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<\/a>\nMy boat was sinking.<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t deny it.<\/p>\n
Lake Erie was seeping up through the bottom to meet me. I may have been in my golden years, but I was not a captain who saw anything romantic in the notion of going down with my 12-foot ship.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I heard a bottle of island wine rolling around in the stern. In my younger days I might have shrugged at the situation, opened the bottle, and swished it down like a devil-may-care, rum-soaked buccaneer hoping to ease his glorious ride down to Davy Jones\u2019 Locker. But now, nearing twilight, six miles from South Bass Island, this particular swashbuckler was wishing he could turn that noisy bottle of Pink Catawba clanking against the aluminum hull into a liter of gas for my empty outboard motor.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I tugged down on the bill of my wrinkled fishing cap and scratched my white beard. I guess I had put off that bottom job for the old motorboat\u2019s worn, leaky hull for one too many Walleye runs into the lake. I suppose I\u2019d been optimistic to think I had just enough gas to get some wind in my hair and run her just far enough off the island to enjoy some quiet on a crystal clear July afternoon. Now it looked like all those Walleye, Bass and Perch were about to finally get their aquatic revenge with some nibbles at me.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 You\u2019d think I\u2019d have learned by now. But I have always learned my lessons the hard way.<\/p>\n
As the red sun slunk lower over the Michigan horizon, some of the lessons I\u2019d learned passed through my mind. It had turned into a dubious evening on Lake Erie, but it wasn\u2019t the first time I\u2019d had that sinking feeling on the water. Alone now on Lake Erie, I was learning another lesson. I had no flares. No life preservers or personal flotation devices (other than the tiny square seat cushion my ass was parked on). No cell phone. And a 12-foot skiff like mine doesn\u2019t have a radio. I was \u201cPat Dailey \u2013 Unplugged!\u201d literally!<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 This kind of thing happened more often in my youth, and sometimes I sang about it:\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n
Out Drinkin\u2019<\/span><\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n I got drunk and stole a boat out of the Edgewater Yacht Club<\/em><\/p>\n Doing 90 miles and hour right to the Bay<\/em><\/p>\n I sank her out at Buckeye Point and walked on into town<\/em><\/p>\n Tore up someone\u2019s flowers on my way<\/em><\/p>\n Then I barged into the Crew\u2019s nest and I threw up on the rug<\/em><\/p>\n I slapped that hostess on her big behind<\/em><\/p>\n You ought to go with me when I go out drinking<\/em><\/p>\n I always have myself a real good time<\/em><\/p>\n I talk dirty to the waitresses \u2013 I never leave a tip<\/em><\/p>\n But I leave them my cigar butts in the guacamole dip!<\/em><\/p>\n I\u2019m going out tonight \u2013 I\u2019m going to tie on a good one<\/em><\/p>\n Does anybody want to come with me?<\/em><\/p>\n I\u2019ll take you to this biker bar where we can kick some ass<\/em><\/p>\n And a gay bar where we\u2019ll get our drinks for free<\/em><\/p>\n We\u2019ll do shooters of tequila and a case of beer apiece<\/em><\/p>\n We\u2019ll wash it down with a gallon of cheap wine<\/em><\/p>\n I like to do my late night drinking in them smoky, sleazy bars<\/em><\/p>\n Then go out in the parking lot and piss on people\u2019s cars<\/em><\/p>\n Oh you ought to go with me when I go out drinking<\/em><\/p>\n I always have myself a real good time!<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 If only I\u2019d written down all of my careless antics and lessons I should have learned, I\u2019d have enough paper to staple a spinnaker together and sail out of the trouble I was in now \u2013 though it was dead calm on Lake Erie, if you\u2019ll pardon the pun.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The rising water was now soaking my docksiders. I was beginning to become somewhat fatalistic. If my whole life was going to flash before my eyes, it would have to hurry. By now I had a seasoned sense of self-awareness. Splashing around in a sinking skiff has a way of illustrating the frailty of the human condition \u2013 especially when it is your own condition! But because I was, after all, a performer, I considered for a moment what other people might think of me after all was said and I was done. Performers, by nature, are insecure. Why else would we force ourselves onto a stage? We want, and need, the applause and affirmation of the audience. It doesn\u2019t matter if I\u2019m strumming my guitar on the deck of a pontoon boat with four friends or on stage at the Boathouse in front of 1,500 strangers: a little attention goes a long way.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 At the age of 60, after more than 40 years of performing to huge throngs of good-time, beer-swilling, wine-sipping, smiling sun-seekers at Put In Bay, Key West, and other magical locales, I\u2019d finally come to the realization that, as Sally Field proclaimed, \u201cYes, they really do like me!\u201d But only after years of nervous nights singing and strumming for my supper did I finally feel confident that the crowds enjoyed my shows and songs.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 They\u2019ve dubbed me \u201cPat Dailey \u2013 the Great Lakes Troubadour.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And yet for every time I saw my name in lights or got excited about my press clippings and reviews, there was some sensible soul who, meaning well, brought me right back down to earth.<\/p>\n First time I ever came down to Sloppy Joe\u2019s in my life, before I ever even played one song, I was up here tuning my guitar and some girl came up to me and said, \u201cHey man, you know any Buffett?\u201d<\/p>\n You think she took the time to look into my eyes or look at my face and say, \u201cThis son of a bitch has been around. He\u2019s got some miles on him. I bet he wrote some songs about his life and times?\u201d<\/p>\n Shit no.<\/p>\n \u201cHey man, you know any Buffett?<\/p>\n Well, I had my choice right then and there. I could go out and buy every one of Jimmy Buffett\u2019s records, learn all of his songs and make everyone in the room happy. Or I could write my own songs and make myself happy!<\/p>\n What do you think I did?<\/p>\n Songwriter\u2019s Lament<\/span><\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n Jimmy Buffett made it big playing down in the Keys, but I doubt that I ever will<\/em><\/p>\n My hair ain\u2019t that blonde and my skin ain\u2019t that tan<\/em><\/p>\n And I\u2019ve never been to Margaritaville<\/em><\/p>\n Every guitar players in the keys sounds just like Jimmy<\/em><\/p>\n And all the girls in the bar are wondering where he is<\/em><\/p>\n If you ask me to play some Buffett, I\u2019m afraid you\u2019ll just have to stuff it<\/em><\/p>\n When Jimmy starts playing my songs I\u2019ll start playing his.<\/em><\/p>\n If it\u2019s Jimmy you see, won\u2019t you pass this along for me:<\/em><\/p>\n When he plays Pat Dailey songs, I\u2019ll start playing his<\/em><\/p>\n And I hope he gets tired of my songs \u2018cause I\u2019m sure tired of his!<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 So maybe tomorrow\u2019s headline will be \u201cJimmy Buffett of the Great Lakes Reported Missing.\u201d Or maybe they\u2019ll call me a Middle-Aged Captain Jack Sparrow. But I truly hope the mourners (\u201cattendees\u201d would be a more accurate description) at my memorial service will describe me the way I am introduced at each of my performances: \u201cPatrick Houston Dailey: the Coolest Son of a Bitch in the World.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cBut a truly cool S.O.B. wouldn\u2019t be misty-eyed right now,\u201d I told myself as I watched the lake water filling my little boat like a cold bath. All I could hope was that the fishing was better on the bottom of Lake Erie. \u201cBottom fishing,\u201d I thought. Why hadn\u2019t anyone thought of it before? \u201cWalleye Willie and Sea Bass Sally\u2019s Bottom-Fishing Charters.\u201d<\/p>\n I was getting silly now. Next I\u2019d be looking for the Mermaid of Ontario!<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cOh hell,\u201d I thought, reaching down and grabbing the wine bottle. I twisted off the top and took two big gulps.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cVintage\u2026\u2019October,\u2019\u201d I said out loud.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The sweet, pink, fruity wine came from grapes grown on the Lake Erie islands. At three-dollars a bottle it\u2019s a fun novelty but hardly the French champagne of a dying man\u2019s last request. Nevertheless, it took away some of the sting. Just like the song, \u201cGonna Be Alright,\u201d which I had led thousands of my nightclub shows with, it always made hundreds of people at a time, many of them drinking Pink Catawba at the time, feel alright.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 But was this night going to be alright? I took two more big gulps of the wine. The sinking sun hit the horizon\u2026and the rising waterline touched my knees. The breeze was starting to pick up a little bit, but there were no whitecaps; just discernable waves.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cNice fishing conditions,\u201d I thought, as I saw my plastic tackle box and a bobber floating in the boat. It\u2019d been a good day, the more I thought about it. I made the most of it. What the hell. I thought about a tune I\u2019d penned with my old pal Shel Silverstein.<\/p>\n \u201cCARPE DIEM\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 There\u2019s a big old dead carp belly up in the bay<\/em><\/p>\n It was nature\u2019s intention that he end up that way<\/em><\/p>\n He never got eaten<\/em><\/p>\n \u2018Cause he never got cooked<\/em><\/p>\n He never got netted<\/em><\/p>\n \u2018Cause he never got hooked<\/em><\/p>\n There\u2019s a big old dead carp belly up in the bay<\/em><\/p>\n Just before he rolled over, I heard him say,<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI lived a long life, a good life, I lived it alone<\/em><\/p>\n You stay clear of hooks when the water\u2019s your home<\/em><\/p>\n Stay clear of hooks, fish fowl or men<\/em><\/p>\n Don\u2019t fall for the bait, you live as long as you can<\/em><\/p>\n If the good Lord preserves you and things go your way<\/em><\/p>\n You\u2019ll be peacefully going belly up in the bay.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n There\u2019s a big old dead carp belly up the bay<\/em><\/p>\n The seagulls will find him by the end of the day<\/em><\/p>\n They\u2019ll peck a hole in his belly; peck out his guts<\/em><\/p>\n That\u2019s life in the food chain; no if\u2019s, and\u2019s or but\u2019s<\/em><\/p>\n Belly up in the Bay, belly up in the Bay<\/em><\/p>\n You can\u2019t for live forever – so live every day<\/em><\/p>\n If the good Lord preserves you and things go your way<\/em><\/p>\n You\u2019ll be peacefully going belly up in the bay.<\/em><\/p>\n I\u2019d written the words to \u201cCarpe Diem\u201d with my dear friend Shel Silverstein, the great American poet, author, cartoonist, and songwriter, who went belly up with a heart attack in Key West back in 1999. Losing him devastated me. We had spent a lot of time together at Put In Bay, Martha\u2019s Vineyard, in, in Key West, where we first met and began collaborating and produced an album.<\/p>\n Shel had written \u201cThe Unicorn Song\u201d for the Irish Rovers; and \u201cA Boy Named Sue\u201d for Johnny Cash. Together, Shel and I wrote my most meaningful ballad: \u201cThe Great Lakes Song.\u201d Teachers still use the song to educate children; adults flick on and hold up swaying lighters at my concerts when I sing it.<\/p>\n Now sitting now \u2013 and in \u2013 one of the lakes on this evening, I thought about Shel\u2026and I thought about our song:<\/p>\n \u2026Sweet mother Michigan<\/em><\/p>\n Father Superior<\/em><\/p>\n Coming down from Mackinac and Sault Ste Marie<\/em><\/p>\n Blue water Huron <\/em><\/p>\n Flow down to Lake Erie<\/em><\/p>\n Fall to Ontario<\/em><\/p>\n And run on out to sea\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The sun had set. Under what was left of the light in the purple midsummer night\u2019s sky, I reached down, scooped up a palm full of the Great Lakes, and took a sip. Sentimental? Sure. And as soon as I swallowed, I heard a faint, whiny, buzzing sound. Squinting, I swiveled my head in every direction. I couldn\u2019t see it, but now I recognized the sound.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cJet Ski,\u201d I muttered out loud.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I was feeling dubious about the indignity of being rescued by a Jet Ski until I began to see the young figure straddling the approaching wave runner. Her wet hair was long and blonde. Even though she wore a life-vest, I could tell she was wearing a bikini because I could see her tiny bottom, perfect shoulders, tight tummy, and long, limber legs. Not that I looked, mind you. I\u2019m just an observant guy.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 As she Jet Ski banked to a stop next to what was left of my boat, she tossed her hair and flashed a bright smile at me.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I nodded, trying to look unconcerned, and returned a casual grin.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Over the slight, idling rumble of her Jet Ski, she spoke.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhatcha doin\u2019 out here, old timer?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201c\u2019Old timer?\u2019 <\/em>I sighed. <\/em>\u201cListen, baby, you shouldn\u2019t be out here this late without lights.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t be out here this late without a boat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I smiled and nodded, looking into her blue eyes.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYeah, she\u2019s running a little heavy tonight,\u201d I said, as the bow of my boat started to porpoise up on her way down. \u201cYou wanna take me for a ride?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou wanna climb on, old timer?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I nodded. \u201cYeah, I guess, baby. Just don\u2019t ever tell anybody when we get to the island that I was on a Jet Ski.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIf it\u2019s not cool enough for you, I could leave you here, old timer?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Too late though. I was carefully sloshed up onto her rear running boards and throwing my leg over the seat. Sitting behind her, I put my hands onto her hips and held on tightly.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI wouldn\u2019t let just anybody hold on there, you know,\u201d she said, easing up the throttle to move the Jet Ski forward. \u201cI know who you are, though. You\u2019re that Put-In-Bay singer. I think I\u2019ve seen you strum it on stage at the Boat House Bar. You\u2019re a pretty cool son of a bitch.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 We pulled away from my sinking boat and she starting going a little faster, so I had to talk louder.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThat\u2019s me, baby. I\u2019m him. \u2018Patrick Houston Dailey.\u2019 Singin\u2019 and jokin\u2019 and lovin\u2019 – that\u2019s the way I live.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Her hair was blowing in my face when she looked back, winked and smiled. Then she opened up the throttle and lurched up to full speed. We were gliding across the moonlit water, leaving a wake. I could barely make out what she said next, but I thought I heard her shout, \u201cHey, man\u2026do you know any Buffett?\u201d<\/p>\n #\u00a0\u00a0 #\u00a0\u00a0 #<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"\n