A Zen Jimmy Buffett tribute: A Pirate Looks at Sixty-Five
After Șomartin — Exile in Sibiu
New Year’s Eve, 2025
Earpods in, three fingers of the good whisky, rocking slow by the soba while the snow keeps falling on the red roofs outside.
Jimmy’s voice, older now, same salt, sings the whole truth:
Mother, mother ocean, I have heard you call
Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall
You’ve seen it all, you’ve seen it all
Watched the men who rode you switch from sails to steam
And in your belly you hold the treasures few have ever seen
Most of ’em dream, most of ’em dream
Yes, I am a pirate, two hundred years too late
The cannons don’t thunder, there’s nothin’ to plunder
I’m an over-forty victim of fate
Arriving too late, arriving too late
I’ve done a bit of smugglin’, I’ve run my share of grass
I made enough money to buy Miami but I pissed it away so fast
Never meant to last, never meant to last
And I have been drunk now for over two weeks
I passed out and I rallied and I sprung a few leaks
But I got to stop wishin’, got to go fishin’
Down to rock bottom again
Just a few friends, just a few friends
I go for younger women, lived with several a while
Though I ran ’em away, they’d come back one day
Still could manage to smile
Just takes a while, just takes a while
Mother, mother ocean, after all the years I’ve found
My occupational hazard being my occupation’s just not around
I feel like I’ve drowned, gonna head uptown
I feel like I’ve drowned, gonna head uptown
The song ends.
The whisky is gone.
The snow is still falling.
I pull on boots and coat, whistle for the dog.
We step out into the last night of the year.
The village is asleep under its white quilt, red roofs glowing faintly like embers someone forgot to bank.
We walk the lane slowly, paws and boots crunching the same rhythm.
At the chicken coop, I scatter a handful of corn; the hens murmur sleepy gratitude from their roost.
Halfway up the ridge, she is waiting, my new lover, hands in coat pockets, breath rising like small prayers.
We don’t speak.
We just lace fingers, warm skin against cold skin, and stand there watching the valley breathe.
Sixty-five clicks over somewhere in the dark.
I don’t feel late anymore.
I feel exactly on time.
The dog leans against our legs.
The snow keeps covering every old footprint.
Somewhere far away, fireworks begin, but here there is only quiet and the soft thud of two hearts learning a new, slower rhythm.
Mother Ocean is a long way from these mountains,
but tonight her voice is in the wind through the pines
and in the squeeze of a hand that chose to stay.
I smile into the dark.
The pirate has finally dropped anchor
in the only harbour that was ever waiting for him.
Boat drinks, friends.
This one’s on the snow, on the dog, on the woman beside me,
on the quiet certainty that sixty-five is just the beginning
of the best voyage yet.
Happy New Year.
The ocean is listening.
So is the valley.
So am I.