Harbor bar

The harbor bar at sunset.  Those five words elicit a contented smile within me.  My blood pressure drops twenty points.

It sits upstairs, on the roof really.  There's a full restaurant below, but I never go there.  The bar is open air, providing an untainted view of the sunset over the bay bridge to the west.  You can see the cars, so tiny in the distance and completely silent, as they disappear over the bridge.  (Over the crest of the bridge, not plunging off the side or anything, just to be clear.)

It's always crowded but somehow there always seems to be an open table.  Inevitably, there's a band playing whose only redeeming quality just may be that they're not quite as bad as the last band you heard here.  But the deck is large so that if you sit far enough away, the music blends in with the hum of the crowd.

Down below, scores of people stroll along the harbor walk, excitedly boarding or disembarking from one of the many boats.  Dolphin tours, sunset cruises, fishing charters, and other sea craft, all designed to lure tourists and their vacation dollars.

A lone man stands amidst them all strumming a guitar and singing Jimmy Buffett songs for tips.  Upon hearing him, you conclude that despite all its other magnificent qualities, the harbor bar is not a music hotspot.

You think of the old cover band joke, "The more you drink, the better we sound."  Then you wonder if that really is an old joke or if you just now made it up.  If you did, you conclude that you must be a genius.  Like Einstein-level brilliant.  In fact, you decide you would like for people to start referring to you as Einstein, and not in an ironic way either.  (None of this thought process has anything to do with the two-and-a-half Shock Tops you've imbibed.)

You're not sure why you're referring to yourself in the second person all of the sudden.  Perhaps it's something geniuses do.  Your 9th grade English teacher (not to mention Jocelyn, oy!) would probably cringe.  But why should you care?  She let the girls in class call you "Elvis" the entire year.  Just because you curled your lip when you smiled and got a bad poofy haircut from your uncle who eventually wound up living near the coast for thirty years with the same male roommate.  Besides, why is your 9th grade English teacher even still reading your blog?  A little creepy, Ms. M.

(For those who may be curious, you feel you should mention that you soon returned to your 77-year-old barber for the remainder of your high school days.  And stopped using hairspray.  But thankfully, Elvis lives on forever in 9th grade yearbook photos.)

Beyond the boats, you can see the levee and seawall, and further out the Gulf, silvery and shimmering, at her most serene this time of day.

You breathe in slowly and completely, taking full advantage of the calming, mind-clearing powers of the sweet ocean air.  You savor the feel of the breeze as it chills your sun-stung skin.  (You're a guy so you try not to shiver, but it's difficult, and eventually impossible.)

Then you realize that all this, virtually everything you see, is only here because of the water. Without it, there would be no ocean breeze, no seagulls, no boats, no bay bridge, no tourists, no Jimmy Buffett wannabe, no harbor bar.

It's not a particularly profound realization, but even theoretical physicists (and those of us that should have been) have an off day now and then.  Probably.

As you amble toward the stairs to leave, your waitress runs up to you from behind.  (You had thought she was kinda cute, but had no idea she may have felt the same.)

"Hey, Einstein," she says.  But before you have time to wonder how she knew about your new nickname, you see her holding up a familiar plastic rectangle.

"You forgot your credit card."

"The King," circa 1988.

This came from a writing exercise I found on author Chrys Fey's blog.  Sage interviewed Chrys on his blog recently, which is how I made her blog-quaintance.  This particular exercise was to write anything that comes to mind involving water.  It started as a description of one of my favorite places near the ocean, then evolved (devolved?) to include a tiny bit of fiction as well.  See more writing exercises here.

"Now I know how Jimmy Buffett feels..."

I've always considered myself and Jimmy Buffett to be kindred spirits. Let's take a look at the facts: We both love the beach. We've both blown out a flip-flop, granted with varying degrees of notoriety. He writes songs. I wish I could write songs. He's the son of a son of a sailor. I've.... been on a boat before. I think we can all agree that any more examples would only serve to cloud my point.

And so, when I saw he was coming to Birmingham, subtle hints were strategically dropped into everyday conversation.

Things like:
"Jimmy Buffett is coming to Birmingham!"
"Hint, hint, birthday, hint."
"That would probably make a really great gift for someone who has a birthday in February." (Ed.'s note: The "someone" in that sentence is really me.)

OK, so not so subtle. But it got the job done. Tickets were procured and a concert was attended.

I must say it was a little odd to be wearing a winter coat to a Jimmy Buffett concert. But temps were supposed to be in the thirties for once, and I'm just manly like that.

He, of course, came on stage in shorts and flip-flops. Then again, I'm fairly certain he didn't have to hike ten blocks to get to the arena. It's all about the free parking for me. It's more the principle than the cost, or so I tell myself.

This was my first Buffett concert and one of the curiosities I had was whether all the Parrotheads would also be potheads. Much like when I attended that Willie Nelson concert a couple of years ago, I wondered if I would experience a second-hand high. Or low. Or whatever you get. I don't know, I've never even smoked a cigarette.

Those concerns seemed to be unfounded. For I have walked amongst the Parrotheads, and maintained my inhibitions. Although after the show I did notice I scarfed down my food at Chili's like I hadn't eaten in two weeks.

Buffett, as comfortable on stage as he (or I) would be on the open sea, moved seamlessly through familiar favorites "Volcano," "Fins," "Come Monday," "Changes In Latitudes, Changes In Attitudes," and of course, "Margaritaville." There was newer fare, such as "Trip Around The Sun," "It's Five O'clock Somewhere," and "Knee Deep," which featured a guest appearance by a member of the Zac Brown Band.

He also sang several songs about Alabama, which is one of 3 or 4 home states claimed by the Head Parrot. There was the expected "Bama Breeze" and "Sweet Home Alabama" (replete with audience chants of "Roll Tide Roll"). But there were also a couple of songs I'd forgotten about: "Birmingham" and "Stars Fell On Alabama."

Then following an encore of three or four songs, the band left the stage again. But Jimmy stayed behind to do one last number, by himself, for the home-state crowd. Almost like he didn't want to leave.

After that, we went our separate ways -- he to his Hush-Puppy-wearing, island-hopping, sponge-cake-nibblin' ways; me to begin the ten-block hike back to reality.

The guy who wrote Wikipedia describes Jimmy Buffett's music as "often portraying an 'island escapism' lifestyle." Now there's an ideology I can embrace!

Yep, kindred spirits.



"I got a school boy heart, a novelist's eye, a stout sailor's legs and a license to fly. I got a bartender's ear and a beachcomber's style..."

Gone coastal

I'm back from my soul's vacation, my at-least-annual experiment in latitude reduction resulting in a slight, if mostly imperceptible, clearing of mind and refreshing of body. I have returned from my paradisical pilgrimage to the world's largest sandbox, where I enjoyed the never-ending symphony of Crashing Waves, an aging nature surf band -- it's an obscure genre.

In other words, I'm home from the beach.

This year's Destin getaway had a couple of marked differences from years past. In a cost-cutting measure suggested by my financial advisor, which is me, and concurred with by my travel agency, which is Yahoo Local, we stayed at a less-expensive place.

It was a quaint little motel with only four units and a gravel driveway. Surrounded on all sides by huge condos and three-and-four-story beach houses, it hearkened to an earlier time. A piece of old Destin preserved as it must have looked thirty years ago or more.

The owner has beach chairs and umbrellas that she lets you borrow. The rooms don't have phones -- not that everybody doesn't have a cell phone these days -- but each night, she sets a phone outside the office window for tenants to use. She's an older lady who seemed to appear out of nowhere at times, to recommend eating places and remind me to "Hon, make sure you rinse off the beach chairs when you're done using them, the sand is what causes them to rust." It was charming. Also, I made sure to rinse them off diligently from then on as I was a little terrified of getting in trouble.

The other departure from the norm on this trip was that we took a stroll through Harborwalk Village on Saturday afternoon. I'd eaten there before, but much like my feminine side, had never really explored it at all.

This is where I discovered that one of the boats which docked there was named The Bone Collector! Really? They're collecting me? Do you think it's possible there are more me's out there? Phew, I'm blowing my own mind right now. It's all too overwhelming to think about. The Bone Collector was out of port while we were there, which is a shame for the owners, as I'm sure they would have loved to take a picture with me.

Oh, I also wrote a poem. Nothing inspires me like the beach. Just put me in the sand and wait for the magic to happen. It was a little tough as I wrote in my head while lying on the beach then had to try and remember it so I could type it into my Torch when I got back to the room. At the time, I was sure it was going to be my first published piece of poetry and that Jimmy Buffett was going to turn it into a song and I would never have to work again. But that must have been the immense heat affecting my brain. Because as I read over it now, I can't even bring myself to post it here. (And I once posted this!)

You're welcome.

Otherwise, it was a pretty typical Destin trip. No schools of stingrays to run from. No heroic-in-my-own-mind underwater sunglasses rescue. Just a perfect, but all-too-brief escape to my favorite place in the world: the edge of the ocean. A place that feels even more like home than home some days.

The pull of the tide on my heart is strong. Each trip is never long enough. And it's always much too long until the next one. Maybe one day I won't have to come back. If that ever happens, you'll know that I am completely happy.

But you might want to check the hull of The Bone Collector. Just to be safe.

"Catch a marlin, catch a tan, catch a local cover band. Hey, you gotta watch that man. He'll go coastal on ya..."

Some people claim there's a woman to blame

I blew out my flip-flop.

No, really, I did. Last night, walking from the apartment to the car. One instant I was walking normally, my feet happily nestled in their open-air home. And the next, it was over.

I always knew this was gonna happen. This is precisely why I keep a spare pair of flip-flops in my vehicle, and have for years. Sure, people made fun of me. But I stood strong. Because with open-toed shoes, you never know. No one can predict the life of a flip-flop. Sometimes they die young, and we're left only to wonder why.

Have you ever thought about what you're gonna do when the inevitable inevitably happens and you are unprepared? What if you're away from home? Where does that leave you? I'll tell you where: up a creek, my friend. Serves you right for living your freewheeling, one-pair lifestyle.

To illustrate my point, this very thing happened to a friend of mine some years ago. He was at the beach. Stepped on a pop-top, of all things. Completely blew out his flip-flop. Cut his heel and... OK, I lied, it wasn't a friend, it was Jimmy Buffett.

Still, he cut his heel! Had to cruise on back home, most likely barefooted. Either that, or he bought a new pair at one of those shops that sell beach wear, they're all over the place down there. Then he wrote a song about it and made enough money that he never had to work again. Boy, this was a really bad example. Anyway, moving on.

What is so wrong with being prepared? I mean, we carry jumper cables in our cars in case the battery goes dead. Spare tires in case we have a flat. A thing of contact solution in case our contacts get dry and wrinkle up. Alright, maybe that last one is just me.

So I keep a spare pair of flip-flops in the car. And an extra pair of sunglasses. And maybe a sweatshirt in case I get chilly. I ask you, does that make me any less cool? Any less "gangsta?" (I totally just did air quotes there.)

Perhaps. But then again, at the same time I'm blasting Christopher Cross and Phil Collins on my iPod. So I think it all evens out.

Personally, I consider this entire episode a victory for (my version of) normalcy and good sense.

For five years, people have asked why I have an extra pair of flip-flops in my car. And for five years, they have laughed at me when I told them the reason.

Well, who's laughing now?

"Don't know the reason, I stayed here all season, with nothing to show but this brand new tattoo..."