There is no easy way to start a Naturespeak series about my brief trip to Florida because there is too much to talk about. Putting a northern naturalist into a southern – near tropical -clime in mid-winter can create a state of over-stimulation. I suppose you could call it an overdose. In other words, I don’t know where to begin. I could start rattling off about manatees and pelicans or anoles or ibis flocks (does one say ibisii for plural on this one?). Or, how about the fiddler crabs, mangroves, alligators and cabbage palms – not to mention the Knickkernuts? See, you get my point.
So, I will begin at an arbitrary point with no rhyme or reason as to what is most or least impressive. Let’s start with a few fish just because we can and because they have some wonderful names. Florida is a place of fantastic place names such as Weeki Watchi and Chassahowitzka, which are rivers in the region north of Tampa. Being on the Gulf of Mexico, however, fish and fish names are also part of the mix. Let’s take the wonderfully named Crevalle Jacks.
The freshwater spring at Homosassa is best known for its herd of manatees. As exciting as it was to watch these huge potatoes sleep on the bottom, however, the swirling schools of fish demanded the most eye time. As viewed from the glass-enclosed observation pod their motions are mesmerizing. Watching the tornado tube column of swimming Jacks was enough to induce a hypnotic state. Because they are fast swimming marine fish they have a hard time staying still and so they do laps, as it were, around this huge natural hot tub all day long. The waters issue out of the earth at around 72 degrees F.
There are dozens of species of Jacks and the Crevalle represents a typical member of the family Carangidae. Like all members of the tribe they have compressed silvery bodies (laterally compressed in fisheese), a series of boney scutes on the body just ahead of the tail, and deeply forked tails (lunate or crescent moon shaped). Their face is blunted and expressionless. The side fins, or pectorals if you prefer, are extremely long and taper down to a fine whisp and the matching top and bottom fins each lead a saw-toothed row of finlets down to the base of the tail fin. A sleek racing fish if ever there was one.
The name Crevalle Jack apparently stems from a root word cavalla– the feminine form – of horse. I will not go into details because I don’t know or care. It can be said that the scientific name Caranx hippos has a very clear reference to a horse (hippos is Greek for horse). There is nothing horse-like about these fish, however. They do not graze and, in fact, are veracious predators. The origin of Jack is more nebulous. When I came upon the phrase that cavalla is another meaning of jack I prematurely decided to end this thread with the admission that “I don’t know Jack.”
I do know that Craville Jack would be a great name for a brand of rum or a horse-faced rum swiggler in some future pirate movie.
Another oddly named fish of Homosassa Spring are the Snooks. These large wall-eyelike fish hang out close to the observation glass where they display a neat racing stripe down the side. Elsewhere, large Florida Gars (lacking an unusual or even creative name) perform terrific manatee imitations by lying perfectly still on the bottom close to shore.
It was on a saunter down the fishing pier at Fort DeSoto, located in the mouth of Tampa Bay well south of Homosassa, that I (we, actually – my daughter and myself) encountered another fascinating ocean fish with yet another intriguing name. Several seasoned fishermen were plying their sport over the rail. One of them had a fish tucked into his bucket and I stopped to ask if I could take a look. His prize was a Spanish Mackeral. He simply referred to it as a Mackeral and dinner. I was unable to find out why it is considered especially Spanish but certainly understand why it is neither Dutch nor Norwegian.
Like the Carville Jacks, the Spanish mackerel is another one of those sleek oceanic speedsters. The identifying feature on this species is the galaxy of yellow spots on its flanks. The fisherman quickly offered to lay down his ruler to serve as a comparison and even thought I might want to hold it up as if I had captured the thing. Assuring him that my interest was strictly as a naturalist, I re-focused my camera on that neat little keel on the tail stem which is found on oceanic speedsters.
He pondered the feature as if he’d never seen it before and asked what it was called. Unfortunately I had no good answer other than “a neat keel-like thing.” Doubtless he was un-impressed with the Northern Naturalist. I later looked it up and found it to be called a “caudal keel”. This feature, also found on tuna and sharks, provides stability and support and is not found on any freshwater fish that I know of (note the qualifier in that statement).
Finally, I would like to mention the humble Scrawled Cowfish. Cow fish are well protected by a complete boney shell made up of fused hexagonal bone plates. Once seen, there is no doubt as to why a cow fish is called such (the scrawled part comes from the short lines decorating the body). They are equipped with two little forward facing horns over their eyes. Two additional horns face backwards next to their anal fin which would suggest an alternate name of horn butt just in case the old name runs out.
The beach near Bayonet Point was littered with their sun-dried carcasses where tourists and shorebirds were picking at their remains. Ruddy Turnstones sought access through chinks in the cow fish armor for bits of fish jerky clinging to the inside of the shell. Most of the fish were picked clean. One of them returned home with me and is banished to the back porch until it no longer smells of ocean (and other things).
I am not done with my Floridian rambles yet and will return to the subject next week. Meanwhile I’ll soak in this Michigan winter and return to my native roots. It is funny that in this discussion about Florida and unique names, I can only recall one other four-lettered name for snow and it too starts with the letter “s.”