"...listening to Murphey, Walker and Willis sing me their Texas rhymes...." -- Jimmy Buffett

 This photo is about 15 years old, of my boys and me (and Kim) moving the boat from Port St. Joe FL to Panama City. Took the better part of a day, working inside on the Intracoastal instead of outside in the Gulf around Tyndall AFB and the military crap. But about the last third of the trip is open water and under sail and delightful. Note Stu licking the lime off his thumb.

Friday's death of Jimmy Buffett kicked up a swell of emotions that took me about a day to handle, but we're good now. I interviewed him a few times while with UPI and the AP and I found him affable, enthusiastic and extremely intelligent. He'll be missed, but not for the reasons his millions of Parrothead fans think. I've been frankly taken aback at their reaction, as if some kind of latter-day Jesus had succumbed without leaving an epistle about going forward. They're absolutely adrift. I have read accounts from people who had gone to see his concerts up to SIXTY times over the years and I gotta tell ya that's just weird as shit.

I've always been standoffish about the Parrotheads. As a group, they have seemed to me largely a huge pack of woulda/coulda/shoulda folks afraid to take a next step. They've envisioned a world of never-ending tequila and beach parties and sailboats and salty imaginings but no idea how to get there. "One day when I hit the Lotto" or "one day when I retire." Know what? One Day never comes unless you get off your ass and do something about it. Today. "Well, I have a job" or "I have kids" or whatever. Know what else? Maybe if you put a little of that concert money toward a boat down payment or something maybe you could actually move toward participating in this lifestyle you say you want.

I know that sounds harsh and everyone has their own challenges. But it's no different than someone buying a $75,000 pickup, a hat and Wranglers and pretending to be a cowboy. If you're serious, put some money on some land, learn something about ranching. Or something. Make a move, even a slight one.

I raised my kids in Florida, about 35 minutes from the Gulf. My daughter points out (and I agree) Jimmy's music wasn't about a lifestyle but more about Just Plain Life. We sailed. We had to reason with hurricane season. At the end of summer, the coast was clear. We didn't run to the beach to cram an entire vacation into a long weekend or even two weeks. It was simply our daily. Turtle nests, saltwater taste on your lips, sand on the floorboard, watching tourists covered with oil. There are manatees in the marina. 

Speaking of covered with oil, I am hoping the Buffett family (or someone) uses this death to increase public awareness of skin cancer and its causes. The beach life is great but you gotta cover up and I have personal experience with it. Growing up, I wore only cutoffs in the summer and slathered on baby oil or minimal SPF Hawaiian Tropic to get an early burn and then what we called a "base tan" in the 100-degree Texas summer. I have scars on my back to show you the price. You don't want it.

Like Western Swing in Texas or maybe Sinatra in New York, Jimmy Buffett's music is and will remain iconic. But it's also part of the regional landscape. I was in New Jersey the weekend Frank Sinatra died in May 1998. We went to an Italian place for dinner and there were guys in the bar literally crying into their drink while listening to his music. I was living in Dallas when Bob Wills died in nearby Fort Worth and I had to pull over when I heard the news. I get it. John Lennon's murder in Central Park was another example of how music can and does have profound effect on who, what and where we are. There's no need to invent an imaginary world. The real one can be glorious enough if you face and work with it.

Speaking of music, the title of this piece is from Buffett's "Migration." He is referring to Michael Martin Murphey, Jerry Jeff Walker and Willis Alan Ramsey -- all Texas songwriters he shared a lot of time with while in Austin (well, Walker was from New York but he gets a pass). Buffett wrote "Margaritaville" partly in Texas on his way to Florida and you gotta wonder if he'd stayed in Texas how things might have changed. But I'll wonder only briefly, since things worked out pretty damn well.

"...got a Caribbean soul I can barely control and some Texas hidden here in my heart...."