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Wednesday, January 22, 2020

Jack Crevalle in the Gulf


The Seafox Commander 22.5-foot center console is a nice craft, but we judged it wasn't for the high seas whipped by winds on Tuesday the 14th. True to habit developed in 2012, when we never got out to the reef, we progressed about a half mile beyond the bridge into the ocean before we turned back, convinced that it just wasn't safe. National Ocean and Atmospheric Association concurred, having issued a small craft advisor. We rode waves as high as six to eight feet from trough to crest. Out beyond the reef over depths exceeding a hundred feet, chances of capsizing might have been pretty good. I don't know for certain. But I heeded my fears.

So we rode back to camp. Old Wooden Bridge Cottages and Marina used to be called Old Wooden Bridge Fish Camp, which I prefer. To think my wife chose the formerly named destination makes me very proud of her. We got her in the boat and headed for the far edge of the Florida Keys backcountry. There where it exceeds the land masses furthest back at the face of the open Gulf of Mexico. Back of Big Pine, which is a big one that extends back there a way.

Clouds overhead meant rain gear kept handy, and some rain at about 80 degrees felt refreshing. Water temp 77. We roared eight miles over rough at 35 mph until the last little key came into view. It has a name, but I forget it. An uninhabited little spit but to mention the birds, mostly pelicans. Matt had become thoroughly engrossed in the Navionics app. By that use, he had discovered this deep water--as deep as 20 feet, a lot for these flats--with its sharp drops that especially interested us. I paid little attention to the device, never tried to use it on my mobile, but what he showed me is very detailed information, and his role as navigator was completely needed.

I guess it took three casts to the edge between shallow and deep. Fish on! And going, going...not gone. The run felt just like a four-pound hybrid striper's on Lake Hopatcong.

Weeks before, in the middle of all of my nervous posts about the week to come, Matt discovered a dude from Key West. He kayaks, produces riveting videos, and runs a lure production and sales operation. A very interesting life, looks like to us. All About the Bait is his website, and from it I ordered loads of swimbaits that imitate pilchards. He uses them--on occasion--for blackfin tuna in lieu of the speed jigs that work deep. By our guesswork, no other swimbait imitates this forage better. Since his banana jigs are pricey, I looked on Ebay for the same, and purchased a heavy bag of one-ounce leadheads that didn't boost my suitcase over United's weight limit. (Coming and going, they searched that suitcase, and I just laugh at what they must have thought--or felt, if they reached blindly. No blood stains.) Matt and I reasoned from the evidence we found online that these same jigs would serve as the perfect lure for Jack Crevalle. He hadn't opened Navionics, not until Monday night in the cottage, but we knew the spots were inshore channel edges.

Jack crevalle. I felt certain that's what I had on. I used my 8-foot Tica spinning rod and 20-pound Power Pro, a five-foot 20-pound fluorocarbon leader tied directly to that braid. Matt used a lighter rod and 10-pound test monofilament, making me feel edgy in a way he never suffered. It is that way. Every society, no matter how small, has its designated suffering men who must do their damn best never to give in to feeling victimized by it. It's necessary. Someone has to hold down the mainstay.

Sometimes it works to their mysterious advantage. Wink, wink. He is my son, but I don't feel sorry for his catching jacks of smaller size. Well. Slightly. Suffering man. There you have it. But I liked the fish I caught. And Jimmy Cliff sums it all: "I'm a struggling man. And I've got to move on."

Once mine was boated and photographed, Matt soon brought a 16-incher to hand. Mine was somewhere around three pounds. I had to choose. Cover more of this compelling space or stick to these fish. We moved on. Sooner than later, I caught one better two or two-and-a-half before we got to the last island, where Matt caught another less than two, when my feeling for his light tackle felt confirmed. There you have it. Suitable concern, suitable fish. Not that I don't want him to catch bigger. I can't describe now how much I wanted a five-pound hybrid for him on Hopatcong before he caught it. But by everything he told me, he was happy with what he caught.

Me? Nah, I wanted bigger. And it got on my line and ran just like a five-pound hybrid. I hoisted a jack crevalle I estimated at fully four pounds, and slipped it back rather than bothered with more photography. Hope got a little out of mind there, but that was a good fish. Bigger was not to come for the camera after all, but it was bigger I missed, not the mere image of it.

Tide or whatever put the fish off, us off, or both. We stormed back to Bogie Channel near the cottage, Trish feeling deeply uncomfortable as the boat lurched repeatedly, her son illegally at the wheel. (Or so I think there's some stipulation about the renter operating it. Or was it age 25 or older. So what. Which is the crime. The doing or the don't do. Age 25? I fished bass tournaments at 16.) Humphrey Bogart is a favorite. Key Largo is to the north, but Big Pine remembers. Old Bogie haunts the salt.

I don't remember if we took a break. Now I do, vaguely. Matt took a power nap, and then we doused shrimp in Bogie Channel. My first fish was real nice 12-inch mangrove snapper, fully two inches over keeper size, me exclaiming that this would be the best of Trish's meal, feeling fully expectant about filling out meat for all with more small stuff. Trish wasn't so childish, but I still felt it for the meal ahead. And we caught and kept grunts and porgies, which couldn't have tasted as good, and judging by the evidence of Trish's enthusiasm for her fresh snapper when she ate it--did not. But they were alright.

We sacrificed a small grunt, cutting off its eager head, and used the cut bait, hoping to catch grouper. Nothing but grunts resulted. As the sun got low, we switched to pilchard jigs and Matt hooked something--momentarily--beyond the edge over deep water. "It took the jig when it hit the water," Matt said. Cut the line.

Florida Kite




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