A few weeks ago, one of my favorite musicians passed away. Jimmy Buffett was a great songwriter and a very entertaining performer.

I won’t list all my favorite Buffett songs since my allotted space in this newspaper is around 6oo words. That’s fine, considering I know only 578 at last count.

The first time I ever heard of Jimmy Buffett was back in 1977 when I was listening to the radio up in Tennessee, and there was some guy singing about blowing out his flip-flop and searching for his lost salt shaker. I was a 19-year old college boy who had never tasted a margarita and certainly didn’t wear sandals, but dang, I sure liked that song.

As a bookish college student, I would sing along to another Jimmy Buffett song, one about trying to mend a carnivorous habit, as I was “studying” at a table beside the jukebox in my favorite hangout.

Often, alongside an unopened textbook, there was a tasty cheeseburger and a cold draft beer.

After college, I ended up back in Texas and transitioned from a city slicker to a cowboy.

My bell-bottom pants and disco shirts were replaced by Wrangler jeans and pearl-snap shirts. I still had my Converse basketball shoes, but I wore Tony Lama boots most of the time.

I kept my Elton John albums along with a couple by the Bee Gees, but most of my LPs were by Willie and Waylon, Eddie Rabbitt and Alabama. The only radio stations we could get in Beeville, Texas played country music, and we were fine with that.

Living so close to the Texas coast, we often drove to Port Aransas, less than an hour away. Sitting in the sand of Mustang Island, we’d listen to a radio station out of Corpus Christi, and Jimmy Buffett would frequently join us as we’d watch the sun go down and listen to the sea roll in. In the past four decades, I reckon we’ve gone back to the Island close to a hundred times. And in those forty years, I somehow evolved into a Parrothead.

It was a gradual process. My western shirts brought good money in garage sales, and my closet is now full of Hawaiian shirts. I still wear Wrangler jeans during the three weeks of winter or when I haul cows to the Lockhart auction, but most days I’m wearing shorts. I still own a pair of Tony Lama boots, but I rarely wear them when I’m donning Bermuda shorts. I also own a few pairs of sandals. Personally, I don’t like wearing sandals and dang-near broke my neck once when I blew out my flip-flop.

I still listen to traditional country music (not that hick-hop crud coming out of Nashville these days) but have numerous Jimmy Buffett songs on one of my Spotify playlists along with Bob Marley, Kenny Chesney and Zac Brown Band. Matter of fact, I’m listening to Buffett as I peck away at this here keyboard.

Sadly, after all these years of sharing salty air with Jimmy Buffett, we must bid farewell. On a sea of heartbreak, we Parrotheads are missing him so badly.

Right after his death, after a long summer of listening to construction and heavy traffic, I decided I needed a change of latitude and a change of attitude. I told my wife, if the coast was clear, we must get back to the Island.

Last week, on the Port Aransas beach, we raised a cold Lone Star and toasted Jimmy Buffett as we looked out over Mother Ocean.