Author’s photo
The Original Tequila Regatta, later rechristened a Regretta after unsuccessful attempts to replicate, took off from the Chart Room in the fading days of 1971. “We three were in the bar,” Tom Corcoran says, meaning himself, Buffett, and Phil Clark, another sometimes–Chart Room bartender. Sometimes Clark did other things. Sometimes he was the bartender and still managed to do other stuff—like charge the locals’ drinks to tourists’ rooms at the Pier House hotel. It was the perfect crime.
“You could see the beach from the Chart Room in those days,” Corcoran says. “There was no vegetation whatsoever. There was a swimming pool, and sand, and that’s it.”
That was more than enough for an obstacle course, of sorts. The first obstacle was a shot of tequila at the bar. Then they were to race to the pool and swim across to the second shot of tequila. Next, a sprint down the beach to a waiting catamaran—and a third shot of tequila. Aboard each catamaran, a teammate awaited. Corcoran was paired with Judy—in life and in competition. Clark teamed up with his girlfriend, an artist named Sonia. Buffett was with a third woman, Mason. From shore they’d race around two buoys and back to the beach, the winner to be named King of Key West forever or until everyone forgot about it, whichever came first.
The catamarans had been rented from a businessman named Wendell, but everyone called him Swindle Wendell. “Nobody knew his last name,” Corcoran says. Wendell was from Georgia, his boats were licensed in Alabama, and he was renting them for $8 an hour in Florida. “Totally illegal,” Corcoran says. But Wendell was on time with his rent to the Pier House, and so who really cared about something as minor as a few registration stickers?
Wendell had six or eight catamarans. They all sucked, and he knew it. That was part of his charm, or his con, depending on your point of view. The current off the Pier House beach headed out to sea, and so Wendell would rent these “unseaworthy pieces of crap,” as Corcoran recalls them, to tourists who’d get out in the channel and break down. In the small print of the rental contract was a clause that said Wendell would happily rescue you if you were in trouble—for an extra $35.
On this particular day, however, Wendell didn’t hang out on the beach to wait and see if the drunken locals needed saving. Neither did anyone else. After Buffett and crew threw back their shots and set sail toward glory, everyone on the beach went back to the Chart Room. “They don’t give a shit,” Corcoran says.
Which wouldn’t have mattered, but Clark had a head-on collision with the first buoy and popped his sail. Buffett lost his rudder and it sank to the bottom. “I was the only operational boat, and so they declared me the winner and said, ‘Alright, we gotta get our asses back,’ ” Corcoran says. Then his mainsheet tore. Oh shit.
They lashed the catamarans together. The women stretched out on the third with a joint. Corcoran, Buffett, and Clark grabbed the line from the first and began to swim toward the now-deserted beach. It was work—exhausting and pointless. They couldn’t beat the current. They paused to try to figure a way to make the current work for them. They couldn’t. It wouldn’t. “We were being drawn out to sea,” Corcoran says. “This was bad.”
From behind them, then, came the sound of . . . laughter? Laughter. Who was laughing? Mason, Judy, and Sonia were laughing. Their boat had broken free from the flotilla, but they were too high to say anything. The guys looped back around, reconnected the boats—this time with the passengers in front—but were still being swept to sea, to the Gulf Stream, to a bad night. They kept swimming. Finally, they perceived some progress, but not enough. That’s when a black motor yacht appeared. Corcoran remembers forty, maybe forty-five feet of boat. Jet black. No one had seen it before. No one saw it after.
“Could have been military for all I know,” Corcoran says. “CIA. It just doesn’t see us.” Or didn’t care—until Mason took matters into her own hands. She was wearing a long, flowing gossamer swimsuit cover and in one gracefully stoned motion launched herself from the boat, winged her arms like a butterfly and got the yacht’s attention.
No less mysteriously, the yacht adjusted and made for the group.
They shouted and waved and pointed toward the beach. They saw no one aboard the yacht. They saw an open window. That’s all. Then a big, heavy hawser unfurled over the stern and in their direction. They didn’t see who threw it. They grabbed hold and the yacht towed them to the beach and then disappeared for good.
“And that’s ‘I’m hanging on to a line from a sailboat, oh nautical wheelers save me,’ ” Corcoran says. “That’s what it’s all about.” That, as another song would one day say, was living your life like a song.
• • •
Solares Hill was a newspaper in Key West named after the highest point on the island, geographically speaking. Three months before Jerry Jeff and Murphy packed their house guest in the Flying Lady and drove Jimmy Buffett to Key West, Solares Hill republished William Adee Whitehead’s “Notices of Key West.”
Whitehead was indispensable in Key West’s early years: fire chief, city councilman, school board member, and eventually, mayor. He was also the island’s first historian. In 1829, he assembled a survey of life on Key West. A year later, as the island’s first collector of customs, he “helped bring ‘law and order’ to the marine wrecking frontier on the reefs.” So said Solares Hill.
Whitehead wrote “Notices of Key West” in 1835 for a gentleman in St. Augustine who had requested a description of the island. Whitehead led with the good stuff. “That the harbor of Key West was the resort of Pirates, occasionally, has been proved by the evidence of many who were connected with them in their lawless depridations [sic],” Whitehead wrote, “and by the discovery of hidden articles that could only have been secreted by them.”
Ponce de Leon first visited in the early 1500s, and for many years after, the Keys were home mostly to those pirates, fisherman supplying Havana, and Native Americans. The mainland tribes and the island tribes don’t appear to have gotten along. Battles between the two pushed the islanders farther and farther southwest along the Keys until they ran out of islands and, backs to the ocean, were slaughtered. What non-Natives found when they finally began to kick Key West’s tires was an island strewn with the losers’ remains.
It became known as Cayo Hueso—Bone Island—“which the English, with the same ease that they transformed the wine Xeres Seco into ‘Sherry Sack,’ corrupted into ‘Key West,’ ” Solares Hill explained. Not that history could entirely wipe out as cool a name as Bone Island. Today there’s a Bone Island Brewing, a Bone Island Haunted Pub Crawl, and one Bone Island Chiropractic among Google’s “Bone Island” listings.
In August 1815, in exchange for “military services rendered,” the Spanish governor of Florida, Don Juan de Estrado, gifted Key West to Juan P. Salas. Salas was so unimpressed that for seven years he didn’t touch his patch of scrub and palms and limestone marl. What Salas saw when he took a look at his island wasn’t opportunity, it was malaria, yellow fever, and not much else. So he went to Cuba.
John Simonton had a better imagination. A businessman from Mobile, Simonton met Salas in Havana, purchased Key West for $2,000, and was handed the keys to the island in January 1822. John Whitehead (William’s brother), John Fleeming, and Pardon Greene signed on as partners.
A General John Geddes arrived from Charleston, South Carolina, claiming he owned Key West, having purchased it from a man named John Strong who had bought it from . . . Salas, who’d sold the island twice. Strong did the same, selling Key West to Geddes and another man. A good grift has always been in fashion in Key West.
Simonton’s claim won out, and he and his partners set about taking advantage of the deepest port between New Orleans and Norfolk, Virginia. Dedicating a new city hall on July 4, 1876, Walter C. Maloney quoted Whitehead’s “Notices of Key West” at length in a speech he lamented he’d had but fifteen days to write. Woe the poor citizenry had Maloney more time to prepare what was eventually published under the title A Sketch of the History of Key West, Florida. As it was, he went on (and on, and on)—about the history of mail delivery to Key West, the history of its newspapers, its annual mortality rates, its religious affiliations, its taxes paid. No detail was too inconsequential. In 1832, the year Key West was incorporated, the value of all real estate was $65,923.75. There were 81 buildings—including sheds.
“The original proprietors and first settlers of Key West considered the manufacture of salt as the most probable means of making it known to the commercial world,” Maloney told the assembled crowd.
“The first fire of any consequence was in 1843,” he said, “when the large wooden warehouse of F. A. Browne, standing on the south side of Simonton Street, near the water, was destroyed.”
Coincidentally, in the middle of his speech, and much to the relief of all in attendance, a bar caught fire. It might have been a cherished bar, and any bar burning down is sad, but watching it burn beat listening to Maloney. Most of the crowd left.
Maloney might have been better off following William Whitehead’s lead. He should have talked pirates. In 1819, during James Monroe’s administration, Congress authorized a small naval force to combat piracy. In 1822, with piracy still on the rise, the secretary of the navy sent Captain David Porter to Key West to set up shop. Porter ordered enough firepower for the job and arrived in Key West in 1823 to launch what turned out to be an effective antipiracy campaign.
(If pirates were hanged, they weren’t hanged from that tree on Greene Street, where Captain Tony’s is today. They’d have been hanged outside the Monroe County Courthouse, on Fleming Street, where chickens scratch in the shade of a towering kapok tree.)
From its founding, Key West has been more closely associated with Cuba and the Bahamas than the United States. During the Civil War, Key West was the southernmost northern outpost. It was the Union, not the Confederacy that held Fort Zachary Taylor. In 1982, in response to a U.S. Border Patrol blockade on U.S. 1 south of Miami, the Keys announced their succession from the Union and formed the Conch Republic. They continue to celebrate each year on April 23 and describe it as Independence Day, Bastille Day, and Cinco de Mayo rolled into one.
Key West was and is for dreamers, schemers, and contradictions. It’s boom or bust and always has been. Sometimes it’s boom and bust. Even today, as cruise ships spit out tourists, the tourists pass by the homeless and the desperate. As the hotel prices go up and rents increase, the people who serve the meals, clean the rooms, and sling the drinks increasingly can’t afford to live where they work.
Wrecking, sponging, cigars, and shrimping drove the earliest fortunes. Wreckers, in an effort to better business, would set false signal lights to draw ships to the reefs. Between salvage operations, they’d sponge. By the 1890s, the man known as Key West’s Sponge King was making $500,000 a year.
The chief competitor to prosperity has been hurricanes. In 1846, all but six of the eight hundred homes on the island were damaged or destroyed. In 1912, Standard Oil founder Henry Flagler’s crews drove the final nails into a rail line from the mainland, connecting Key West to the United States. In 1919, as the Casa Marina hotel was being built, a hurricane caused $2 million worth damage to Key West. In 1924, the La Concha hotel opened on Duval Street. In 1926, another hurricane strafed the Keys. In 1928, an early version of the Overseas Highway was completed (though ferries were still necessary to get all the way to Key West).
Then the stock market tanked and the Depression arrived. Key West was bankrupt by 1934. New Deal projects resulted in the construction of the Key West Aquarium and Mallory Dock. The Works Progress Administration brought artists to Key West to begin selling the island to tourists. In 1935, a hurricane washed out forty miles of railroad and killed hundreds. By 1938, with the help of what was left of the railroad, the highway was completed and you could drive from the mainland straight through to Key West.
Hemingway arrived in 1928 to write and fish and drink, to be the guy all the other guys would aspire to be. He based his barkeep in To Have and Have Not on Sloppy Joe, and the La Concha was the first landmark to come over the horizon as Harry Morgan made his way back from Cuba. Even then tourism was part opportunity, part specter, Harry telling another he was convinced they were being starved out “so they can burn down the shacks and put up apartments and make this a tourist town.”
And later in a bar, a visitor says to his wife: “Let’s get out of here, dear . . . Everybody is either insulting or nuts.”
“It’s a strange place,” a Professor MacWalsey replies. “They call it the Gibraltar of America and it’s three hundred and seventy-five miles south of Cairo, Egypt.”
It’s hot, and that heat breeds its own sweet lunacy. Writers, artists, outcasts, they found their way. They led the way, as they usually do. Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, Tom McGuane, Jim Harrison and, eventually, James William Buffett—who, after kicking around on couches and in spare rooms, rented an apartment at 1911 Seidenberg Ave.I for $150 per month and began making himself a Chart Room regular.
Buffett fell in easy with that crowd. He was fun and funny. The Chart Room was generous, serving free hot dogs and popcorn. For starving artists, starving treasure hunters, anyone with the munchies, the Chart Room was good economics. If you only had money to eat or drink, there you could do both.
Buffett asked Corcoran if he could set up and play for tips. Corcoran took the proposal to David Wolkowsky, the man who’d opened the Pier HouseII hotel and the Chart Room Bar in 1968 as a retreat for artists and writers. Wolkowsky kicked the decision back to Corcoran. You know the guy. You know the bar. You make the call.
Corcoran told Buffett he could play for drinks and tips and asked him again what he was drinking. “Crown Royal,” Buffett said, upgrading from his initial Heineken. It wasn’t much of a business decision, but it was undeniably a business decision.
He began to work that “bar singer goes wild on the rebound” angle playing at the Chart Room, at Captain Tony’s, at Crazy Ophelia’s and Howie’s Lounge. One version of the Captain Tony’s story says Buffett had the same deal there as the Chart Room—drinks and tips—until Tony did the math and figured it’d be cheaper to pay the guy, and more profitable to charge him for beer.
Buffett became a member in good standing of Club Mandible, a roaming social club possibly wished into existence when McGuane earned entry into Who’s Who in America and was asked to list his club memberships. He didn’t have any, so he made one up. Club Mandible took its name from the lower jaw of a mythical creature that ate the Conch Train. Members wore matching purple shirts and were dedicated in the twin pursuits of inebriation and fornication.
McGuane became Captain Berserko, a character Jim Harrison described as taking on “Tolstoyan grandeur” over the years. In Tom Bissell’s Magic Hours: Essays on Creators and Creation, Harrison recalled dropping a straw into a large aspirin bottle full of cocaine. When he got home to Michigan he couldn’t remember his cat’s name. In his own The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand, Harrison wrote: “Of course, there was a period in the early seventies when one might fly-fish for tarpon on three hits of windowpane acid backed up by a megaphone bomber of Colombian buds that required nine papers and an hour to roll.”
Being a book about food, and more specifically, about good food, Harrison noted that after such a day, you never gave a damn about the quality of the meal. “Now when I hunt or fish with Buffett we talk about what we’re going to cook for dinner,” Harrison wrote. “He doesn’t even sing ‘The Way We Were,’ the reality of which no one can accurately remember.”
Author’s photo
In the winter of 1972, another newcomer arrived. Chris Robinson grew up in St. Augustine—unless you ask him where he grew up. “I didn’t grow up,” he says. “I was raised in St. Augustine. But, god, I don’t want to grow up.” He was raised next door to Vaughn Cochran (no relation to Tom), an artist and the washboard player who was scrubbing away in the Chart Room the day Buffett first arrived. Robinson had been planning to aim himself toward the West Coast when Vaughn convinced him to swing by Key West first.
“So I came down here to visit and got a job at the Chart Room, taking Phil Clark’s place while he went up to St. Augustine with Sonia, who was his girlfriend, who became my first wife,” Robinson says.
Phil and Sonia were headed to an art show, and so Robinson took the job for a week. “That was a pretty eye-opening experience,” he says, “because Key West was kind of run out of that bar in those days. The mayor was there, the police chief, the sheriff, the fire chief, the city attorney, state attorney. You could get arrested, bonded, tried, get a building permit.”
About the only one who wasn’t there when Robinson arrived was Buffett. He was . . . somewhere else in February 1972, but when he returned, he stepped off the plane to his friends waving a banner that read “Welcome Home Mr. Entertainer.”
“And he hadn’t really done anything,” Robinson says. “He had one album out that hadn’t done anything.”
No one cared. In Key West, what was possible was as real as what was. Vaughn Cochran and his wife, Cydall, had come down from St. Augustine after college. He had a degree in ceramics and loved to fish. They rented a house on Stock Island, one that had been relocated from downtown Key West and had a pool its previous occupants had allowed to go native and fill with wildlife.
Stock Island, a few steps east across the Cow Key Channel Bridge, was gritty and industrial, its characters sketchier, their intentions not always as sunny and the place was open all night. Or at least the Boca Chica Lounge was. Some things are called infamous because people misuse the word. A few places are actually infamous. Local authorities called the Boca Chica the Gun and Knife Club. “We used to say you never worked a shift on the road until you rolled in the mud and the blood at the Boca Chica Lounge,” former sheriff Bob Peryam told the Citizen in 2013. “We were always the least-armed people when we went in there.”
The front and back of the bar were separated by a chain-link fence intended to a) catch beer bottles turned projectiles, b) separate the shrimpers from the rest of the crowd, or c) all of the above.
“A redneck island bar, and if you were in the Boca Chica you were probably in trouble,” Vaughn Cochran says. “You had had way too much to drink and it probably wasn’t going to be a happy ending. If you were on a roll you could walk out the door and it’s ten or eleven in the morning.”
Aside from its rusted-out backcountry charm, Stock Island’s best feature, as far as Cochran was concerned, was the two-car garage at his house. He turned it into an art studio. Soon enough he met another guy with a degree in ceramics (Key West was lousy with ceramics grads in 1972, apparently), and they rented space at the corner of Greene and Duval Streets.
That wasn’t as difficult as it would be today. Storefronts were empty. Lots were plentiful. Parking was easy. For $125 a month they got the lot, built a shack, and opened the Key West Pottery Company. Cydall Cochran, skilled with a needle and thread, began making muslin shirts that Vaughn would hand-paint. When the shirts began to sell better than the pottery, a new business they called Bahama Mama’s was born.
Cydall remembers Bahama Mama’s being open from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., then closed for siesta, and then open again from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m. After that, everyone moved to the Chart Room. “It was like a meeting of the minds, there was an energy there I’ve rarely experienced in my life,” Vaughn says.
Winter gave way to spring, which drifted into what Chris Robinson says became known as “the Classless Summer of ’72.” Buffett came and went, Mr. Entertainer on the move and on the rebound, and another songwriter landed in Key West for a visit. Keith Sykes was friends with Jerry Jeff Walker (who wasn’t?). They’d been on tour together in Canada, Jerry Jeff talking about the Keys and telling road stories.
“In those days, every place they played they had these marquee signs on trailer wheels with an arrow on top of it,” Sykes says.
Everyone got their name in lights, right there under that arrow and, if you were lucky, next to a good drink special that might help draw a crowd. Jerry Jeff told Sykes about this guy whose name was Buffett but how every time he would play, regardless of how his name was spelled out front, someone would come in asking, “Where’s the food?”
“The way Jerry Jeff told me that was pretty funny,” Sykes says. With a break in his schedule and Jerry Jeff’s stories on the brain, Sykes decided to pay a visit to Key West, landing right on time for a field trip.
The plan the next morning was for a small armada of pleasure craft to set out for the islands west of Key West. Sykes remembers Man Key. Robinson remembers Ballast Key. Could have been either. Might have been both.
“It was just sort of dumb luck to get there at that time,” Sykes says. To prepare, they made sangria the night before, dumping in oranges, apples, lemons, limes, wine, and bottles of 151-proof rum. “We had it there marinating overnight in a garbage can,” Robinson says.
At 6 a.m. the next morning, Sam the Cleanup Man arrived at the Chart Room, took a look in the garbage can, and couldn’t believe it hadn’t been cleaned up the night before. He emptied the can, scrubbed it up, and when Robinson arrived said, “You guys must have had one hell of a party in here last night.”
“It killed the palm tree he poured it out on,” Robinson says. “I swear to God.”
Sam might well have saved some lives that day, but he created a problem: the hangout gang was out of booze. Everyone chipped in what they had left and bought some watermelons and pure grain alcohol. “It was hard to drink,” Sykes says, “but we managed.”
Boats began shuttling people out to the island. Robinson remembers McGuane making a couple of runs to get everyone to the party. “By noon there were girls waterskiing naked in the ocean,” Sykes says.
“A big, flat, white sandy beach and you’d have drinks on your belly, just floating down the current,” Robinson says. “Everybody was half naked or naked, playing around.”
Sykes decided he liked Key West. One other musician was there that day, a harmonica player Buffett had met during a sparsely attended gig at his alma mater, Southern Miss. Fingers Taylor was a skinny kid from Jackson, Miss., who could drink all night and wore the same pallor as Sykes, what’s commonly known as a motel tan. Sykes says he and Taylor huddled in the slim shade of a palm tree to keep from frying. “And we were just sort of laughing to ourselves,” Sykes says, “saying, ‘Look at those people.’ ”
It was another world. The navy’s presence was waning. The dope trade was real, and no big deal. A cruise ship came by every once in a while, and that was about it. The weirdoes, the shrimpers, and the Conchs—the natives whose families had roots in the Bahamas—had the run of the place.
Nixon was on his way to reelection. There was a break-in at the Watergate Hotel. Vietnam was winding down. A recession and an energy crisis were on the horizon. But to absorb the news from the real world you had to be home and in front of the TV at six o’clock, and the Chart Room was open at six o’clock. You could catch the eleven o’clock news, but the Chart Room was still open at eleven o’clock.
In the summer, there were barely any cars. All anyone needed was a bicycle. “It was one of the first gay-friendly towns,” Cydall Cochran says, the kind of place where a drag queen at night could work in a bank during the day and everyone would know about both performances. “So the mix of people was a perfect blend of madness.” It reminded her of another West, The Great Gatsby’s West Egg.
“We mostly hung out in the Chart Room and hit Duval most nights,” Cydall says. “Jimmy always had his guitar, so we traveled in a group and drank more rum than was good. Of course, years later you would recognize a night or two in Jimmy’s songs.”
It’s little wonder Robinson stayed. After, Phil Clark and Sonia returned from St. Augustine, Vic Latham—the Chart Room bartender with the New Orleans roots—decided he needed a vacation. Robinson filled in for him and by then a month had passed since he first stopped for a short visit. Phil and Sonia announced they were sailing to the Bahamas on a forty-one-foot Cheoy Lee. Clark told Robinson, “I’m not going to bartend when I get back. Just take my job.”
Robinson did—for the next two years. Sonia returned early (and alone) from the Bahamas. Then a car hit her dog in front of Sloppy Joe’s, and in the process of providing comfort in her time of need, Chris and Sonia became an item and got married.
Robinson rented a first-floor apartment on Waddell Avenue, next door to Louie’s Backyard, a restaurant that opened in 1971 with a cigar box for a cash register and a $1 million view of the Atlantic Ocean (that didn’t cost anything close to $1 million in 1971).
Robinson first had a musician for a roommate. A navy lieutenant lived above him on the second floor. He was paying $200 a month and everyone thought he was crazy for spending that much, but he had his own beach. He could swim out twenty yards and find lobster. Dinner and a swim; what wasn’t to love?
So in that Classless Summer of ’72, they partied while the world came and went. Club Mandible organized assault after assault on Duval Street. They polished off tequila gimlets from twelve-ounce brandy snifters at the Chart Room and tequila shots in the Snake Pit. There were no frozen margaritas because there wasn’t a blender to be found in any of the island’s bars.
Author’s photo
No front porch swing, but there was a hammock on the private beach behind the Waddell Avenue apartment Jimmy Buffett made famous. He had the second floor. Chris and Sonia Robinson had the first. Fun was had by all.
Eventually Sonia moved in with Robinson and, when the navy lieutenant moved out from the apartment upstairs, Buffett took his place. Chris and Sonia had a kid. Vaughn and Cydall would come over. Tom and Judy Corcoran would join the party with their son, Sebastian, in tow. The kids could play and swim. The grown-ups could duck through a fence to Louie’s. Buffett’s cat, Radar, would play with Robinson’s dog, Sir Raleigh Ten Speed, who had a fondness for Kahlúa and cream.
Hanging out one night, they spiked the punch with LSD. Only to see the mayor, the city attorney, and other civic power brokers arrive with the hope of hearing Buffett sing—and got away with it.
Corcoran recalled a night—a morning, really—at the Boca Chica Lounge when he was being held up by the bar and felt a tap on his shoulder.
“You look like you could use a ride home, Tom.”
It was the sheriff.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“C’mon.”
They walked into a bright morning, each wobbly step crunching the graveled parking lot. When they got to the sheriff’s car, he reached into his pocket, removed his keys, and handed them to Corcoran, who wasn’t too drunk to be confused.
“Remember,” the sheriff told him, “I can get you out of trouble, but you can’t get me out of trouble.”
“If you want to know what Key West was like back then,” Corcoran says, “there you go.”
Comparatively, what’s a little psychedelic punch at home in the evening?
“Mango daiquiris were our daytime beverage,” Cydall says. “With dark añejo rum and on a raft floating out in front of Louie’s. We could fit maybe five, so someone had to swim in to make the next batch.”
It wasn’t all fun and games, but there were plenty of both. And what of Mr. Entertainer? The sign was a joke, but part of why he fell in so easily with the crowd was because Buffett was entertaining. He was easygoing. Had he left Nashville for New York or Los Angeles, he’d have been just another folk singer working the song mines, but Key West didn’t have a Jimmy Buffett. And Key West gave Buffett a canvas no other songwriter had. All that and a hammock from which to work. A place in the shade to think.
“Most of his first big hits were from the hammock, but you never saw him actually writing anything down,” Cydall Cochran says. “But a few days later, a new song would be heard.”
I “Don’t bother to Google the street view,” Corcoran wrote in an email after stumbling upon the address in an old file. “Too overgrown to see anything at all.” That’s true.
II Now the Pier House Resort and Spa, the Chart Room is billed online as the place “Jimmy Buffet” played his first Key West show.