The clatter of the typewriter keys was a familiar comfort, a counterpoint to the gentle rocking of the Euphoria. Another night at sea, another melody taking shape in my head, fighting its way out through my fingertips. This time, though, the tune felt different, softer, tinged with a longing I hadn't quite put into words before.
We were somewhere off the coast of Florida, I think, heading back towards Miami after a gig down in the islands. The shows had been great, the crowds were alive, and the salt air always did something good for my soul. But this trip, something felt…missing.
It hit me in the quiet moments, when the band was asleep and the only sound was the hum of the engine and the whisper of the waves against the hull. It was her. Mary. We'd only just met, a whirlwind of laughter and late-night talks under a sky full of stars back in Key West. Now, miles and an endless expanse of blue water separated us.
I found myself replaying our conversations in my head, the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about her art, the easy way we fell into comfortable silences. It was that feeling, that quiet ache of absence mixed with the hopeful anticipation of seeing her again, that started to spill onto the page.
Come Monday, it'll be alright, I typed, almost surprised by the words themselves. They felt honest, raw. It wasn't a party song, not a tale of drunken escapades. It was simply about missing someone, about counting down the days until we could be together again.
The melody followed quickly, a gentle, rolling rhythm that mirrored the motion of the boat. I scribbled it down on a napkin first, then transferred it to the yellow legal pad I always kept nearby. The words flowed easily after that, each line a little piece of my heart laid bare.
I've been tryin' to get down to the very heart of the matter, I wrote, thinking about the newness of this feeling, the way it had taken me by surprise. I’d written plenty of songs about good times and bad decisions, but this was different. This was about something real, something I hoped would last.
The days at sea seemed to stretch on forever, each sunrise a reminder that Monday, our promised reunion, was still just out of reach. But with each verse I wrote, the distance felt a little less daunting, the anticipation a little sweeter. The song became my anchor, a way to keep her close even when she was far away.
By the time we finally docked in Miami, the song was finished. It was simple, maybe even a little vulnerable, but it felt true. It was the sound of the ocean, the echo of laughter under the palm trees, and most of all, the quiet hope of seeing her again soon.
I never imagined that little song, born out of a quiet longing on a small sailboat, would resonate with so many people. But maybe that's the thing about love and distance – it's a feeling we all understand. And for me, it all started on that trip, with the rhythmic clatter of a typewriter and the simple truth: Come Monday, it'll be alright. And it was. It always was, with her.
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