We had been sitting on Southwest Channel since a little after daylight. The Sunshine Skyway arched busy traffic from St. Pete to Bradenton against the sunrise to the east, Egmont Key light blipped to the west, and big tanker ships plowed past heading up the channel toward Tampa, tossing us with their rolling wakes. It was a busy place, except for the fish. We hadn't had the first hint of a strike.

But, true to the usual pursuit of lunker fish, boredom was eventually replaced with panic. When the slack high turned and began to head out of the bay, the water woke up. Our lethargic chum slick began to stretch out off the transom, and before long a little rip formed at the edge of the submerged hump where we were anchored. Baitfish began to sprinkle the surface, and the gulls got up off the water and began to work on them.

"Nervous bait," said Brock, my son home from college on spring break.

The big ladyfish on his rod came to the top and began making frantic circles. On about the third go-round, the 12-inch bait was hit by what looked like a launching Polaris missile. The 30-pound kingfish caught the bait in its jaws and carried it in an arching leap that must have covered 20 feet.

The fish came down, felt the hooks in what it had thought was an easy meal, and headed for the horizon. Fifteen-pound-test blurred off the big spinning reel spool so fast that there was the telltale mist or "smoke" that gives smoker kingfish their name. The fish did a hundred yards in a couple of heartbeats, then turned around and did a hundred yards straight back at the boat while Brock frantically cranked on the slack.

The fish ripped past the bow, came tight on the slack that was slicing along the surface after him, created a huge boil, and then began a 360 that dragged Brock from the bow to the transom and back to the bow again.

The fish went deep and put its power to work for the next 10 minutes, then gradually yielded to Brock's steady pressure. Once the fish slowed and rolled at the surface, I grabbed it by the tail. A quick photo and we sent it on its way; big kings are too valuable and scarce to kill for food in my book.

Of course, what constitutes a "big" king might be up for argument. Fish to over 50 pounds have been caught along the west coast in recent years. Not a lot of them, to be sure, but enough to keep smoker anglers coming back, and more than enough to keep the big money tournament fishermen happy. Basically, on my boat, we consider any fish over 20 pounds to be a smoker, and we release most of them-the 8- to 10-pound "snakes" are better eating and more abundant, and we don't feel the regret about tossing them in the fish box that we sometimes do with bigger fish, which biologists say are nearly all female.

It takes 10 years for a king to reach 20 pounds in most waters, according to scientists, and that 40- to 50-pound trophy may be close to 20 years old. As with tarpon, every mature fish you kill takes a very long time to replace; better to release them to continue spawning, and to grow even larger and provide a thrill another day. (There's also a state health advisory against consuming kings larger than 39 inches due to mercury levels.)

The kingfish migration on the west coast begins in early March when the fish that have spent the winter off the Florida Keys mingling with their cousins from the Atlantic begin their journey to the northern Gulf of Mexico. They're headed for summering areas between the mouth of the Mississippi and the Big Bend country of Florida. The route usually requires 8 to 10 weeks to travel.

The migration usually begins around the end of February, and progresses northward as the 68-degree temperature line moves northward. They travel faster in warm years, slower in cold. But by the end of March, there are usually plenty of fish between Boca Grande and Clearwater Beach, and the schools usually hang around until the first of May, with a few stragglers later. (For those who miss the spring run, the fish return in the fall, and the average size has usually increased after a summer of feeding. The fall run in the West Central area is typically from mid-October until the first of December, and sometimes as late as Christmas in warm winters.)

Big kings and juveniles don't travel as a unified school. The 8- to 10- pounders, which make up the mass of the migration, generally stay right on the tail of the billions of baitfish that are also making the migration, and these fish typically pass from 1 to 10 miles offshore in most areas.

The big fish, on the other hand, often earn their second nickname which is "beachcombers." Looking for larger mouthfuls than the threadfins and sardines offshore, they prowl within 100 yards of the beach and well back into the major passes in search of mullet, ladyfish, Spanish mackerel and other large prey.