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A fish story

Bruce Kraus had to move his Gibsonton fish farm - quickly - after selling the land to a developer. Could he move thousands of tropical fish in a matter of days?

By LANE DeGREGORY
Published July 14, 2005

[Times photos: Skip O’Rourke]

Mike Kraus, 22, top, and his uncle, Richard Friend, pull a seine net across one of the 48 ponds at Kraus Tropicals in Gibsonton. Some of the farm’s biggest fish swim in the 8-foot deep outdoor ponds.

	Koi and other tropical fish swim in one of the large concrete vats at Kraus Tropicals in Gibsonton. The fish are waiting to be moved from the old farm to the new one, near Wimauma.
	Bruce Kraus, owner of Kraus Tropicals, installs PVC pipe to bring well water to the tanks on his new farm in Wimauma. His youngest son Cliff, 14, helps him.
	The hatchery at Kraus’ old fish farm sits at the front of the property. Rows of outdoor ponds unfold on the fields behind the building.
	Kraus and his sons put up this greenhouse on their new farm near Wimauma. More than 70 plastic tubs inside hold fish, crabs and snails.

WIMAUMA - The new dirt road slices the farm like a scar, raised and raw. On the west side, a patchwork of muddy ponds spreads across the fields.

The fish will go here, if he ever gets this place ready.

But all the ponds are empty. The hatchery is just a stack of lumber. And the electrician still hasn't shown.

"I keep calling and calling him," Bruce Kraus says, hauling cement blocks across the dirt road. "He knows without him I can't run the pumps. He knows I only have six days.

"Six days!" Kraus says, spitting the words around his cigar. "Six days, they're telling me."

It's a sticky Thursday, the first week of summer. Next week, developers plan to start bulldozing Kraus' old fish farm in Gibsonton to make room for big houses. He has six days to finish this new farm, a half-hour's drive down the highway. Six days to build a hatchery, dig drains, run miles of air and water lines.

Six days, five friends, two sons and a no-show electrician to move more than 100,000 fish.

Kraus lugs another set of blocks into the greenhouse. It's not yet 9 a.m., and already the sun is baking a crust on the dirt floor. Kraus wipes his hand across his forehead, shakes his head.

A wiry man, sinewy and strong, he is wearing dusty boat shoes, faded Levis and a T-shirt with his company logo: "Kraus Tropicals." Thick gold chains loop around his neck and wrists. His dark hair is combed back beneath a ball cap. His trim goatee is flecked with gray. He has the leathery face of a Floridian, the voice of New Jersey.

"If I'd known they wanted me out of there so quick, I would've said no," Kraus tells his eldest son, Michael. "Six days. No way. Can't be done."

Kraus is 57. He has a wife, three kids, a mother-in-law, a horse, five dogs, a flock of chickens and a dozen pygmy goats on his old farm in Gibsonton. Along with thousands of fiddler crabs, albino frogs, turtles, shrimp and orange-bellied newts.

He raises aquatic animals to sell to families across Tampa Bay, and to ship to wholesale dealers across North America. Kraus' fish swim in backyard ponds and hotel fountains, around Dinosaur World and Las Vegas casinos. He grows dozens of varieties: fat, fancy goldfish with tri-colored scales; guppies, jewel cichlids, red devils and Oscars; fan-tailed butterfly koi that sell for $100 each.

"We'll have to bring some test fish over first, I guess," Kraus says, sucking on his stogie.

He doesn't have a plan. He thought he had more time.

Growing up in Jersey, Kraus combed the banks of the Saddle River, searching for turtles and frogs. After a stint in the Army, he moved to Miami and started selling reptiles. For a few years in the '70s, Kraus ran a zoo in Honduras and shipped iguanas, tarantulas and boa constrictors to the States.

He moved back to Florida and netted alligator gar in the Everglades - as many as 1,500 a day - and sold them to fish dealers for $1.50 apiece. In 1985, he used the profits to start his first fish farm. He built it in his back yard in rural Hillsborough County.

A few years later, Kraus moved to Riverview, then Gibsonton. That was supposed to be his last stop. His home was on that land, all his fish, his business. Those 10 acres were his children's college fund, their ticket out, his retirement.

He never wanted to sell that farm. Eight times last year, he told developers no.

Then crews started clearing trees around his property and streets were being paved on the other side of his ponds. "Suburbs were surrounding me," Kraus says. Developers had bought 80 acres around his fish farm. They tripled their offer for his parcel, the last piece they needed. "I didn't have a choice," Kraus says.

He had to find somewhere to move the fish.

In January, he bought 20 acres off U.S. 301, near Wimauma. He figured he'd take his time moving everything over there. He had arranged to stay on his old property through the end of this year. Or so he thought.

About a month ago, one of the developers drove by Kraus' fish farm. The horse, chickens and goats were kicking sand along the fence. All the ponds were still boiling with fish. The man called Kraus. "I see you're not doing much to move," he said.

"I got time," Kraus answered.

"No you don't," the man said.

Kraus looked at his contract. He had misunderstood. He could stay in his house through the end of the year, but he had to clear off the rest of his property by July 1.

If he wasn't gone, developers could bulldoze his hatchery, fill his fish ponds with dirt, bury his business alive.

Three days before the deadline, there still aren't any fish at the new farm. The hatchery is only a wooden frame. The electrician still hasn't shown.

Kraus had to rig up a generator over the weekend so he could run spotlights. He and his boys, ages 22 and 14, have been working past dark every night.

They graded the dirt floor inside the greenhouse, lined the cement blocks along the walls, scrubbed the algae off all 70 plastic tubs. The tubs are up on the blocks now. Long drains, threaded with PVC pipes, run beneath them.

Kraus twists a faucet into the last pipe, turns on water from the new well. The water smells like yesterday's egg salad. Kraus hopes the fish don't mind.

"All right, James," Kraus calls to a muscular boy in a tank top. "I need you to put filters in all these tubs." James dates Kraus' 16-year-old daughter, Heather. Kraus is trying to work the teenage boy until he's too tired to take out his daughter tonight.

"Three days," Kraus tells James, handing him a box of filters. "I don't know how we're going to make it."

A few hours later, Kraus calls the developer and leaves a message: "I need more time." Even if he gets an extension, he'll probably have to pay penalties to the buyers of the old farm and the sellers of the new one. But he can't just leave thousands of fish out there to die.

All morning, while he tightens pipes, Kraus keeps checking his cell phone, hoping to hear from the developers, or at least the AWOL electrician.

"Yep," Kraus answers, when a call finally comes. Then he frowns. Slowly, he puts down his wrench, rubs his eyes.

"No, Cheryl," he tells his wife. "Stop yelling, Cheryl," he scowls around his cigar. "I still have three days. We're working as fast as we can. No, we're not going to lose this land, too."

Florida has 150 fish farms, more than any other state. Most of them are within an hour's drive of Tampa International Airport. David Boozer, executive director of the Florida Tropical Fish Farms Association, says Florida farmers ship about 20,000 boxes of fish every week.

But fish farms are being swallowed by development. In the last three years, Boozer says, at least 30 Florida fish farms have been bulldozed.

"Most farmers can't afford to hold onto their land," Boozer says. "Not when they're being squeezed out - and tempted by the money."

Most owners retire after selling their farms. It's rare for someone to try to find new land and move all his fish. Too much work. Too many risks.

Once the tubs are filled with water, once Kraus proves the pumps and drains work, he sends his sons to the old farm to start bagging fish.

Now, herding fish is a lot harder than moving other farm animals. It's not like you can climb up on a horse and wrangle a school of koi. Fish flop and struggle. Their eyes bulge. Their scales scrape off. They don't travel well.

Kraus' sons dip thin nets into the tanks, trying to snag the thickest fish first. Then they dump their catch into clear bags half-filled with water. They pump in extra air, knot the bags, carry them to Michael's pick-up.

About 100 fish fill the truck. At this rate, it will take 1,000 trips to move them all.

Later that day, while Kraus' sons pour fish into tubs at the new farm, his cell phone rings. It's the developers' lawyer. He gives Kraus 10 more days.

"We're going to need them," Kraus says, smiling for the first time in weeks. "Now, at least I can breathe some."

But he still can't relax. He needs an electrician. What the heck happened to that guy?

July 1. This was supposed to be D-day, the first deadline. Good thing the bulldozers aren't gearing up at the old farm today.

Snails and frogs still are crawling around the hatchery. Crabs squirm in boxes, waiting to be moved. The outdoor ponds are still full of fish.

Mike, Cliff and their Uncle Ricky have been working on those ponds all week. But it's a slow, inexact process complicated by weeds, mud and snakes.

First, they drain half the water from the pond. Then, they untangle nets from the weeds around it. Barefoot, they wade into the waist-deep black water, spreading a seine. They wait a few minutes, then slowly drag the net full of fish back to shore. They've been working all week, but they haven't finished half the ponds.

Kraus is down to six days again. Six days.

Six days, 24 ponds to clear, plus 60 tubs. Newts, turtles and snails still to move, along with thousands of fish, including his most valuable: the big breeders. Six days, and still no electricity.

Kraus and his crew have been working 15-hour days, seven-day weeks, for a month now. There's still so much to do. Kraus doesn't want to admit it, but the pressure is getting to him.

About midnight the other night, he fell asleep in his chair in front of the TV. He never does that. He woke an hour later, walking under the stars. His son Cliff was shaking him. Kraus had wandered out of his house, crossed 5 acres of his farm, stumbled around dozens of 8-foot deep ponds. "You okay, Dad?" Cliff asked.

Kraus looked down and saw his son's worried face. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder and said, "I have to be."

The electrician calls the next day. "Wait till you hear his story," Kraus tells his crew.

Seems the guy met this girl and took her to a no-tell motel. Next morning, the girl gets up and borrows his truck for a beer run. Two days later, the electrician hasn't seen the girl, his truck or that six-pack.

So of course he hasn't been able to get out to wire the farm.

"I'm not sure I believe him," Kraus says. "But I sure couldn't make up a story like that."

Later that night, as Kraus is packing tools into his truck, the electrician drives up. He doesn't apologize. He wants money. He needs it up front, he says, to buy supplies.

Kraus pulls out his checkbook and says, "I'll make it out to the supplier." He hands the guy the check, scowling around his cigar. "And you better come right back."

This move has cost Kraus so much more than he had expected. Not that he'd made a budget . . . But to build the new farm, shift everything over, he'd figured he'd drop maybe $25,000.

He's spent $60,000 so far.

And he's not done yet. Five days to go.

He has to leave some cichlids and red terrors behind. On closing day, eight ponds out at the old farm are still full of fish. The bulldozers are coming.

"I feel worse for the fish than about the money I'm leaving behind," Kraus says. "We just got as many as we could."

He built a pen at the new farm and moved his pygmy goats. He boarded his horse. His wife gave away the chickens.

The electrician came back and wired the hatchery - with the wrong-sized wires. So Kraus is running at half-power. At least he's running.

He doesn't have an office. He doesn't have a concrete platform on which to pack the fish. He doesn't have heaters, yet, for the outdoor tanks.

"And I don't have any money left," Kraus says. He thought after selling the old place he could pay off the new farm and still have cash to pay bills. But with all the expenses, and the $1,000 penalty for being late, that didn't happen.

"All I have now is this land," he says. "And I don't figure on having that for long."

The new dirt road through the farm is flatter now, from all the truck tires. A month of summer sun has bleached the red clay.

Finally, the fish are here. Most of the 100,000 made it. They're splashing in the patchwork of muddy ponds, circling the deep plastic tubs.

Kraus parks his van at the top of the road and watches the sun fade behind his new farm. It's a sticky Friday, the first day he officially owns this land.

He lights a cigar. He's thinking about his kids.

Michael is a junior at the University of South Florida, working to get into medical school. Heather will be going to college soon, too. Cliff, he's not so sure. He's just starting high school.

Cliff loves working on the fish farm more than anyone, even more than his dad. It's great getting to drive that ATV around all those acres, getting to check on the ponds, getting to scoop all the fish, getting filthy with frogs and newts and tubs of turtles - and nobody cares, because that's your job.

Whatever happens to Kraus, whatever happens to his business, these 20 acres at his new place are his kids' future. That's why he had to start over. Why he couldn't just sell his old farm and retire, buy that little house in Jamaica . . .

In January, when Kraus signed the papers for his new farm, he paid $320,000. As soon as he cleared the land, developers showed up at the gate. Already, he's been offered three times what he paid for it.

A guy down the road who has 18 acres is asking $1.7-million. That ought to be enough to put Michael through med school. Heather, too, or whatever she wants to do.

And if Cliff is still digging fish by the time he's old enough to take over, well, maybe Kraus could hold onto this farm a little longer. He has six years to figure that out. Six years.

That seems like enough time to make a plan.

Lane DeGregory can be reached at 727 893-8825 or degregory@sptimes.com

To reach Bruce Kraus' fish farm, Kraus Tropicals, please call 813 677-7899 or click on www.koiman.com

[Last modified July 13, 2005, 10:46:01]