Bigger jack crevalles can give anglers in Palm Beach the ride of a lifetime
5/25/2004 3:42:55 PM by Susan Cocking
It used to be that whenever someone would suggest fishing for jack
crevalles, I would feel the corners of my mouth involuntarily turning
down in distaste. Sure, they fight hard enough for little guys, but
they're best known for stealing your bait or wasting your time while
you're trying to fish for something more important -- such as permit,
or African pompano, or sharks on fly. To me, they're no good to eat.
I used to say that my fondest jack crevalle memory is using one as bait
to catch a 58 1/2-pound kingfish more than 20 years ago in Key West.
That was my attitude toward the ubiquitous jack crevalle until
recently. Right now, there are some really big jack crevalles
patrolling the near shore waters off Palm Beach County. Guides and
anglers revel in trying to catch them on spin, plug and fly rod.
Captain Cliff Budd of Jupiter, who guides aboard a 24-foot Cabo called
Seacret Spot, is one of the best. “C'mon!” Budd urged, inviting me to
accompany him and Jay Dewing, owner of Dewing's Fly & Gun Shop in
West Palm Beach. “These are great fish. They don't act like those
little ones you're used to.”
We set out from Jonathan's Landing Marina in Jupiter and motored to a
spot 45 feet deep, where Budd's fish-finder marked a jagged ledge.
Telltale fish marks dotted the ledge, prompting Budd to throw the
anchor. Dewing pulled out an 11-weight Sage with a No. 3 Abel reel
loaded with 500grain sinking line. The shock tippet was 30-pound
fluorocarbon tied to one of Budd's creations -- a chartreuse, orange
and white fly with red, lead eyes and glow-in-the-dark crystal flash
big enough to entice a kingfish. I said nothing, but I was thinking,
“Isn't this kind of overkill?” Budd put out a chum bag and tossed over
a few handfuls of pilchards while Dewing performed some expert,
tightlooped, warm-up casts. No wonder he owns a fly shop. Dewing let
the fly sink about midway to the bottom, then stripped the line quickly
back. Suddenly, the line stopped dead, then surged away from the boat
and kept going. In no time, 100 feet had exited Dewing's rod, with the
reel peeled well down into the backing. In two more minutes, the
backing was half gone. “This can't be a jack!” I exclaimed. “Hmm, well
it could be,” Budd murmured. “Or maybe an African pompano or a cobia.”
I turned to Dewing, who was still holding onto the rod, unable to turn
the reel because of its knuckle-busting, reverse motion. “How is it
acting?” I asked Dewing. “Is it doing that stupid, surging,
head-shaking thing that jacks do?” “Actually, no,” he replied, between
clenched teeth. “Strong fish.” Suddenly, the backing stopped peeling
out, enabling Dewing to regain several hundred feet. But it was all he
could do to wind fast enough to keep the line from going slack.
Clearly, the fish was now racing toward the boat at top speed. “Hmmm.
I've seen wahoo do that,” I said. Budd stood there, shaking his head.
“Strange fish,” he said. When Dewing had recovered a good amount of
backing, the thing connected to it decided to dash once again in the
opposite direction. Incredibly, this run was even stronger than the
first. Realize, no one had seen so much as a millimeter of the fly line
for 20 minutes. “Crazy fish!” Budd exclaimed and pulled the anchor to
chase it. I watched Dewing maintaining his vigilance in watching the
fish's progress. He never let the line go slack and kept a round, even
bend in the rod. He only gained a foot or two at a time but didn't try
to rush things. “You aren't tired?” I asked him after an hour had
passed with no flash of fish near the surface. He smiled, held onto the
rod and shook his head. “No, I'm doing OK,” he said. Budd kept motoring
on pace with the fish. The depth increased to 60 feet. This
fish-from-hell now powered alternately for the Abacos and for the
propellers of Seacret Spot. I had visions of the diabolical “Creature
from the Black Lagoon” sprinting two-legged on the bottom, carrying the
fly. As if reading my thoughts, Budd said, “Could be a jack. Noble
fish.” I highly doubted it but said nothing. After another 20 minutes,
it appeared Dewing might be gaining line ever so slowly. He wasn't even
close to recovering the fly line, but the backing was now a solid layer
on the reel. “Could it be a sea turtle?” I mused. Budd shook his head.
“Whatever it is, it's an amazing fish,” he replied.
Dewing never wavered nor whined. He gained when he could and let the
fish go when he had to. After an hour and a half, he had all the
backing and part of the fly line. “I sure hope whatever this is doesn't
break off,” I said. Budd and Dewing gave me dirty looks. Clearly, both
were prepared to dive in if it broke the line. At one hour and 50
minutes, Dewing won the battle of his fly-fishing life. The “creature”
was hauled into the boat. It was a 48-inch-long jack crevalle that
looked like it ate moray eels for breakfast. Budd struggled to weigh it
with his Boga Grip, which quickly bottomed out at the maximum of 30
pounds. At that moment, it dawned on me that Dewing's jack had fought
harder and longer than a 70-pound Pacific sailfish I caught on fly rod
in Guatemala five years ago. Budd carefully released the jack, which
swam away as if nothing had happened. It wouldn't surprise me to read
in the newspaper one day about a jack crevalle that ate the Jupiter
lighthouse.
Susan Cocking can be contacted at scocking@hearld.com