Editors Note: This is a satire piece. Repeat, it’s satire. It may not be any good, but it’s still satire. That being said, it’s all 100% true ;-)
Every now and then, it’s a good, maybe even necessary, idea to get off the highway of life.
Pull onto the service road.
Maybe even a rest stop.
And just… park.
I’ve been blessed to travel the world, encountering the life of the Church in ways I never could have imagined. And I’ll say this: for every journey, every assignment, every event… there are a thousand stories.
The problem is, it would take a thousand lifetimes to tell them all.
Partly because there are so many… and partly because I have a tendency to turn even the simplest moment into something resembling a short novel.
But every so often, there’s a story that feels just a little too outlandish to tell. The kind you keep to yourself… because you’re fairly certain no one would believe it anyway.
This is one of those stories.
It began in the vast, open expanse of Wadi Rum in Jordan.
We were moving across the desert in a convoy of aging 4x4s. Engines straining, tires carving their way through the red sand. The landscape rolled endlessly in every direction, carved by wind and time into something that felt less like geography and more like a prehistoric era.
And then, without warning, a storm came.
A fast-moving wall of wind and sand, bearing down on us with surprising speed. Within moments, we were swallowed by it—visibility gone, air thick, the world reduced to sound and force.
And in the middle of it…
My hat.
My beloved Yankees cap, worn, broken in, carried with me through more assignments than I can count, was ripped clean from my head and carried off by the wind.
I remember yelling after it.
Actually yelling.
Into a desert that, quite frankly, didn’t care.
The storm passed as quickly as it came. The wind moved on. The sky returned.
But the hat was gone.
Lost… quite literally… to the sands of time.
The rest of the day had a certain heaviness to it. My hair, now fully exposed to the elements, did me no favors. And there’s something about losing an object like that; not valuable, not irreplaceable… but yours…and that stings more than you’d realize.
As the days passed, I made my peace with it.
Or at least… I thought I had.
We eventually made our way to Aqaba, on the edge of the Red Sea.
From the shoreline, you can see across the water, faint outlines of a distant land, ships moving quietly along the horizon. It’s a place that carries history in a way few other places do.
The following day, we set out by boat.
The plan was simple: a dive along the reef.
The water was clear, breathtakingly so. Sunlight filtered down in long, shifting columns, illuminating coral and movement and color in a way that feels otherworldly.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but think about it.
These waters…
The parting of them...
The stories attached to it…
So, naturally… I began looking.
Not seriously, of course.
But you don’t drop into the Red Sea without at least entertaining the thought:
What if?
A chariot wheel. A piece of armor. Anything that might suggest that the stories we’ve heard… touched this place in some tangible way.
Of course, countless experts have searched these waters with far more training, far better equipment, and significantly more credibility than I possess.
They’ve found nothing.
But I didn’t see that as a reason not to look.
I was moving slowly along the seabed when I saw it.
Partially buried.
Just enough exposed to catch the eye.
At first, it didn’t make sense.
The shape was… familiar. But out of context. Out of place.
I moved closer.
The water shifted slightly with each movement, the sand lifting and settling again.
And then it became clear.
It was a hat.
A baseball cap.
Blue.
Worn… but intact.
I paused there for a moment, hovering just above it.
Because something about it didn’t add up.
The condition.
The location.
The… presence of it.
I reached down and lifted it gently from the sand.
Turned it slightly in my hand.
There was no logo.
No identifying mark.
Just a simple blue cap… preserved in a way that, at the very least, raised questions.
And it was somewhere in that moment, suspended between curiosity and confusion, that a thought began to form.
One I initially dismissed.
Then reconsidered.
And finally… accepted as the only reasonable conclusion.
We know, from countless depictions, that Moses was not lacking in hair.
We also know, through simple lived experience, the value of a hat in desert conditions.
The sun.
The glare.
The distance.
It stands to reason.
And while the absence of a logo may initially seem problematic… a brief consideration of the timeline resolves this rather quickly.
The Yankees, after all, did not yet exist.
Which, if anything, strengthens the argument.
Because what we are left with… is a blue cap.
And given the available data… it is difficult to arrive at any other conclusion.
I brought it back with me.
Naturally.
I considered, briefly, making a formal announcement. Sharing the discovery. Allowing it to be examined, studied… properly understood.
But given the potential implications, I thought it best to proceed carefully.
So I began quietly reaching out to a number of museums.
Curators. Institutions tasked with preserving history.
The response was… unexpected.
Some declined outright.
Others suggested somewhat strongly that I stop contacting them.
One or two implied that I might benefit from professional help.
Which, to be fair, is a recommendation I think we could all take seriously from time to time.
You should see the condition of my lawn.
And the roof, at the moment, is not what I would call encouraging.
Still… I couldn’t help but feel a certain disappointment.
To be in possession of something of this magnitude… and to be met with such resistance.
Particularly when you consider the secondary implication…
That we now have what could reasonably be described as early evidence of plastic use dating back to roughly 1400 BC.
Which, in its own way, raises just as many questions.
I’ve spent some time considering alternative explanations.
That it may belong to another diver.
A tourist.
Someone who simply lost a hat in an inconvenient place.
These are, of course, possibilities.
But I find them… lacking.
So for now, the hat remains with me.
A quiet reminder that history is not always as settled as we’d like to believe.
And that sometimes, the things we lose… have a way of returning.
Just… not always in the way we expect.
And if any part of this account has caused you concern, I would humbly ask you to consider becoming a paid subscriber.
Your support will go directly toward ensuring that I receive the professional help many would argue is long overdue.
Thanks for reading! This is a truly independent, reader-supported periodical. Your support is crucial. If you are able, please consider a paid subscription or making a ‘Patron of the Arts’ donation of any amount. By doing so, you are not just supporting this effort; you’re a vital part of this mission.
You have my heartfelt thanks for your generosity and support, and please keep me in your prayers, and know of mine for each of you. God Bless, Jeff
Such a really entertaining and well written story . From start to finish!
You are incredibly talented in many ways . Keep up the great work !
I have to chuckle... searching for Wadi Rum photos on Flickr was how I discovered your work years ago. Felix culpa?!