding like a castanet, as his fish reached warp speed.

Once the flurry ended there was a short lull until a school of bigger fish, 5- to 6-pounders, made a few strafing runs, taking our flies right at the surface where we could watch them strike. I was using a chartreuse Clouser Minnow and could watch the fish track my fly. Only when I stopped stripping and let the fly dive would the fish commit. That's all the big fish wanted--the smaller ones didn't care. If it moved, it got ate.

I used to curse mid-winter. No longer. When strong cold fronts ruin flats fishing for a spell, Spanish mackerel fill the void. Many Florida fly rodders raise the white flag on blustery winter days--just when Spanish mackerel become ripe for the picking.

Whenever I mention my fondness of fly casting for mackerel, reactions run the gamut. Last winter, on a bone-chilling morning at a quick-mart frequented by anglers heading for Florida Bay, I picked up some oily canned cat food to supplement my chum supply. An acquaintance spotted me in line. "You taking your cat fishing?" he cracked. I told him I was going fly fishing for mackerel.

"MAAAckerel?" he cackled. "Yes. Mackerel," I deadpanned. "Don't knock it till you try it." Hellbent on fishing the flats regardless of the arctic chill, he was in for a long day. I in turn, had a ball.

When word gets out that mackerel are in, anglers armed with live baits, jigs and spoons mobilize quickly. Since this underrated speedster lacks the esteem of the glamour set--bonefish, tarpon or snook--saltwater fly fishermen give them the cold shoulder. It's their loss.

To catch mackerel on fly, you have to call them to dinner. Troll spoons or jigs to locate the fish before chumming, or anchor in traditionally productive areas and chum them from the start. I prefer the latter method and once I bring the fish to the table, I go to great lengths to keep them there. There's more to it than just hanging a chumbag.

You'll need three things: the right food, the right weapons and the right conditions. Have a mesh chumbag plus spares, commercial blood chum blocks (one block lasts 30 to 45 minutes) or a supply of the dry chum preparations available in bait shops. For a high-octane chumline, have a frozen block of glass minnows and a pint of menhaden oil aboard.