How I Fell Back Into the Night Fishing Obsession
Let me set the scene: a few years back, I was obsessed with night fishing. I did it for two straight years, until life threw me a curveball. No fishing buddies meant I was out there alone in the dark, every single time. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the quiet, but it never felt totally safe. On top of that, my wife was constantly worried about me tramping around in the dark, tripping over rocks or worse. So, caving to the pressure (and let’s be real, a little bit of common sense), I hung up my night fishing gear. And that was that—for four whole years.
Four years of no night fishing meant all my gear went to ruin. My headlight died, the batteries in my spotlight turned to dust, and my glow-in-the-dark floats? Vanished into thin air, probably lost in the back of a closet somewhere. I thought my night fishing days were behind me… until I ran into a fellow angler friend who invited me to watch him night fish. One look at him reeling in a catch under the stars, and that old spark reignited. Suddenly, I was back online, ordering new gear like a madman: a bright new headlight, fresh spotlights, a pack of glow floats, and all the little gadgets I’d forgotten I needed.
Night Fishing, Not Fish-Eating: My Weird Angler Quirk
Here’s the thing about me and fishing: I’m obsessed with the act of fishing, but I couldn’t care less about eating the catch. I hate cleaning fish, and honestly, the taste never did it for me. So 99% of the time, I either release everything I catch right back into the water, or I haul it home to give to friends and neighbors. They love it, I avoid the messy cleanup—it’s a win-win.
But recently, I did something totally out of character: I brought home a bucket of tiny crucian carp, all less than two ounces each, and cleaned them myself. Why? Well, we were stuck at home with nothing to do thanks to lockdown, and I got this random craving for fried fish. I’d never made fried fish before, so I figured, why not give it a shot?
Spoiler alert: I’m not a natural chef. I dumped way too much salt on them, and I left them in the fryer way too long—they came out crispy, sure, but bordering on charcoal. But hey, crispy is crispy, right? They made a solid little snack, perfect for pairing with a cold beer. My wife was busy cooking in the kitchen, so I poured myself a glass, popped a few fried fish into my mouth, and settled in to wait for dinner.
Also, I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately, so that beer was a strategic move. I planned to get nice and drowsy, crash for a few hours, and wake up fully recharged for my next night fishing trip. Spoiler part two: it worked. I passed out for an hour, woke up feeling like a new man, and immediately started gearing up for the night.
The Great Night Fishing Debate (With My Wife)
My wife, being the caring person she is, took one look at me and said, “Don’t go night fishing tonight. You’ve been staying out until 1 a.m. every night this week—look at your dark circles! Just rest for one night.” Now, normally, I’m a reasonable guy, but when it comes to night fishing? I’m stubborn as a mule. I flat-out said no. “I’m going,” I told her, trying to sound tough and in charge. In my defense, we were just coming out of lockdown, and I knew once I went back to work, I wouldn’t have time to fish for weeks. I had to make the most of it!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an idiot. I know fishing is just a hobby—one that should never mess up your home life. If my wife truly hated it, I’d cut back, but she’s actually pretty understanding. Once she realized she wasn’t going to talk me out of it, she just shook her head and fried up two more side dishes. “At least eat something real before you go,” she said. See? She gets it. The key here is balance: I get to fish, but I make sure it never crosses into “neglecting family” territory. Guys, take note: you can have fun, but you have to respect your partner’s concerns. No need to start fights over a hobby.
My (Totally Disappointing) Night Fishing Trip
So, after gorging myself on fried fish and my wife’s home cooking, I headed out to my go-to spot at 5:30 p.m. When I got there, my friend’s brother-in-law was already set up, plus a few other regulars I recognized. I claimed my usual spot, dumped some old fermented grain bait to set up a nest, and mixed up my go-to lure combo: Blue Crucian Carp bait mixed with 918 bait. I cast my line a few times to draw fish in, then settled in to wait.
Forty minutes went by before I felt a tiny tug on my line. I reeled it in, and sure enough, it was another tiny crucian carp—way too small to keep. I snapped a quick photo, tossed it back, and waited for more bites.
But here’s the kicker: that tiny fish was the only action I got all night. Normally, by 7 p.m., the fish are going crazy—bites left and right, reeling in fish every 10 minutes. But that night? Nada. Every now and then, I’d feel a tiny nibble, but nothing that turned into a proper bite. Meanwhile, the guy next to me was reeling in two decent-sized crucian carp, each about three ounces. I felt like a total beginner.
After two hours of nothing, I decided to switch spots. I moved to a spot another friend had used a few nights before—he’d had so-so luck with a 5.4-meter rod, so I figured I’d try my 4.5-meter rod there, mix things up. I waited another hour, and the only thing I got was one missed bite. No fish, no action, just me sitting in the dark, staring at my float.
Five hours after I arrived, my bucket was still empty. I’d fished a total washout. I blamed the weather—something in the air must have turned the fish off. My two friends wanted to stay longer, but I called it. I’d been staying out until 1 a.m. every night that week, and between the lack of sleep and the lack of fish, I was drained. I could see another angler way off in the distance, still holding out hope, but I was done.
On the drive home, I passed some beautiful scenery—sun setting over the water, fireflies starting to blink. It made me wish lockdown was over, so I could explore new spots without restrictions. Speaking of new spots, I already made up my mind: I’m ditching this spot tomorrow night. It’s clearly dried up.
Would I Do It All Again? Absolutely.
So, to recap: I spent five hours in the dark, caught one tiny fish, went home empty-handed, and my wife is still nagging me to get more sleep. Do I regret it? Not even a little. That’s the thing about being hooked on night fishing—it’s never just about the catch. It’s about the quiet of the night, the thrill of waiting for a bite, the excuse to get away from the chaos of daily life, and the little moments of peace you can only find when you’re alone with your thoughts and the water.
Tomorrow night, I’m heading to a new spot, with fresh bait and a full night’s sleep (okay, maybe not full, but enough). I might come home empty-handed again. I might catch a haul of tiny fish I’ll give to the neighbor. Either way, I’ll be out there, under the stars, doing something that makes me happy. And that’s all that matters, right?
