Simpson:There are those who love the water, and those who hate it. I was still sore and nursing a blister from paddling several hours down Little Contentnea Creek, but there was a boat show coming up, and I needed to make sure Sylvia was ready for it.

Simpson: I hadn't been fishing all week. The stormy weather had brought on a case of cabin fever.

Simpson:Carolinians have long known the trick of taking part in high-class living without having to partake in today's great rat race. Their secret is courting simplicity. Making the best of what there is, while they can.

The transformation of pre-dawn stars fading, dawn breaking imperceptibly and, suddenly, fire on the water -- orange flames of sunrise. From the soft hush of early morning came a growing of sounds, the muttering of birds calling their mates as they flitted about seeking another breakfast of fresh bug, worm or seed. High overhead, gulls winging toward their hunting grounds, screamed the news of the first sighting. The first rays of sun were peeking through the trees as we backed the boat-laden trailer toward the launching site. Disturbed, a pair of snowy egrets took flight, flashing brilliant white in the morning light. Nearby, a silver-gold flash revealed a school of minnows bursting from beneath mirroring waters.

I've heard that fishing is somewhat like math, a subject that can never be fully mastered. It was a great day, a dozen or so fish in the live well, the sun warm, the day sleepy. Attempting to stay awake, I had poured a fresh cup of coffee from the thermos. My free hand was reaching deep into the lunch bag when the rod tip quivered and the 4-pound line started cutting the dark waters.

Let's talk turkey. Meleagris gallopavo. Indians knew America's largest game bird as Galagina: "the gobbling one." Already domesticated by ancient Aztecs in the early 1500s, rangy, narrow-breasted birds were taken back to Europe by Spanish raiders.

We were surrounded by the gray dead of last year's woods speckled with the fire of swamp maple, the silvery gray of Spanish moss and new greens peeking out as to see if the frost had departed. Overhead, vultures circled, vapor trails of passing aircraft playing tick-tack-toe across the intensely deep blue of a spring sky. A skittering of waterbugs danced about us. Beyond, a couple of dozen boats worked upstream, some anchored, others milling about, lines arching, lures splashing as they flailed the dark, quiet waters of Pitchkettle Creek.

Just how great can fishing become? Shad fishing begins around the first of February, peaks in mid- to late March, continues into April and May. During this time, mature shad -- hickories and their cousins, the Americans -- are returning from their high-seas adventuring, seeking the rising flood waters of spring. Their goal is to move upstream toward their ancestral birthing grounds amid freshwater streams and swamps and spend some quality time romancing. We had gathered fishing rods and packed lunches before heading for the Neuse River and a little landing not far from Contentnea Creek, where we could launch the johnboat. Drifting beneath a warm, almost-spring sun, a gentle breeze rippling reflections of winter-gaunt cypress enlivened by the fire-red of swamp maples coming into bloom, we idled upstream. Silver-gray Spanish moss festooned branches in contrast with the yellow-greens of mistletoe. The sparkling creek waters mirroring the skies were brown but clear. Reflections of mosses, trees, vines intermingled into a brilliant day that had been painted with the snowy whites and sky blues of heaven. The very air held a spring sweetness, the gentle perfume of filtered purity.

Three otters appeared downstream, dark brown heads moving through even darker waters. Spotting us, they hesitated, then disappeared into the debris of log-strewn banks. In a few moments, they reappeared, watching us closely. We continued our fishing. Some days it takes longer than usual to get aligned with the world; this happens more often than not when it comes to fishing. Now, I don't mind not always being top fisherman; don't even mind if someone out-fishes me. But sitting in the same boat, barely five feet apart, using the same basic rig, with nothing hitting while my partner is landing fish after fish ...

Although fishing is one of my favorite forms of diversion, over the years I have come to realize that it's not the fish that I seek but the environment that comes with the angler's world. It's the rippling of wave and current, breaking surf, shifting sands, the mirroring of sky, cloud and tree on black waters, the fragrance of fresh air, dank woods, moldering duff, and the sight of birds flitting among the trees, waterbugs skittering, turtles sunning themselves. It's not that I have anything against catching fish, especially winter fish. Not many people are aware of the difference between winter and summer fish. Right now, the flavor of fish is at its very peak. None of that sulfur-aged taste nor the muddy flavor that comes with the warm water of summer.

After a long winter of benign neglect, and with her birthday celebration scheduled for the 15th of this month, 1300 until 1630 hours, at her former dock at the Sanitary Fish Market, Morehead City waterfront, it was time to pay attention to Sylvia II, maybe polish her up a bit. Who is Sylvia II ? She is a 36-foot, 75-year-old wooden boat, a Core Sounder, one of the few remaining examples representative of Carolina's more successful evolutions of working boats. Drawing national attention, photographs of her, details of her lines and her story have been featured in almost every maritime publication, including Yachting, Boating, Wooden Boat and National Fisherman magazines.

I abide with great regularity to winter's routine. The skies were still dark with just the slightest hint of morning color when the coffee pot began to emit those pleasant and tantalizing odors. The final, glowing remains of last night's log still smoldered in reds and grays, when a shaking of the ashes, followed by a handful of cedar kindling applied to the coals, soon brought a burst of flame. There is satisfaction in watching an awakening wood-burning stove and hearing the crackling of the chimney as the flames begin to warm the stove. They cast welcome comfort while the perfume of hot iron, cedar burning and coffee perking replace the chill of night.

Each year the Carteret Wildlife Club sponsors a beach walk, a short trudge through the soft sands of Bogue Banks to the jetties at Fort Macon. The announced purpose is to cleanse holiday hangovers from the year past and begin anew by tossing into the sea a bottle containing a message. The ceremony has continued over the past 24 years with varying degrees of participation.