I was pulling my waders on when I heard an agonizing scream, a veritable death-rattle of a sentient human. In response, I half waddled, half fell into view of a horrific scene, an angler tucked into a fetal ball, with his pal administering last rites…

Fearing the worst, I duck-walked over to render assistance, prepared to tourniquet the missing limb, donate an extra kidney, or surrender a couple of pints of blood. On my approach, his pal looked up unconcerned, callously dismissing his friends condition, with, ” No worries, he forgot his fishing hat.”

Fishing hats are sacred stuff, and this poor fellow pounding the ground in agony knows what we all do – might as well turn the car around and go home, as that hat is the key to all success afield.

There are two Perfect Truths evident in a fishing hat; the first is that it’s the only possession you own that survived your first three divorces, and second, with fishing hats there is no fashion mis-statement, glaring clash, or styling faux pas.

The product of years of adoring neglect, stained by sweat, blood, and a bevy of unmentionables. Festooned with flies – most embedded by accident, torn, crushed, or rolled – it is the visual proof of the anglers ascendancy into Manhood.

Aged 13 years, like old scotch … and the salt seeping through the lettering is from real tears, as that was the year the Vikings demolished us in the playoffs.