Saga of the Hat

Going to the beach at Tybee Island, one thing was clear—we needed hats. Wrinkles and laugh lines are fine, but no need to invite new family members to the reunion.

At a flea market in Anderson, IN, I bought a huge floppy monstrosity of a hat. Not my style, but it would keep the sun at bay.

Then, on the very first day at Tybee, I realized I hadn’t packed enough shorts. Off I went in search of new ones and instead discovered it—the perfect hat. White straw, black band, just the right shape. This was me. Twenty dollars later, I was the happiest Professional Tourist on the island.

The only problem? A little loose. No worries—I had a sewing kit… somewhere. (Key word: somewhere.) Pam, ever prepared, came to the rescue with hers. A few stitches inside the lining, a few experiments with the breeze, a few more stitches—success! Proof? I never lost that hat, even riding in the golf cart.

Fast forward to our last morning on the beach. Coffee in hand, sundress flowing, faithful hat snug on my head, crease marks on my forehead to prove it.

And then came the gust of wind.

Instinctively, I threw both hands up to save my hat—completely forgetting the coffee mug in my left hand. Hot coffee went sailing over my head, straight onto poor Pam, who was suddenly baptized in java.

I glanced back mid-chase to see her scraping coffee out of her eyes, her hair, and her blouse. She was not a happy tourist. I tried not to laugh. I failed. (Thankfully, no cream or sugar was involved, or a full shower might’ve been required.)

Meanwhile, my beautiful white hat was tumbling gleefully down the beach, collecting coffee stains, sand, and indignity. When I rinsed it in the ocean, it collapsed into a limp, wimpy pancake. I decided I’d fix it at home with seashells.

On the way home, we stopped at Shell Yeah! Pam found two perfect shells for fifty cents. “Where’d you get those?” I asked.

“In a box of broken stuff in the back corner,” she said, still speaking to me despite the coffee incident.

Off I dashed, finding a coconut shell windchime strung with seashells. Five dollars. The cashier grumbled that it was supposed to be restored, but he sold it anyway. Victory!

Sadly, my faithful hat did not survive the trip. My suitcase flattened it beyond repair. But I gave it a proper send-off. After all, thanks to that hat, I now have beautiful seashell windchimes on my porch—and a story that still makes Pam shake her head.

The hat may be gone, but it left me with laughter lines, seashells, and one unforgettable memory from Tybee Island.