Y’all know I talk about the mountains a lot.
So much, in fact, that I think folks sometimes forget there’s another side of me. Because I’m every bit as much of a Wilmingtonian beach bum as I am a hillbilly.
You don’t have to look far to figure that out. Climb in my car and you’ll probably find sand in the floorboards no matter what time of year it is. There are usually a few seashells tucked into the cupholder or sitting on the dashboard like little souvenirs I forgot to put away. There’s always a beach bag in the trunk, packed and ready to go, because around here you never know when the coast is going to start calling your name.
That’s been true of every vehicle I’ve ever owned.
My attitude is pure hillbilly, but my style has always belonged to southeastern North Carolina. Rainbow flip-flops. Sundresses. A house inspired by the coastal Victorian mansions I grew up around, with wide porches meant for rocking chairs and windows that invite a salt breeze inside.
And if I’m being honest, I’m stubborn about change.
I’ve never been the first person to jump on a trend. Usually by the time I decide I like something, everyone else has already moved on to the next thing. I trust the things Mama and Daddy trusted. If my grandparents swore by it, chances are I’ll give it a shot before I buy whatever the internet is trying to convince me I need.
So when Shibumi Shades started popping up on North Carolina beaches, I barely noticed.
I’d see those blue sails stretched across the sand at Holden Beach or Pleasure Island and think, “Well, that’s different.”
Then I’d keep walking with whatever umbrella we’d hauled from the trunk that year. You know the kind. Heavy enough to count as exercise. Takes two people and a little patience to get into the sand. Then, the minute the afternoon sea breeze picks up, it decides it’d rather visit the next county than provide any shade.
I figured that’s just how beach umbrellas were.
Turns out, somebody else got tired of fighting them too.
The Shibumi Shade wasn’t invented in some corporate boardroom by people who’d never spent a day on the coast. It came from three North Carolina guys—brothers Dane and Scott Barnes and their friend Alex Slater—who grew up spending summers on Emerald Isle.
Like the rest of us, they dragged umbrellas across hot sand every year only to watch them twist, bend, and blow over before lunch. Instead of accepting that as part of going to the beach, they started paying attention to the wind itself.
They noticed how a kite catches a breeze. How a sail works with the wind instead of against it. How seabirds can almost stand still in the air without flapping their wings.
Maybe, they thought, the wind wasn’t the problem.
Maybe everyone else was.
So they taught themselves to sew. They pieced together PVC pipe in a spare bedroom after work, stitched fabric together in the evenings, and carried their homemade prototype onto the beach one night with nothing but phone flashlights to see what they were doing.
When the wind caught it, it lifted exactly the way they’d hoped.
Instead of fighting the breeze, it needed the breeze.
That was the beginning.
The name “Shibumi” comes from the apartment complex where they lived while attending Carolina. It’s also a Japanese word meaning simple, effortless beauty. You can laugh at that if you want, but there’s something deeply North Carolina about it — the same unpretentious spirit that named a hot sauce Texas Pete.
Today, it’s hard to find a beach in North Carolina without seeing them.
And that’s the part of the story I love.
Not because it’s a successful business, although it certainly is.
Because it’s a North Carolina story.
It’s three people solving a problem they actually had. Learning a skill they didn’t already know. Failing, tweaking, trying again, and building something with their own hands until it worked.
That feels familiar.
It reminds me of Daddy disappearing into the shed because he was convinced he could fix something himself. Most of the time, he could. Mama was the same way. If something wasn’t working, she didn’t throw it away. She figured it out.
That’s how a lot of North Carolinians think.
We don’t always chase the newest thing.
But we sure do appreciate something that’s built to last.
I’ll admit, I was late to the party. We kept wrestling our umbrella into the sand year after year because that’s what we’d always done. Then one afternoon I watched a Shibumi sit perfectly still while our umbrella was threatening to become airborne.
That got my attention.
These days my girls are grown. I’m not spending the afternoon chasing little feet through the surf anymore. I’m looking for a little shade, a comfortable chair, and a good book while the waves do what they’ve always done.
I’d rather spend my time watching pelicans than wrestling aluminum poles.
So maybe it’s finally time.
Not because it’s the latest thing.
And not because Shibumi paid me or sent me a free shade (they didn’t — though if anybody knows them, feel free to mention I’d happily take one).
Quite the opposite.
After a decade on our beaches, the Shibumi Shade has earned something a lot more meaningful than being trendy.
It’s become part of the landscape.
That’s when you know something has made it in North Carolina. It stops being the new thing and simply becomes the thing.
I reckon it’s about time I bring one home.
I’ll let y’all know how it stands up to a Carolina wind.
