Islands

sat in the old Adirondack chair under the oak in front of the tiny two-room bungalow that, despite his age, he manages to keep ship-shape and Bristol fashion. Enlisting in the navy during WWII, he was twice promoted, twice busted and left the navy at the same lowly rank he entered. “Me and the navy had differences of opinion on some things,” he explained. Becoming a captain came later.

He closed his eyes, felt the sun on his face, and dreamed of turquoise water and palm-fringed islands, of salt on the breeze and wind in the sails of the schooner he skippered around the Philippines after the war, trading this and that for thus and such, acquiring a tidy nest egg and a beautiful wife, gone almost twenty years now. His thoughts always returned to her, the dancing eyes and silken skin the shade of nutmeg, and the passion and innocent laughter of their youth. But that was long, long ago, and these days, the captain rarely sails far from his home port on Alamo Street.

Jack stopped by with the old salt’s favorite tortillas and a jar of peanut butter. The captain opened his eyes and shifted in his seat.

“Thank you kindly, Jack. Say, you spent some time knockin’ around islands. Ever think of doin’ some island music?”

Jack cocked his head. “You know, Captain, that might be fun. I’ll talk to the other Jacks and see if they’re up for it.”

Jack did. They were. Here’s the album.