Casting a Line into the World: The Chinese Fishing Craze: A Look at Escape, Consumerism, and Culture

By Ryan Yeh

Forget the usual suspects, the latest activity to leap from niche hobby to national obsession in China is undoubtedly fishing. From the shimmering corners of city parks to the rugged banks of rivers and lakes, and even to the fishing short videos that go viral online, the slender fishing line seems to act as a mirror, reflecting some fascinating aspects of contemporary Chinese society. It's no longer just about fishing itself; it's intertwined with deep-rooted cultural traditions, emerging economic trends, and the complex inner needs of people. Just have a look at the popularity of competitive "Taiwanese-style" fishing, the relentless pursuit of top-tier gear, and the fervent enthusiasm of young people – this is far more than just a way to kill time.

When talking about fishing in China, one’s cultural DNA immediately comes to mind, tinged with a sense of ethereal tranquility. The classic image of "an old man in a straw cloak, fishing alone in the cold river snow" evokes profound solitude and a deep connection with nature. The legendary Jiang Taigong's saying, "Those who are willing will take the bait," even elevated fishing to a philosophical level, associating it with reclusion and self-cultivation.

But “Taiwanese-style fishing”, currently popular and trendy, is a complete overhaul of that traditional imagery. Originating in Japan, flourishing in Taiwan, and then exploding onto the mainland, its growth is fueled by precision and standardization. Terms like "set the float at 4,fish at 2" (调四钓二 - diào sì diào èr) and "bait atomization" (饵料雾化 - ěr liào wù huà) sound more like scientific research. Anglers have transformed fishing from a "feeling-based" activity into a "theory-driven" one, with some even said to have developed float-tuning formulas akin to academic papers. What's going on here?  In one sense, it is industrial-era efficiency worship; but scratch the surface,it also reflects Confucian concept of “Ge Wu Zhi Zhi” (the thorough investigating of things)-only now the subject of study has shifted from nature and landscape to fishing floats. Except now, the object of study has shifted from landscapes and flowers to the subtle movements of a fishing float.

Amidst the heavy pressure of the "996" work culture (working 9 am to 9 pm, 6 days a week) and the feeling of helplessness associated with "quiet quitting" (躺平 - tǎngpíng, a passive resistance to societal pressures), fishing has quietly become a "spiritual refuge" for many young people. The China Angling Association reports that nearly half of the 140 million active anglers are between 20 and 40 years old. The magic of fishing lies in its appealing contrast: it allows you to escape the urban hustle and bustle, offering moments of tranquility, while also harboring a subtle competitive thrill. The instant a fish takes the bait brings a rush of dopamine; battling a big fish sends adrenaline soaring. It's a low-cost, high-reward emotional outlet for weary city dwellers. What's even more intriguing is that the complex techniques of Taiwanese-style fishing turn it into a "controllable challenge." Compared to the ambiguous and frustrating aspects of work, the slightest movement of the float follows the laws of physics. This "certainty" provides a rare sense of security in an age of widespread anxiety.

The "pay-to-win" (氪金 - kè jīn, players who pay more progress faster) trend in the fishing community starkly reveals how consumer society "hijacks" leisure activities. A single carbon fiber fishing rod can easily cost tens of thousands of yuan, and a tackle box can resemble a mobile armory. Merchants have even coined sayings like "Taiwanese-style fishing ruins your life, lure-fishing bankrupts three generations" (台钓毁一生，路亚穷三代 - táidiào huǐ yī shēng, lùyà qióng sān dài), precisely targeting the "face" (面子 - miàn zi, social standing and prestige) and “sentimental attachments” of middle-aged men. Behind this equipment race lies the anxiety of identity. On social media, the enthusiasm for "showing the catch" is gradually being replaced by "showing off the gear," with the price of the rod seemingly becoming an invisible yardstick for fishing skill. Ironically, the old-timers who used bamboo rods and earthworms could still catch plenty, while today's youth seem lost in "equipment worship" – is it people fishing, or is capital "fishing" for people's wallets?

Believe it or not, fishing is now a lively social affair. On short video platforms, the hashtag #fishing (钓鱼 - diàoyú) easily surpasses hundreds of billions of views. Fishing influencers showcase their "ten consecutive catches in ten minutes" skills while conveniently selling fishing gear, turning solitary angling into an online carnival. Offline fishing communities have also built a new type of social network: in the self-deprecating humor of being an "air force" (空军 - kōng jūn, slang for catching nothing) and the boastful joy of a "bursting net" (爆护 - bào hù, catching a large number of fish), people quickly find camaraderie. This kind of interaction, which disregards social status, precisely caters to young people's desire for social circles "without a hierarchy of contempt." What's even more interesting is when female anglers in Chongqing powerfully challenged gender stereotypes with their skills, fishing took on a new cultural significance – it's not just an escape from the noise, but also a declaration of breaking traditional norms.

Ultimately, the essence of this fishing craze is a collective spiritual breakout. As the precise techniques of Taiwanese-style fishing encounter the ancient appreciation for natural landscapes, as expensive fishing gear overshadows simple folk wisdom, and as the desire to escape the "involution" (内卷 - nèijuǎn, intense internal competition) collides with the traps of consumerism, Chinese anglers are using their fishing rods to carefully measure the cracks between tradition and modernity. They are also striving to salvage their own philosophy of life amidst the rise and fall of their floats. Perhaps, as one angler put it, "What we're fishing for isn't the fish, but ourselves being pulled out of the water." This massive national angling phenomenon will undoubtedly become a crucial key to understanding the current social mentality in China.

Ryan Yeh is a Beijing-based observer. The views don't necessarily reflect those of BeijingReviewDossier.