The Jack Crevalle: The Boatyard Brawler of Tampa Bay

As told by captain John Blenker of Five O’Clock Charlie Boat Tours

There are fish in Tampa Bay that get all the glory. The snook strut around like Beauty queen models. The redfish act like royalty. Tarpon… well hell, tarpon get treated like rock stars.

But if you want to see a grown man question his life choices halfway through a fishing trip, hook him up with a 30-pound jack crevalle.

Now the first time most folks see one, they’re unimpressed.

“Captain, that isn’t very big.”

And that’s when I lean back on the cooler, sip my coffee, and say, “Go ahead… reel him in.”

About thirty seconds later the rod doubles over like it owes the fish money and the drag starts screaming like a Royal Tern that just found a fresh shiner minnow. That’s when the party starts.

The jack crevalle is the boatyard brawler of Tampa Bay. Built like a cinder block with fins and about as polite. They don’t nibble. They don’t politely sip bait. They hit like a freight train and then proceed to try and swim to Cuba.

I’ve seen these fish drag grown men around the deck like they’re pulling a wagon.

One time I had my brother-in-law Michael from Virginia hook into what he thought was a “nice little fish.” Ten minutes later he’s sweating through his shirt, leaning on the rail like he just climbed a mountain, and asking if we could “maybe chase the fish with the boat.”

“Nope,” I told him. “That fish is giving you a tour today.”

That’s jack fishing in Tampa Bay. We have gotten some really big ones out on the reefs outside of Tampa Bay as well.

You’ll find them busting bait on the surface like someone tossed a hand grenade into a koi pond. Big silver torpedoes crashing mullet, glass minnows, and whatever else happens to be unfortunate enough to be nearby.

When we see that water exploding, I’ll point and say, “Cast right into the middle of that chaos.”

Nine times out of ten you don’t even get the bail closed before WHAM — fish on.

Now I’ll be honest about one thing: jack crevalle aren’t exactly five-star table fare. You won’t see them featured in fancy seafood restaurants next to grouper sandwiches.

But that’s not why we catch them.

You catch a jack crevalle because you want to know what it feels like when a fish fights like it’s late for an appointment with destiny.

They don’t quit. They don’t negotiate. They just pull… and pull… and pull some more.

And when you finally get one boatside — big shoulders, yellow tail glowing in the sun, eyes looking like they’re still planning round two — you realize something important:

Pound for pound, there might not be a tougher fish swimming in Tampa Bay.

Around here we call them the poor man’s tarpon.

Personally, I think that sells them short.

Because while the tarpon might be the king, the jack crevalle is the barroom fighter who knocks the king’s crown crooked when nobody’s looking.

So, if you ever find yourself out on the water with me and the bay suddenly erupts with bait spraying and birds diving, grab a rod.

Because chances are good there’s a pack of jacks down there looking to ruin somebody’s arms for the afternoon.

And if you hook one…

Don’t say the old captain John didn’t warn you.

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