Raising A Tin Cup Chalis
A tribute to Jimmy Buffett
“Jimmy dreams, he's a child to the end.
What a joy when you are your best friend.
And the world's such a toy if you just stay a boy.
You can spin it again and again”.
He was a mad poet with a guitar. My mentor with a Margarita at the beach. His sun-soaked laughter inspired me to a full beachside life full of mischief and love.
Jimmy Buffett has been a part of my life since 1982. I was dating a med student whose family was participating in sailboat races on Lake Tahoe. One team had Jimmy Buffett as The Captain. Doctor Wannabe was excited to race. I wanted to meet the man who penned Come Monday. Ultimately, Doctor-Two-Colored-Eyes decided I was too much of a wild card to invite me. I pouted on his porch as he sped away.
Me- a wild card? Nah-I ate magic mushrooms and men weekly. My minimum wage employment usually lasted for one pay period. I stole from them and giggled as they handed me the pink slips. Most nights- I discod until 4:00 a.m., consuming kamikazes until I couldn’t stand. My girlfriend would pour me onto the doctor-in-training’s porch.
He’d let me sleep until I sobered up, and then I’d ask about Jimmy. He told me I was too wild as he devoured me. Later, over breakfast, I’d ask again. He just said, “No. Never. Ain’t gonna happen.”
Fuck him and his sailboat. I’ll meet Jimmy Buffett. I was a smart woman in a real short skirt.
I bought all of Jimmy’s albums as they came out. I switched to cassettes when the cars introduced them. I learned to make boat drinks for parties and how to sail.
I stowed away on every sailboat I could find. I wanted a man with ocean salt in his veins. I found my husband at a jet ski race on an Indian reservation. Later on our first date, we shared our JB Album collections and bodily fluids. Jimmy cemented my love.
We traveled to Key West after a tall ship sailing adventure to drink at Captain Tony’s. We were walking down the street, and my husband sported a flowing mullet, so Captain Tony came up from behind us, placing his hands on our outer shoulders, claiming, “Hello ladies, can I buy you a drink, and then will you marry me?” We had a big laugh and followed him into his bar. We drank strong rum drinks and shared sailboat tales. I was in my bathing suit, so I had no business cards to put on the wall, which was the custom. I pulled out a maxi pad, signed my name on the absorbing part, and placed it on the support beam using the sticky feature. Thus ensuring my future trickster status.
Later, we walked into the Viva Zapata bar and heard a band playing - they were rockin'. My husband stayed at the bar, and I went to the balcony to listen to the acoustics. It was dark as it was used to set spotlights. A man was up there with a ball cap, a pink Hawaiian shirt, and board shorts. He was quick to laugh.
We started talking about the band, what struck us, and what was unique and wonderful about them. We talked about sailing. He claimed he was addicted. We talked about surfing. I told him about the small beach town I came from. He was a nice, ordinary guy. While this conversation was happening, my husband was at the bar looking over his shoulder, holding up an exaggerated thumbs up to me with a big grin. I had no idea what was making him so happy. Maybe he was hoping I was replacing him. After the band took a break, I ventured downstairs to this now shit-eating-grin husband.
“How exciting was that?” He was positively vibrating.
“The band was great. Sounded better up there.”
“I’m not talking about the band. I’m talking about the man.”
“What? Are you pissed that I was talking to a guy? You could have come up there.”
“You have no idea?”
“About what?”
He laughed out a big snort and slapped the bar.
“That was Jimmy Buffett!”
“No.”
Then it struck me. The voice. The open joy. “Fuck me. You’re right. I totally missed it.”
“How was he?”
“He was so nice and happy, unlike a rock star.”
The bartender, eavesdropping as all liquid slingers do, put on “I Heard I Was In Town.”
Years later- We were poor because our kids outnumbered us. We would take these sailing vacations using our hollowed-out Jeep Wagoner to transport our brood and sloop. It had no seats except the drivers, so the kids rolled like errant bowling balls on winding roads and sudden stops.
We played only Jimmy Buffett cassettes. Endless Margaritaville.
We slept on sand dunes, ate out of cans of beans warmed over our fire, and snuck Into Motel 6 for showers as the guests left and the maid hadn’t cleaned yet.
The kids thought it was all a grand adventure. - They’d sing along to "Let's Just Get Drunk and Sue”. (That’s what they heard).
In between adventure times, Jimmy came on the radio, and it would spur us to plan another outing, for all we needed was gas money and that giant ring of Motel Six keys.
When we first met at a writing class, my best friend was a haute couture lady. She was a former PanAm flight attendant who flew worldwide, dealing with primarily first-class citizens. She now owned a bakery with the best bread this side of Paris but was a writer at heart.
I introduced her to the parrot head music at a sailers beach bar called Mr. Ricks. She fell in love with his simple yet poignant look at life. I made her copies of all our CDs (which, as an artist - I know is terrible- but at this point, we had bought every one of his albums, purchased the sister cassettes, then bought the CDs. We bastardized the CDs to preach his words to my new friend. I felt Mr. Buffett would approve of my pirating. She became a convert. She was driving her bakers and children insane with the church of Jimmy.
When Jimmy died- every kid and friend reached out. Family memories filled with him in the background. He was part of our family history - a wonderful uncle who shared his beach wisdom and humor.
Now he is gone. I must breathe in, breathe out. Move on. Thank you, Jimmy- you were a part of us. See you, Mañana.