By G. Renee Schramm
Before my eyes were open, Chris leaned over and gently shared the news that Jimmy Buffett had passed away. The Parrotheads, his fanatical fanbase, knew there had been hospitalizations, canceled shows. Yet I was one of those awkwardly devastated fans when I woke up to the news on the boat in Trinidad. His influence is a large part of our embracing this liveaboard lifestyle. “I’m sorry, I know you lost a friend,” Chris said.
Trinidad encompasses the Caribbean vibe we love — interesting people, amazing food, beautiful scenery, quality boat work … and a group of mariners whose representation of countries we haven’t experienced elsewhere in the region. So when we hosted a celebration of life on the dock the evening the news broke, there were Parrotheads from around the world. It solidified for me the depths of Buffett’s impact. The guy who couldn’t get any consistent radio play now has a global impact that will long live on — especially with Caribbean sailors.
We bought the cruising boat in 2017. We sailed away in 2020. Eastern US seaboard, Bahamas, Caribbean, following “the plan” had been discussed on our honeymoon in the British Virgin Islands in 1992, always in the back of our minds over the course of five houses, three kids, and a typical suburban lifestyle in a landlocked city, always with Jimmy Buffett ringing out of the speakers.
My first Jimmy Buffett memory was in the 1970s, playing his records at my dad’s house on the water on Perdido Key (think FloraBama, the beach bar he and others sang about). My dad was a character, parasailing from his dunebuggy on Pensacola Beach before that was officially a thing. Breaking his collar bone waterskiing on his head. You may not be surprised to hear that my parents were divorced, so I only got to visit this magical wonderland of saltwater living in the summer.
When I would visit, my brother would take me out on the Hobie Cats my dad sold. I spent most nights exploring his music collection and sorting his seashells. I remember playing a lot of Gordon Lightfoot, Jim Croce, Cat Stevens, and Jimmy Buffett. My dad told me about meeting Buffett when they both ran around the bars and restaurants of the Panhandle. Jimmy even gave him a tape in the early days. I have no reason to doubt my dad as he was, for better or worse, a serial straight shooter, but sadly the tape never did materialize. It was the only inheritance I requested.
In college I landed a roommate from the Lowcountry. She was a fellow Parrothead and had grown up on Shem Creek outside Charleston, South Carolina. This bit of salty, marshy heaven was unlike any coast I had grown up with, as a product of Alabama and Florida beaches. Her father was a character as well. One weekend we drove the five hours to Mount Pleasant in her little red Prelude, blasting Buffett the entire way. I walked in to meet her parents and was instantly greeted with “Do y’all need some beer to go with that gum breath?”
I had the opportunity to study abroad in college. While it wasn’t Paris as Buffett sang about, my first trip to Europe meant I had the chance to visit the Spanish Costa del Sol: tapas, the beautiful architecture, and sitting on the beach in Malaga playing A Pirate Looks at 40 on repeat. And how deeply it resonated in my soul. For me, music was a constant in an unsettled childhood. Thirteen schools in twelve years, but the music was always there.
While my husband, Chris, and I share a love of music, I actually married a Deadhead instead of a Parrothead. A Deadhead who had even sold his textbooks in college to follow them for a while. Fortunately, he grew up sailing and shared my love of the water. So once the kids were launched, we bought the saltwater boat. We spent three years getting her ready while we wrapped up life on land and prepared for full-time cruising.
We’ve now spent the last 20 months exploring the Caribbean so pervasive in Buffett’s songs. I’ve called it my Parrothead Pilgrimage. We sailed “off to Cane Garden Bay.” Martinique required a background of “Volcano” when anchored off Mount Pelée. We put the “fins up down Montserrat way” while jamming on the beach with sundowners. We explored Antigua and so many of the references in his lyrics. We sailed to “Stars on the Water.” A passage meant Buffett to keep me company on watch. We encountered his presence all along the way, be it his music blasting somewhere, neighboring boats named after his songs and lyrics, or flags and T-shirts of other sailors. Our son tells people we’re “down in the Caribbean cosplaying Jimmy Buffett.” Whatever you call it, we’re living that dream instead of dreaming that life!
I never had the pleasure of meeting my musical hero, but not for lack of trying. I’ve attended shows all over the country. That roommate and I spent a spring break in Key West low-level stalking him in the ’80s when he opened Margaritaville. Some wise bartender much savvier than we were had us convinced he was scheduled for a surprise pop-in that day. I hoped for a chance encounter surfing in Hawaii. I may have even tried to find him around St. Barts lately.
Buffett’s live show and relationship with his fan base was special, and it is hard to accept that part of our journey has passed. We hurt for his family (and the band), and yet we are so thankful they shared him with us. He gave so much to others beyond music. His legacy is alive and well out here. Enjoy life. Give back. Don’t take yourself too seriously. The legend has passed, but the soundtrack will play on.
Renee Schramm and her husband, Chris, sold it all to go sailing in 2020. They live aboard a beautifully refit 1980 Irwin 52 in the Caribbean. You can find photos from their travels at Sailing_the_Oceanaire on Instagram.
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