How Much Do The Wicked Tuna Cast Get Paid

So, you’ve spent another Sunday glued to Wicked Tuna, watching Dave Carraro do his grumpy-captain thing while the crew hauls in million-dollar bluefins. You lean in and ask the big question: How much do these salty sea dogs actually get paid? Buckle up, because the answer involves math, sweat, and a whole lot of “well, it depends.”

First, forget a regular salary. These guys aren’t punching a clock for a steady paycheck. They’re like freelance adrenaline junkies with a serious fishing addiction. The pay is 100% commission-based, meaning they only make money when they catch fish. No fish? No groceries. It’s like being a door-to-door salesman, but the product fights back and smells like a thousand dead anchovies.

The Captain’s Cut (The Big Cheese)

The captain takes the biggest slice of the pie—usually about 40% to 50% of the total catch value. That sounds amazing until you realize the captain also owns the boat, pays for fuel (which is stupid expensive), repairs, gear, and the crew’s beer. So after expenses, that big chunk shrinks faster than a cheap T-shirt in a hot dryer.

Tuna boats cost anywhere from $150,000 to over a million bucks. The captain is essentially running a floating small business, with all the stress and no health insurance. One bad season can leave them eating instant ramen and cursing the ocean gods.

For example, Dave Carraro of the F/V Tuna.com reportedly earns between $100,000 and $200,000 a year on a good season. But when the bluefins aren’t biting? He might make less than your local barista, just with a better tan and worse coffee.

The Deckhands: The Real MVPs (Money-Very-Possible)

Deckhands are the ones who get soaking wet, tangled in lines, and yelled at by the captain. They split the remaining 50% to 60% of the catch among themselves. A typical deckhand can earn between $30,000 and $80,000 per season, depending on the boat and how many monsters they haul.

But here’s where it gets funny: most deckhands don’t get paid by the hour. They get a “share” of the net profit after the captain’s cut. So if the boat catches a $20,000 tuna, the deckhands might each walk away with two grand. If they catch nothing for two weeks? They’re working for free, which is basically a very salty internship.

How much do the Wicked Tuna cast get paid? | The US Sun

And don’t forget the perks: deckhands get to sleep in tiny bunks, eat day-old sandwiches, and shower with a bucket. Luxury is not in the job description. But they also get bragging rights, which you cannot spend at the grocery store.

The Surprising Spoiler: It’s Not All Big Money

Here’s the jaw-dropper: Most of the Wicked Tuna cast are not millionaires. In fact, some make less than a high-school teacher. The show pays the captains a filming fee (around $2,000 to $5,000 per episode), but that’s separate from the fish money. The deckhands? They rarely see a dime from the TV network—the fame is their “bonus.”

One season, a deckhand named “Mookie” (yes, that’s his real nickname) revealed he made only $18,000 after expenses. Meanwhile, a single bluefin tuna can sell for $30,000 at auction. That math hurts. It’s like winning the lottery but paying your taxes in fish guts.

And the biggest catch of all? Bluefin tuna prices have dropped since the show started. In 2012, a fish sold for $700,000 in Japan. Today, it’s more like $50,000 for a really good one. So the cast works harder for less money. Reality TV is a cruel mistress.

How much do the “Wicked Tuna” cast get paid? - YouTube

So, How Much Do They Really Make? (The Bottom Line)

Here’s a rough breakdown: A captain in a great year takes home $150,000. A deckhand on the same boat might get $60,000. In a bad year, that deckhand earns $15,000 and prays for a side gig at the local fish market.

But wait—there’s a twist. Some cast members make extra cash from sponsors, merchandise, and paid appearances. The biggest earners like Dave Carraro and T.J. Ott can clear $250,000 a year if everything lines up. But for every one of them, there are five deckhands who survive on ramen and pride.

Honestly? They’re not in it for the money. They’re in it for the adrenaline, the obsession, and the chance to yell “FISH ON!” like a maniac on national TV. And let’s be real—that’s worth more than a paycheck. Just don’t ask them about their retirement plan. It’s probably “sell the boat and move to Florida.”

So next time you watch Wicked Tuna, remember: Those guys are gamblers, not employees. They bet on the ocean every single day, and sometimes they win big, and sometimes they eat canned beans. Pass the popcorn, and thank your desk job.