Jacks On The Beach

by Capt. Peterson

Every year, beginning in January and lasting until June an ancient ritual takes place along the Treasure Coast beaches. Until recently, only a few dedicated fishermen have seen and experienced the spawning and pre-spawning of Jack Crevalle. Thanks to 74% of Florida's voters we can now all experience this spectacular show of mother nature. In past years, these jumbo jacks would show up in January or February and be wiped out within a month. The next sighting of these big jacks would be at the supermarket on the cat food shelf. With the banning of shoreline netting in Florida, mature jacks are free to continue a ritual, which has taken place for hundreds of years along Florida¹s Treasure Coast.

Jacks are a mostly maligned and underrated piscatorial opponent. Consider this, what fish readily eats a plug, jig, or fly and has the pulling power of a bulldozer? You get all this in a package that loves to be seen. That's right, the jackus jumbus eats right on top, in your face! It¹s a scenario right out of fly fishing heaven.

Imagine seeing two or three hundred jacks over twenty pounds in a daisy-chain, with their dorsals and backs out of water. Your guide says, strip out sixty feet of line and get ready to get your butt kicked. You are standing in the bow of a seventeen-foot skiff with a 10wt. fly rod that could take down a hundred pound tarpon. At the end of your floating line is a large foam popper. Your thinking to yourself that these fish can¹t be that bad, when the guide yells, ³ whenever your ready, hit the outside edge of the pod and work that popper like it was a rabbit running before a pack of hounds². Like a wisp of cloud crossing the full moon, the slightest glimmer of doubt begins to cross your mind. What does he mean, get my butt kicked? Finally it¹s time, you roll cast the big popper and pick it up for a backcast, then another and lay the fly in position. You glance back at the guide for approval and think you notice a devilish grin on his face, as he says, ³perfect². The next few seconds will play again and again in your mind for many years to come.

As the lead fish breaks the chain to follow your popper, twenty or thirty of his best buddies are determined to beat him to the punch. It¹s not clear which fish actually inhales the popper, because in the midst of all that white water, you could only see the one big, black hole, the size of a twenty pound cannon, as your fly disappeared inside.

You kick back into the conscience world with someone yelling at you. It¹s the guide yelling, ³clear the line². After a little dancing on the deck that would make Al Gore look good, you clear the line and begin the fight in earnest. At first the fish stays with the pack. The guide yells, ³set him up hard². As you obey with three or four good sets, the fish comes alive. He breaks from the school and rips off a hundred yards of backing. This is followed by another seventy-five yard run. You are nearly two hundred yards into your backing and a total of one or two minutes have gone by since that shadow of doubt crossed your mind.

During the next forty minutes the guide gently gives encouragement as you work back toward your fly line. Finally the first wrap of flyline is on the reel. In another ten minutes of tough, hand to hand combat, the fish is at the boat. The guide swiftly tails the fish into the skiff. After a few pictures, this twenty-eight pound ³bad boy² is placed reverently back into the water.

As I watch while my guide gently revives this awesome creature, I think I recognize a look of respect on his face. As the fish swims slowly away, he turns and reaches his callused, fish slimed hand and grabs mine in congratulations. I look into his clear blue eyes and know instantly his thoughts. I know why he brings strangers to this special place.

If you'd like to experience what you have just read, contact Capt. Steve Peterson and he'll create your own adventure to remember.

Contact Capt. Peterson