Last night was such a night.
Dave Cahill stood and me are catching up, telling one another things we need to share and embraced a couple of times.
He's one of the best drummers ever, surfs, is a Marshpuppy and reeks of "coolness" even he doesn't bathe.
It's already a nice night as Monty Parks and I stood outside of Doc's Bar talking while noticing the fog on a warm December night made the exterior of "Bernie's Tavern" look like a British Christmas Card.
Three skateboard punk rockers roll by and stop to talk smack.
"Hey," one of the Punks sneers, "You Skake? What did you do when you were our age?"
"Make love with girls in the back seat of our parent's car," I answer.
"You want to beat 'em up?" Monty asks.
Shaking my head I return to the sidewalk as Conga Dave strolls out to join us immediately chasing away the juvenile delinquent wannabes.
Back inside the warmth of the Bar, Clark Byron and I have one of the most heartfelt conversations I've had in years. There was so much behind the words that ... it was hard to capture the words.
Those are damn good conversations when they happen!
But that was earlier and now Davy and I stand in the middle of Tybee Island's main drag talking when a mini-van screeches to a halt in front of Benny's.
"DID I HANG UP ON YOU?" the driver screams.
It's Ann ... Cupcake's sister ... pulling in from her home in South Carolina to oversee the funeral.
"We were done," I answer. "You were answering other calls."
"Okay then," she says heading inside Benny's, "See you tomorrow."
"Alright Rev," Davy says climbing inside his sticker covered jeep.
Later," I reply jumping back inside the convertible with me guitar idling in the middle of Butler Avenue.
The Ocean gives loud kisses to the Beach in the distance through the warm fog.
"God," I smile driving home to Sarah, "I still love this island sometimes."
