From Non-Fisherman to Gear Obsessed: My Accidental Fishing Journey (And Why My Son Ditched It)

Let me set the scene: a few years back, I was the guy who’d laugh at friends spending weekends by the river with rods and buckets. “Fishing? That’s just sitting around waiting for a fish to make a mistake,” I’d say. Oh, how wrong I was. How very, very wrong.

The Day It All Started (Blame the Kid)

It all kicked off at the local wetland park. My son, then 8, spotted a group of retired guys hauling tiny fish out of the river. His eyes lit up—total kid mode activated. He ran over, begging for one to keep as a pet. And here’s the thing about those “old guys”: they’re not as soft as they look. Not a single one would part with a minnow. My son’s bottom lip stuck out so far he could’ve hung a coat on it. What’s a dad to do?

I sighed, thought about “self-reliance” (thanks, national slogans), and headed to the sporting goods store. “We’ll catch our own,” I told him. Spoiler: I had no clue what I was doing.

Blindly Buying Gear (Spoiler: It Didn’t Work)

First, I grabbed a random rod—2.7 meters, because it looked “normal.” Then I stood there, staring at line spools like they were alien tech. No experts around, so I just… guessed. First trip out? Nada. Zilch. Not a single bite.

That’s when the “armchair experts” showed up. A gray-haired guy leaned over my shoulder, snorting. “Rod’s too short. Can’t reach the deep spots where the big ones hide.”

Fine. I upgraded to 8.1 meters. Then, just to be safe, I added a feeder rod, sea rod, and float rod. “Now I can fish the Pacific if I want,” I bragged to my son. We went back. Still nothing. Wait—wait a second, there was a tug! I hauled back, excited… and the line snapped. The fish got away.

Another expert piped up: “Line’s too thin for the fish here. You need heavier stuff.”

So I swapped 0.4lb line for 4.0lb braid. “Now I’m unstoppable,” I thought. Spoiler #2: I wasn’t.

Upgrades That Spiral Out of Control

Let’s talk about the “quality of life” upgrades. Standing for hours holding a rod? Torture. So I bought a fishing chair with a rod holder. Sunburned? A UV-protective fishing umbrella—top of the line, obviously. Daytime bites were garbage? Night fishing! But regular floats don’t work at night, so electronic glow floats. Can’t see in the dark? A headlamp. But bright lights scare fish? Infrared motion-sensor one. Problem solved? Sort of.

Then there’s the organization. Line spools everywhere? Line spool box. Floats piling up? Float box. Rods leaning against walls? Rod case. And don’t get me started on bait. I saw a TikTok from a pro (shoutout to the fishing influencers) raving about a new lure. I bought two packs. Then another. Then a third “just in case.”

My wife started side-eyeing the Amazon packages. The mail lady would wave and say, “Another fishing box?!” The gas station crew? They started greeting me like a regular—because every trip meant driving 30 minutes to the “good spot.” My wallet was crying, but my son was hyped. Win-win? Or so I thought.

The Obsession Takes Over (And the Son Checks Out)

Let’s fast-forward a year. My gear collection is out of control: 5 rods, 3 boxes of line, 20+ floats, a chair, umbrella, headlamp, and enough bait to feed a small lake. My car? It’s not a family car anymore—it’s a fishing truck. The backseat smells like fish food and wet rubber. My wife threatened to hide all my gear. I started hiding it in the garage rafters.

Then the unthinkable happened. My son? He got into video games. Suddenly, “Dad, let’s go fishing!” turned into “Dad, can I play Minecraft for 10 more minutes?” I’d beg: “C’mon, we got new lures!” He’d shrug. “Nah, I’m busy.”

When Fishing Becomes Your Whole Identity (And No One Cares)

I didn’t quit. If anything, I doubled down. I’d wake up at 5 a.m. to check the weather app. “Wind speed 10 km/h—perfect for float fishing!” I’d mutter to myself. At work, I’d stare at the clock, counting down to the weekend. I’d research “best spots for carp in summer” during lunch breaks. I even started dreaming about fishing—like, actual dreams where I reeled in a 100lb tuna.

But here’s the kicker: I was still barely catching anything. Most trips? Total “air force” (fisherman slang for zero fish). I’d come home sunburned, tired, and empty-handed. My wife would roll her eyes. “You spend more money on gear than you do on groceries.” The gas station crew still smiled—they knew I was a guaranteed sale.

The Car Upgrade (Because Why Not?)

My old sedan couldn’t fit all the gear anymore. Rods sticking out the windows, bait boxes in the front seat, the chair taking up half the back. So I bought an SUV. “Now we can fit everything!” I told my son. He didn’t care. Then I started thinking: “A pickup truck would be better. More space for coolers and rods.” My wife threatened to leave me if I bought a truck.

The Quiet Crisis (And a New Perspective)

One morning, I stood in the garage staring at my gear mountain. Rods stacked to the ceiling, bait crates taking up half the fridge (yes, half the fridge—my wife had to store veggies in the freezer), and a tackle box that weighed more than my dog. The church bells from the nearby temple were ringing. I felt… lost. All this stuff, all this time, all this money… and my son didn’t even want to go anymore.

I sat down on my fishing chair (yes, I sat on it in the garage) and thought: What was the point? I started this for him. Now he’s into games, and I’m into… gear? I hadn’t even realized how much I’d let this take over.

Small Wins (And Letting Go)

Last week, I did something radical: I sold three of my rods. Not all—just the ones I never used. I gave some old bait to a neighbor who actually fishes. I cleaned out the fridge (my wife cheered). And you know what? It felt good. I still go fishing sometimes—just me, a single rod, and no pressure to catch a world record.

My son? He still plays games, but he’ll occasionally say, “Dad, can we go to the park and watch the old guys fish?” We don’t bring rods. We just sit, eat ice cream, and watch. And that’s okay.

Look, I’m not saying fishing is bad. It’s just… easy to get caught up in the gear, the “perfect setup,” the obsession. I started as a guy who’d never touch a rod, and now I have a garage full of stuff. But the best part? It brought me and my son closer—for a little while. Even if he bailed on me later.

Oh, and if you’re thinking about getting into fishing? Start small. A cheap rod, some basic line, and a kid who begs for a fish. But be warned: once those old guys start giving you tips? You’re doomed. Doomed to buy more gear. Doomed to spend weekends by the river. Doomed to become that guy. But hey—sometimes that’s the fun of it.