Let me preface this by saying I’ve owned a few flannels in my life. Some good, some questionable, some that looked great until you washed them and they shrank into something better suited for a medium-sized house cat.

I put it on and immediately felt like the kind of man who could chop firewood, quote Hemingway, identify six trout species by smell alone, and still be soft enough inside to cry politely at Pixar movies. It has the rare combination of rugged outdoors energy and “I moisturize regularly” refinement.

SeaWool? I don’t understand it. I don’t want to understand it. All I know is that this shirt feels like Poseidon personally blessed a sheep, whispered a lullaby to it, and Free Fly stole the resulting fibers to create the comfiest thing ever produced by humankind. The moment I wore it, my confidence went up 12%. My casting accuracy improved. My dog respected me more. My wife looked at me like, “Oh… you upgraded.

And to the Free Fly team — you already had my loyalty. Now you have my heart, wallet, and the top two shelves of my closet. This is the kind of shirt that ruins other shirts. Once you’ve worn SeaWool, cotton feels like sandpaper and every other flannel feels like it was designed by someone who hates joy.