Chasing the “Before-Storm Fish Bite” Myth: My Typhoon Muifa Fishing Adventure
It had been almost half a month since I last held a fishing rod—time flies when you’re busy with life, right? Mid-Autumn Festival came and went without a sound, and suddenly, the strong Typhoon Muifa was on its way. I’ve heard the old saying a million times: “Fish bite well before the weather changes.” Combine that with my serious fishing withdrawal, and I knew I couldn’t miss this chance. Even if it was just to test if that old wives’ tale held water, I had to grab my gear and head out.
Rushing to My Go-To Spot (And Fighting for a Spot)
After a quick bite to eat, I tossed all my fishing stuff into the car and hit the road to my usual fishing ground. I’ve been coming here for ages—know every nook, every shallow spot, and exactly where the big ones like to hide. But when I pulled up around 5 PM, my heart sank a little: the three shallow areas I love were packed! Every inch of shore had someone with a rod, laughing and chatting like they didn’t care a typhoon was coming.
I dragged my heavy gear down to the water anyway, figuring I’d hover and wait for a spot to open. Lucky me—two guys were just packing up their rods, saying they had to get home before the wind picked up. I practically sprinted to claim their spot, setting down my bag like I was guarding treasure. Before they left, I snuck a peek at their catch: a huge 1-pound white bass (total goal fish envy!) and a mountain of tiny baitfish. Nice haul, but I was here for bigger game.
Setting Up for “Giants” (And Fighting the Baitfish Army)
I spent a few minutes chatting with the departing anglers—trading tips about the water depth (only 1.2 meters here, shallow but surprisingly productive) and what bait they’d used. Then I got down to business:
- Rod: 6.3-meter heavy-duty one (needed the length to cast past the shallow chaos)
- Main line: 4# (strong enough for big pulls)
- Leader line: 0.6# braided line (game-changer for avoiding snags and cuts)
- Hook: 4# Iseama (sharp, wide gap—perfect for big mouths)
- Bait: Single-serve all-purpose fishy bait, plus a handful of crushed rice wine grains mixed in (to lure the big ones and keep them around)
I cast my line, and bam—immediate bite! But wait… it was a tiny baitfish. Like, a really tiny one. I looked at the water, and sure enough, the surface was swarming with them—hundreds of little silver bodies darting around like they were at a feast. My bait couldn’t even reach the bottom without getting attacked. The worst part? Even with my huge hook, I was catching the “biggest” baitfish in the school—total insult to my “giant fish” mission.
For the next hour, it was nonstop baitfish. Every cast, every twitch of the float—another tiny guy. I was this close to switching hooks, but I held out. Baitfish don’t stick around when the sun goes down… right?
Dusk Hits: Baitfish Disappear, and the Waiting Begins
By 6:30 PM, the sky was dark, and sure enough, the baitfish vanished. Finally! The water went quiet, like someone had hit a mute button. I leaned back on my cooler, sipping a soda, and waited. The usual crowd was gone too—usually this spot is packed till midnight, but tonight only a guy to my left and two others up the shore were still there. The wind started to pick up a little, rustling the trees, and I could smell the rain in the air. Typhoon Muifa was definitely on its way.
Not 10 minutes later, my float twitched—slowly, then a little more. I held my breath, waited for the right moment, and lifted the rod. Yes! A solid pull. I reeled it in gently, and there it was: a tiny crucian carp, maybe half a pound. Cute, but not what I wanted. I tossed it back into the water, muttering, “Go find your friends—this spot’s for the big kids.”
I cast again, gave the line a few quick tugs to “tease” the fish, and the float popped up then dropped hard. Another bite! Reeled it in… another tiny crucian. Ugh. I tossed it back too. “C’mon, guys,” I said out loud (yes, I talk to fish), “your bigger cousins—where are they?”
The Lull (And the Unexpected First “Big” Catch)
After those two little crucians, the float went dead. Like, no movement at all. For half an hour, I sat there watching the float bob gently in the water, listening to the guy to my left reel in fish (his rod made this satisfying “click-click-click” sound every time he pulled—so annoying, but I was low-key jealous). I started to wonder if the typhoon had scared all the big fish away…
Then—boom! The float disappeared completely, sinking like a stone. I reacted on instinct, yanking the rod up hard. The line went tight immediately, and I felt a small but stubborn pull. I reeled it in slowly, and when it surfaced, I grinned: a 1-pound carp! Its scales were all messy (not the pretty farmed kind), head and tail golden—definitely a wild one, born and raised in this water. I held it up for a second, then tossed it back too. Still not my target, but hey—progress.
The Red Carp Surprise (And a Near Line-Snap)
After the small carp, the water went quiet again. The wind picked up more, and a few tiny raindrops started to fall. I checked my phone—no weather alerts yet, but I knew I shouldn’t stay too long. Then, around 9 PM, I noticed the float twitching softly. Big fish move slow, I thought—so I gave the rod a tiny tug to “tease” whatever was there.
That was all it took. The float vanished again, but this time the pull was massive. The line screamed as the fish darted straight out into the deeper water, yanking the rod almost out of my hands. I held on tight, my heart racing—this was the big one! The fish jumped out of the water with a huge splash, and I could see it clearly: bright red, no scales, and huge. I thanked my lucky stars for the braided leader—if it had been regular line, that jump would’ve snapped it in a second.
I played it slow, giving the fish slack when it pulled, reeling in when it tired. After five minutes (felt like forever!), I finally got it close enough to net. It was 3-4 pounds—way bigger than anything I’d caught all night. I laid it on the grass, and it even made this funny gurgling sound, like it was complaining. I snapped a quick photo (had to document this win!), then picked it up gently and tossed it back into the water. No way I was keeping a beauty like that—let it grow even bigger for next time.
Calling It Quits (Before the Rain Hits)
By then, the drizzle had turned into a steady light rain, and the wind was howling through the trees. My hands were cold, my legs were sore, but I was grinning from ear to ear. I’d gotten my fishing fix, tested the “before-storm bite” myth (turns out it’s true!), and caught a red carp I’d never forget.
I packed up my gear quickly, tossing everything into the car before I got soaked. As I drove home, I thought about the night: the baitfish chaos, the tiny crucians, the wild carp, and that amazing red one. Typhoon Muifa might have messed up a lot of plans, but it gave me one of my best fishing trips ever.
Next time a storm rolls in? You know where I’ll be—rod in hand, waiting for the next big surprise.
