He’s the admiral of the ocean
the lone eagle in the sky.
He gave me my first sextant
and he taught me how to fly
I saw him through my telescope
on a cloudless night in June
as he rested between voyages
at his Beach House on the Moon

– Jimmy Buffett, “Beach House on the Moon”

There is no internship for becoming a writer. All we have is the writers and creators we love, their body of work, the will to dive into it voraciously and- ideally- add our own selves to the mix. Back in high school, one of my teachers encouraged all of us to find our literary “genealogies.” We should pick our favorite writers, find their favorite writers and read all their work, then find their favorite writers, and so dive deep into the sources of our own styles.

At the time Mr. Murphy charged us with this task, the majority of my literary heroes were long dead and their heroes were Early Modern or even antiquity. The only remotely contemporary writers I enjoyed at the time were Kerouac and Langston Hughes.

As I sit in a thankfully unfamiliar dive bar patio sipping a memorial margarita, I know that one of my influences has passed on and, in a strange way, I’m glad I never got to meet him.

Fins Up, Parrotheads.

Anthony Bourdain was the man who made me realize I wanted to be a professional cook and that I could write about it. He was a working chef once upon a time and a Jersey boy. He provided me a veritable library of influences and resources that further contributed to my writing. His death I grieved.

Hunter S. Thompson gave me permission to dispense with “objectivity” and though my entire self into my work. Between him and his avatar Spider Jerusalem in Warren Ellis’s “Transmetropolitan” comics, I learned to hold back as little as possible. To “show them the steel” and not be ashamed of placing myself in the story. He died before I knew more about him than movie posters on the rack in Spencer’s Gifts.

Jimmy Buffett, however, gave me a goofy little escape hatch. His music and writing reminded me that it was totally okay to just have fun. Be silly. Write “urban” fairy tales and fables about tropical locations and rum drinks. That there’s nothing wrong with telling a story that hits predictable “beats,” a rushed deus ex machina ending, a serene hero and a punished villain, as long as the story itself was good and the ending satisfied every loose end.

Jimmy gave me permission to just tell a story that would make people smile. No deeper meaning necessary, though he was VERY good at those. I could sit back, write something, and dream of dying in a little beach shack on the island of St. Somewhere where there was quiet, beauty, peace, and a perpetually full fridge of beer and a bottle of whiskey that never ran dry.

Here’s the difference though- I know Jimmy Buffett’s stories were just stories.

The man was a billionaire. He took a goofy song he wrote about margaritas in the 70s and turned it into an empire. Jimmy Buffett died with restaurants, a liquor brand, a clothing brand, a radio station, a literary career, and any number of merchandise deals under his belt- all in the name of selling a lifestyle and story of being a drunken beach bum with a guitar and a hammock.

The man had a brand and he one-hundred percent juiced it.

But his single greatest and most profitable product was Joy. I went to at least two of his concerts and- whatever one can think of his mega-franchise empire- he was able to make me and so many others happy EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.

Every night, every song he sang, he quietly told us “Be goofy. Wear a lei, put on a grass skirt and coconut shell bra, and dance with us. Get a giant shark fin hat. The gift shop is outside, but that’s later- let me tell you a story to take you away from all this for a minute.”

Jimmy Buffet sold Joy and Escapism, and that’s why I don’t think I ever quite wanted to meet him.

I am certain he was a sweet and wonderful guy, but I can’t imagine Mr. “Meet Me in Margaritaville” sitting down with his book agent or going over a new franchise agreement. I don’t want to think of him suing some small-town burger joint for calling itself “Cheeseburger in Paradise” to protect his brand.

No, that would not do. I would want to keep the fantasy that Jimmy Buffett was just a beach bum who made good and kept writing songs from the comfort of his hammock in some unmapped tropical Garden of Eden.

I will miss his presence in the world, and I am grateful for the impact his stories and music had on my style and writing- but I will miss the way he made me feel arguably more than I will miss the man, and how he made me feel lives on in his work.

The best way I can describe it is this- losing Anthony Bourdain felt like losing a hero, and losing Jimmy Buffett feels like being forced to wake up from a dream. I am definitely sad and wished it never had to end, but it was a dream all the same, like a kid finding out the Mickey Mouse they hugged in Disneyland was just a guy in a suit.

As I sit here writing, I’m wearing an obnoxiously pink Hawaiian shirt and my favorite beach shoes which happen to be Margaritaville “Havanas.” I have enjoyed a peach margarita, and am donning my straw flat cap that sports a “Parrothead Forever” pin.

And- of course- I am sitting here telling a story. I will go home soon, lay in a hammock, and read some more about a tropical paradise where the good guys wind up like me.

Sail On, Jimmy.
Thank you.

Stay Classy,