A palm tree dances in the ocean breeze, Islamorado, Florida. It's a sure sign we're about to be stricken with a bout of Keys Disease, brought on by the intoxicating mix of beaches and boats, bikinis and bait strikes.
I know I don't get there often enough
But God knows I surely try
It's a magic kind of medicine
That no doctor could prescribe
I used to rule my world from a pay phone
And ships out on the seaBut now times are rough
And I got too much stuff
Can't explain the likes of me
But there's this one particular harbour
So far but yet so near
Where I see the days as they fade away
And finally disappear 
Storm clouds build under the mid-day sun, oceanside of Marathon Key.
As the son of a son of a sailor,
I went out on the sea for adventure,
Expanding their view of the captain and crew
Like a man just released from indenture.
Old motors lie in permanent salt air repose, near Marathon.
Mother, mother ocean,
I have heard you call,
Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall.
You've seen it all, you've seen it all.
Watch the men who rode you,
Switch from sails to steam.
And in your belly you hold the treasure that few have ever seen,
most of them dreams, most of them dreams. 
Bar Olympics include toss the coin in the grouper's mouth at Capt. Tony's Saloon, Key West.
I went down to Captain Tony's to get out of the heat
When I heard a voice call out to me,
"Son, come have a seat"
I had to search my memory as I looked into those eyes
Our lives change like the weather but a legend never dies
Bob and Kathy enjoy a pina colada and mojito at the Cheeca Lodge tiki bar.
Boat drinks. Waitress, I need two more boat drinks. Then I'm headin south 'fore my dream shrinks.
I gotta where it's warm. I gotta go where there ain't any snow,where there ain't any blow,'cause my fin sinks so low. I gotta go where it's warm.
Bob skewers baby octopus in sweet jalepeno sauce for a morning snack.Nibblin' on sponge cake,watchin' the sun bake; All of those tourists covered with oil. Strummin' my six string on my front porch swing. Smell those shrimp--They're beginnin' to boil.
Pelicans menace fishermen for a handout at the Futura Yacht Club marina.Don't want to land in Comanche Sky Park,
or in Nashville, Tennessee.
I don't want to land in no San Juan airport or the Yukon Territory.
Don't want to land no San Diego.
Don't want to land in no Buzzards Bay.
I don't want to land on no Ayahtolla.
I got nothin' more to say.
The sun slowly fades as another beautiful day ends. Thanks, Jeff- we owe ya one.Stay tuned: we'll visit Hemingway's Key West home, fish the shallows for barricuda, sail aboard the Liberty, and search for millions in silver and gold from a 1622 shipwreck (it was easy to find).
