Here: Put this on the snap. Remember: No light, no bite."   Capt. Ron Schatman of Miami handed over a K-light, its small, glowing bulb encased in acrylic thick enough to withstand pressures of water at 1,000 feet and much more. As we made our first drops, little did we know how his words would come back to haunt us. Spools whirred and rod tips bucked as several anglers lowered squid on circle hooks down, down, down - to the base of a Gulf oil rig sitting in 1,000 feet of water off the Louisiana coast. We couldn't have predicted that some voracious "sea monster" with lots of teeth and an appetite for these plastic longliners' lights would be prowling those murky depths, along with oilfish, barrelfish and snowy grouper. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Fact is, the words "little did we know" pretty well sum up why we were out there: to do something probably no one had ever done before - fish the seafloor around these offshore rigs and do it with two-speed manual (rather than electric) reels. Having no idea what to expect when you put baits down into the dismal, perpetual twilight at 170 fathoms makes for a pretty compelling situation for any angler fascinated by the unknown. Of course, one unknown for us was whether or not we'd even hook a fish. It did not, however, take long to dispel that concern. From Bimini to the GulfIt had been years since a successful and historic Sport Fishing deep-drop trip off Bimini ("Up from the Abyss," December 1997), where we set several new all-tackle records for species never before entered with the International Game Fish Association, and probably never before caught on sport gear without using electric reels. I had for some time found myself yearning to do it again. Some might call that gluttony for punishment. After all, 1,000 feet is a long way down (and we dropped to 2,400 at times off Bimini). Worse, it's a long way up without an electric motor doing all the work. Yet thanks to superthin, no-stretch, gel-spun polyethylene (superbraid) lines and two-speed reels, we took advantage of light currents to drop using as little as 2 to 4 pounds. Reeling up could take a good 45 minutes, but we found that by pacing ourselves as we cranked, we could make quite a few drops in a day. And since we seldom had to reel up without at least one fascinating deepwater catch on a hook, it proved well worthwhile. This time I wanted to try the technique somewhere entirely different. And what could be more different from the Atlantic waters off Bimini than the northern Gulf of Mexico? While the bottom off Bimini plunges rapidly to great depths, the Gulf slopes away very gradually. Whereas we found lots of prominent, steep pinnacles and ledges on the seafloor west of Bimini, the Gulf is characterized by a smooth and generally featureless bottom. But the Gulf has something the Atlantic off the Bahamas does not: oil rigs. I reasoned there had to be deepwater denizens setting up shop around so much magnificent structure, with nothing else for miles around. When Capt. Dave Ballay and his sons, skippers Brent and Brandon, admitted they had absolutely no idea what might be down there, that cinched the idea. "I'll see you this summer!" I told them. Surprises From the DepthsNo guides/skippers/anglers know saltwater fishing around and offshore of the Mississippi River Delta better than these quintessential Cajuns, whose lives have long revolved around catching fish and making sure others do the same. They could tell me what to expect to catch when trolling around the deepwater offshore rigs - what species, how big and according to what seasons. But when I asked them what was down there on the bottom, they hadn't a clue. And, like me, they suddenly wanted to find out. With rigs ready and hopes high, we met at Venice Marina early on an August morning. But we weren't going anywhere: Black squall lines were popping up all around us, punctuated by jagged flashes of lightning and rolling thunder. Finally, early that afternoon, the intensity and frequency of the storms faded, and we headed down the Mississippi on the 35-mile run to the closest deepwater rig, Cognac.   We would drop four lines - two from the 25-foot Hydra-Sports center console skippered by Capt. Damon McKnight, and two from the 27-foot Hydra-Sports Aw Shucks with Capt. Brent Ballay. Several out-of-staters were joining me on the expedition: Schatman of Miami, Florida, deep-drop guru and adviser for this trip (as for the previous, Bahamas outing); Dr. Bob Shipp, marine biologist from the University of South Alabama; and Sport Fishing editor Andy Hahn. Ron had brought along plenty of premade leaders, each with two circle hooks crimped onto 300- or 500-pound mono. IGFA-legal and tangle-free, the rig's design has been perfected by Ron to work flawlessly. One my responsibilities, a particularly weighty matter, meant bringing about 100 pounds of 2- and 3-pound sinkers. As the Hydra-Sports charged out over the Delta's smooth waters toward Cognac, I found myself wondering how much weight we'd need. Would we be able to reach bottom at all? It all depended upon our drift. With the wind minimal, current would be the big question mark. Often, Dave had warned, currents scream around offshore rigs like Cognac. In such conditions, getting down could mean more weight than we'd care (or be able) to wind up. But luck was with us: It became obvious once we pulled up next to the rig that virtually no current was moving. I put on a 3-pound lead, but soon realized that 2 pounds would probably be plenty on this afternoon. Still, over 10 minutes elapsed before the weight had pulled the rig, trailing 100-pound superbraid, to bottom. Even with more than three football fields end to end separating us from the ocean floor, we had no trouble determining when the sinker touched down. The spools on our Penn Internationals simply stopped dead. We also had little trouble feeling the tugs of fish for which the AA-battery-operated light and scent of squid signaled dinnertime. Andy, who later admitted having stopped his rig somewhere short of bottom, drew first blood. Whatever had pulled the 80-pound Crowder custom, bent-butt rod into a deep arc clearly had some shoulders. At about the same time, Dave was winding in a fish the easy way - with one of the electric 9/0 Penn Senators from Fish-Ng Accessories we'd brought for "prospecting." Meanwhile, my attention shifted to Ron as the rod he held over the transom started to do a bit of a dance. Patience, Ron mumbled, was the key. As I watched, the jerks continued and stopped. Then, the rod tip simply started pointing downward, and Ron, demonstrating well-honed, perfect circle-hook technique, waited until tip arced toward the water and simply started reeling. He, too, was hooked up. What had gone down to the bottom in 10 or so minutes came up a little slower. "There's color!" Andy yelled a good half-hour later, as all hands on Damon's boat peered intently into the dark, clear Gulf waters to catch a glimpse of ... what? "I'll be damned!" Dave shouted over to us. "It's an oilfish!" Sure enough, an oilfish that looked to be between 5 and 6 feet thrashed at boat-side, its huge, glowing eyes gathering the light of that hazy afternoon to reflect it back as if illuminated from within. I didn't miss the tone in Dave's voice; he had mentioned to us the night before that he'd heard of only two or three oilfish taken in all his years here, and those at night (when they move up higher in the water column). Now he'd seen one with his own eyes, and during the day. The long, brown, flaccid fish with a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth could hardly be mistaken for any other of the many game-fish species that anglers normally catch here. A commotion from the stern took my attention away from snapping photos of Andy's prize. Whatever Ron had hooked seemed to have given up the fight. And no wonder: 15 feet behind the boat, up popped a white, gas-bloated belly. "Wreckfish!" Ron said, surprised at seeing a species he hadn't expected here. We pulled the big, bug-eyed fish into the boat, and he studied its light-brown sides spotted with faint white blotches. "No - it's a big snowy grouper!" he declared. We brought up two more that afternoon, one about 20 pounds and one closer to 30, one of them on Dave's electric reel. After more scrutiny ashore, we determined that these were in fact warsaw grouper. Ron remained skeptical, and a couple of days later - long after the white-meated fish had been filleted - Bob e-mailed us with the bitter truth. Further research back in his office showed conclusively that these were in fact snowies, and - here comes the hard part - at least a couple of them would probably have broken the world record of 23 pounds. (A 27-pound, 6-ouncer from St. Augustine, Florida, has since been approved as the all-tackle record.) Meanwhile, Brent wasn't wasting time gawking at grouper. Leaning back against a bucking rod, he had his hands full. With the butt in the gimbal of a Smitty's plate, worn down over his thighs with an OTR (Ocean Tackle Research) harness for a curved-butt rod, Brent found the leverage he needed by lowering himself as if about to sit. Having the right stand-up gear makes all the difference in a day of bringing up big fish and heavy weights. This critter turned out to be not as big as we'd thought, fooling us by fighting harder than the larger grouper. But lacking a large swim bladder, it suffered no debilitating effects from the pressure difference and fought right up to the boat. It also proved to be our third species, looking absolutely nothing like the oilfish or the snowy grouper. "Barrelfish!" Ron announced. It was also the second world-record fish of that afternoon. With no identity crisis on this critter, we put it aside to be weighed on a certified scale before filleting. It later weighed in at 16 pounds. Although the IGFA never received the completed application, this would certainly have been the first-ever barrelfish to earn an all-tackle world record. With its blunt nose, oversized eyes and flat body shaped like no bottomfish I'd ever seen, the barrelfish lived up to our expectations of cranking up weird things from deep, dark places. Light-Eating Beast at 1,200The second day, although gray, dawned less threatening. So we headed offshore on the smooth sea, farther this time, to the big rig known as Lena, anchored in 1,200 feet about 45 miles from the marina. Once again we were in luck as only a light current moved past the towering structure. But our luck would end there. Just before we went in from Cognac the afternoon before, I had felt a sharp tug. But before I could get too excited, my line went slack. I reeled up all my line, minus the rig, to find it had been neatly snipped off. I shrugged and forgot about it - until the same thing happened again this next day at Lena. One hard pull, then nothing. As I started unhappily reeling up, figuring I'd lost the whole rig and light, right next to me Ron's pole dipped violently. Then his line went slack, also. Both of us were unhappily cranking up when the obvious struck me. "Hey! You guys had better pull your lines up!" I yelled over to the group on Damon's boat, drifting about 100 feet away. "I think some kind of shark is eating our lights!" Of course, it made perfect sense: Something with teeth sharp enough to snip 100-pound superbraid as if it were so much sewing thread seemed to home in on our lights, which we'd unfortunately hung off the swivel at the top of our heavy rigs. Too late: Before Andy or Dave could reel more than a few turns, it was dejà vu all over again, as first one rod dipped and went slack, then the other. In perhaps five minutes, something nearly a quarter-mile below with an appetite for K-lights had gone from line to line gobbling them up. (Granted, it could well have been several such fish, but I envisioned a single furtive, toothy, shadowy monstrosity going from one light to the next.) In any event, the surprising development certainly gave credence to Ron's expression, "No light, no bite." Worse, we had only a couple of lights left - between the one I'd lost the day before and those lost that morning, we were nearly cleaned out! We ran to another rig in shallower water where lights wouldn't be as critical, but caught nothing new. We ended the day with another impressive snowy grouper and two more barrelfish. We all agreed on a couple things: First, even a couple of half-days of deep-dropping the rigs had been worthwhile in many respects. We'd caught fish - in good numbers, especially the first afternoon, considering that each drop takes a good 45 minutes even if a fish strikes right away. We'd caught good-sized fish (two could have been world records), good-eating fish as well (except for the oilfish, said to cause diarrhea; we decided not to test it). We caught species that almost no Louisiana anglers ever get to catch. We agreed that we'd barely tapped the potential of deep-dropping in the northern Gulf. It seems almost certain that many species other than the three we caught must swim around these huge structures, perhaps some all the time and probably others according to time of day or year. And that's just around the bases of the three rigs we tried. Many other deepwater rigs scattered about the northern Gulf await exploration. Moreover, a good depth recorder with plenty of power read by a 50-kHz transducer can help find small topographical irregularities in deep water where - well, who-knows-what is likely to lurk. Chances are anyone trying this will have the oil platform of his choice to himself. Deep-dropping is likely to remain too specialized to attract a broad following in the Gulf, too far beyond the realm of what most bottom-fish anglers would ever consider for a run far offshore and, for many, just too damn much work. ("I'll never complain about snapper fishing in 200 feet of water again!" Brent said later.) But for those who take special pleasure in lowering baits into this abyssal realm of eternal shadows, where strange things with big eyes and voracious appetites prowl, and who are willing to invest in the gear it takes to do the job, the opportunity awaits around every Gulf of Mexico deepwater oil platform.