25 years ago I was confused, hurt and lost.

The current chapter of my life I was writing came to an abrupt, unexpected end.

Knowing I needed a change, but not knowing exactly what that meant, I decided one day to simply book a trip to the Virgin Islands.

Alone.

They knew who he was before they knew who he was. They heard his lyrics before they could understand lyrics.

My lullaby set usually included ‘A Pirate Looks At 40’, ‘He Went To Paris’, and ‘Cowboy In The Jungle’.

As they grew, the songs became a soundtrack to their life.

I almost went home tonight.

The plan was simple.

Stay in the marina.

On the boat.

A simple plan.

I wish I were a simple man — at least as simple as the one I think I’m chasing.

And maybe chasing is exactly the problem.

There’s an authenticity to my favorite Caribbean joints.

There’s an authenticity to my favorite people.

There’s an authenticity to my favorite songs.

There’s an authenticity to St Ignace, that I’m starting to appreciate.

“Conversations from a Chairlift” — the title of the book I never wrote.

The concept was simple — short stories about the short stories told while on a chairlift.

My mental and emotional baggage of being the perpetual new kid all those years, and all those years ago, still live with me as a full-grown adult.

It’s cold and snowy here in Carp Lake. St. Ignace is the same. St. Ignace in winter is no joke, it’s a different monster than Traverse City. When Buffett sang “I gotta fly to St. Somewhere,” he did not mean St. Ignace in winter. The winds in the Straits will humble you quickly, at least they should. I’ve never felt such a cold wind. But if you can look through the frozen tears in your eyes, you’ll see beauty in the landscape.

It’s just a boat. But it’s not.

It’s been part of our lives for 17 years. It’s been the source of countless memories, stories and iPhone photos.

Music meets you where you are.

It always does, serendipitously.

Writing and music are therapeutic, if you allow them to be.