I have been a staunch (another word rarely used, except in political arenas) Parrothead since 1973. My high school friends can vouch for it: That nerdy little artist sitting on the bar stool in the corner brandishing a #2B drawing pencil and a very-much-used Artgum eraser is also a rampant Parrothead, singing Brown-Eyed Girl at the top of her lungs (albeit the original Van Morrison version).
All of my Buffett collection were vinyls, "records" to us oldies, and they sat proudly in the wooden peach crates alongside Seals & Croft, Cat Stevens and Yes. Later, joined by Black Sabbath, Z Z Top and Rod Stewart, with a few Stevie Nicks (Tusk-era), my Buffett records were still religiously played time and time again. I have never been disloyal to Jimmy.
Fast forward to the early 80s: A newly divorced mom with a baby decides to take a week off, leaving said baby with grandpa, while she races down to the Keys to get her head straight. Not the best place to get one's head straight, but you have to know that going down to the Keys was an annual thing, having grown up with a father who loved fishing in open water. It was the Keys of "Old Florida" legend back in the 60s. No t-shirt supermarkets, no legendary crowds of drunken revelers being herded up the streets like cattle, no neon lights, except for the Southern Cross motel and a few other places - no Margaritaville. I used to skip down the streets and draw hopscotch blocks on the sidewalks. The family stayed in a little motor court called The Dolphin Motel, on Islamorada. It was $22 a night, which was just about the going rate, even at the Holiday Inns. So, it meant a bit of nostalgia for me. And I needed to reconnect with my happy place.
It was there that the quintessential "Buffett" story begins. If you've lived in Florida long enough, and you're a Buffett fan, you have a Buffett story. We all have stories of near misses of meeting Buffett at one time or another. I wasn't going to the Keys that year to meet Buffett, or to even get my Parrothead on. I just wanted to remember the 60s. And I needed a long drive. I had never expected to be a divorced mom with a baby to raise on her own, and it was overwhelming. I was supposed to be in college, on my way to being an artist, or a photographer with National Geographic. Or, at least, happily married to the father of my child. So, I had a lot to process.
I ended up at the Dolphin Motel, of course. It was a mess, but still painted baby blue, with plaster dolphins on the outside of the lobby, and little fake shutters with dolphin shapes cut out of them. I don't remember much else, other than it had a little bar attached and the television sets in the rooms had rabbit ears. The outside air units on the rooms were rusted and didn't work very well, if at all. I could not afford much, so just being back at the Dolphin was fine, because that's where "we" used to stay as a family.
I was sitting in one of the bar stools, the vinyl covered ones with the ripped seats. I was drinking Michelobs, because that was THE beer of the era. I've always been pretty much a lightweight with alcohol, but I was getting pretty tipsy, so I was thinking of getting back to the room, because I was there three days already, had driven to Key West twice (it's a fairly long haul from Islamorada) and I had to get back home. I had gotten a lovely tattoo of a bluebird/swallow on my inner wrist, by a local named "Snake," and it was starting to heal a bit. It was a reminder to put happiness above all else. It cost me all of $25.
Then, two guys with long-billed caps came in, sunburnt and laughing, both holding musical instruments, one a guitar and the other a banjo. They looked as though they had been charter fishing. They pulled a couple of the wooden barstools away from the bar and sat down in a corner of the little bar, and one started strumming the guitar, sort of tuning it, I guess. I thought they may be some impromptu entertainment. Locals, you know.
Then a guy that looked a lot like Jimmy Buffett walked in. Pilot-style sunglasses, a baseball hat, shorts and flip-flops. He walked to the bar, ordered a beer (Michelob) and started talking to the guys with the musical instruments. He came back over and stood next to me to order a round of beers for him and the two guys. I told him he looked a lot like Jimmy Buffett. He smiled and said that's because he was. I said that if he was, to autograph a bar napkin...and he did. Then he bought me a beer, went back over to the two guys, took the banjo and started strumming it. A mini-jam session started, and all of the people in the bar started listening. He started telling stories, none of which I clearly remember, and people were asking them to play certain songs. I didn't drink the beer, because I already had half of one I left unfinished, and I walked over to my room. I almost forgot to grab the bar napkin. At the time, I honestly didn't believe it was Buffett.
And now, almost forty years later, I'm still a Parrothead. I've owned so many leis and Hawaiian shirts, I can't count. I've won plastic blow-up seaplanes from Corona from countless raffles at Parrothead Meetings, been to the annual Parrothead Conventions down in the Keys at least 7 years in a row, and cannot name all the concerts I attended, from Tampa to Jacksonville to Cincinnati.
And now I find that Jimmy has teamed up with a community builder and is bringing Latitude Margaritaville, an upscale retirement community for 55+ to Daytona Beach, scant miles from where I live. In fact, the private beach that has been purchased for the exclusive community is damn near across the street (on A1A) from my house in Ormond By The Sea.
Don't get me wrong, Jimmy. I love all of this. I'm tickled pink. But please...if you decide to attend the Grand Opening in 2018...let me come over for a beer. I promise to drink it this time.
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