By William Kelly
When it was announced that Jimmy Buffett would be the theme of this summer’s Night in Venice boat parade in Ocean City, I had a flush of memories of my time with him in Fremantle, Australia, during the 1987 America’s Cup Regatta.
I was in Newport, R.I., in 1982 when Dennis Conner became the first American skipper to lose the America’s Cup in more than a century to the Australians, who used a radical winged keel design to create a faster boat. I knew a few local guys on Conner’s crew: sail trimmer Jon Wright from Stone Harbor, grinder Jim Kavle from Ocean City, and John MacCausland, who was married to Kathy Healey, whose family owned Viking Yachts in New Gretna. Together they owned a 30-foot sailboat they raced off of Cape May.
At his bayside summer home in Stone Harbor, Wright told me that Conner was going to Australia to win back the Cup, the oldest sports trophy in competition, and he encouraged me to go with them. So I saved the money and made the arrangements, as did other Jersey Shore locals like the late Stanley Starn, Jim Cooper, local surfer and Somers Point bartender Eric Adams, and Ocean City Realtor Joe Scafario. Some of them flew on the same 747 with me for the 20-plus-hour flight from Los Angeles to Sydney, then to a commuter flight across Australia to Perth, a major city in Western Australia.
When I first got there, Stan Starn took me to the Perth Yacht Club where the America’s Cup trophy was kept, though the races would be held off nearby Fremantle, a small, resort town similar to Perth what Cape May is to Atlantic City.
Joe Scafario later told me that when he got to Fremantle, the first thing he saw was Jimmy Buffett playing his guitar on a street corner, serenading passersby. Jimmy, the “son of a son of a sailor,” was a big supporter of Conner’s Stars & Stripes effort, and wrote and recorded a song, “Bring Back the Cup.”
A few days after I got there, I was at the Sail and Anchor bar sharing some beers – locally brewed Black Swan beer, with some newly acquainted Australian friends when I noticed Jimmy Buffet at the other end of the bar sitting by himself. When it was my turn to buy a round – what they call a “shout” in Australia – I sent a beer over to Jimmy, and he came over to join us.
I introduced myself and Jimmy said how much he was enjoying Fremantle.
“They don’t recognize me here,” he said, “Unlike back home, I can’t even go into my own bar without being badgered for a photo or autograph.”
“What do you do in the States, mate?” one of the Aussies asked him.
“See!” Jimmy said to me, laughing.
I replied that Jimmy is a singer-songwriter and mentioned “Cheeseburger in Paradise” and “Come Monday.”
Jimmy and I ran into each other on similar occasions over the next two months of Cup racing, once at the Stars & Stripes compound when we crossed paths going in opposite directions. He stopped and introduced me to his father, so I stepped back and took their photo – in black and white since newspapers at the time didn’t publish color prints.
Jimmy wanted to perform for the American Stars & Stripes crew, so it was arranged for him to play for them at the Beach Bar, one of the many Fremantle bars, which even had sand on the floor. Somebody wanted me to go to Perth to see Dolly Parton at a large arena that night, but Jimmy Buffet at the Beach Bar was an easy choice. It was a very small, intimate setting, like he was playing in your living room, and everyone thoroughly enjoyed it.
When the social occasion of the event, the America’s Cup Ball, rolled around, I couldn’t afford a ticket. But Stan Starn bought a whole table and invited me to go with a guest. I accepted, asked a local girl to accompany me, and rented a tux. Grace Kelly’s son, now Prince Albert II of Monaco, was the guest of honor. Since I had met him on the Ocean City Music Pier at his mother’s memorial service, and a reception afterwards, I was inclined to say hello when we were on the dance floor, but decided it wasn’t the right time or place.
I was back on the dance floor about 2 a.m. when all the big Australian bands were still performing, and I heard them announce, “We understand that American pop star Jimmy Buffett is in the audience and would like him to come up to sing a song.”
Just then Jimmy was walking across the dance floor toward me, wearing a white sports coat, white shirt and white tie, in deference to the distinguished black-tie affair. He leaned over and said to me, “Now I’m an American pop star, and I’m underdressed, even though I didn’t wear a suit and tie to my high school prom.”
That’s when someone took a picture of us together.
A few nights later I was with an Australian friend having dinner at a nice restaurant when a waiter brought us a bottle of champagne. He said it was compliments of the gentleman at a nearby table. I looked over and it was Jimmy, who waved; he was with his father.
“That’s Jimmy Buffet,” I told my Australian companion, when the waiter exclaimed, “Jimmy Buffett!”
I realized I had made a mistake and asked the waiter not to bother him while he had his dinner.
But as soon as he was done, the waiter asked him to play a few songs, but Jimmy deferred, saying he didn’t have a guitar. The waiter had one in his car just outside and went to fetch it. When he returned Jimmy sang a number of songs, saying it was a rare chance and a pleasure to play for his father, who didn’t attend his concerts. I was glad he wasn’t mad about it, but it was another small, intimate performance that everyone who was there enjoyed.
With Scafario and others, I later attended big outdoor Buffett concerts at the Garden State Arts Center in Holmdel, and Robin Hood Dell in Philadelphia, once going backstage and dropping off a copy of the photo I took of him and his dad. Not long afterwards I got four tickets to his concert in Camden, my hometown, but since I didn’t really want to see him perform at such a large arena with tens of thousands of people around, I gave the tickets to a Parrot Head friend who owned the Fudge Kitchen in Cape May.
The last time I saw Jimmy was at the grand opening of his Margaritaville Bar Grill on the Atlantic City Boardwalk. I knew he was uncomfortable in the sun with a dozen guys in suits and ties, so I went down to the street and talked with his limo driver. Sure enough, before the event was officially over, Jimmy came out and I said hello and I asked him if he remembered me from Fremantle.
“Sure I do Ned,” he called me by the nickname my Aussie friends called me after the famous outlaw Ned Kelly. And he added, “Thanks for the picture of me and my father, as he has since passed away.”
“Welcome to Atlantic City,” I said. “It’s sort of like my backyard.”
“Maybe you can show me around sometime,” he said, but he had a lot of other business to take care of, so he got in his limo and took off.
A few moments later Gov. Chris Christie came out with a camera and paper and pen and asked for Jimmy, saying he wanted a photo and autograph, but it was too late. He was gone.
Then last September when I learned he had died, I had a flood of these memories and will have them again during Night In Venice, when everybody will be celebrating the laid back life and legacy of Jimmy Buffett. Billkell3@gmail.com
