In this creative non-fiction series, staff writer Dean DiLuzio takes you on his journey to Florida, where a chance meeting turned an otherwise ordinary night into a symphony of music and friendship.

Musicians are individuals who fascinate me a great deal. The ability to pull melodies of varying complexity from almost nowhere is in and of itself remarkable. What is even more impressive is getting these noises from wherever that spark of inspiration came from and sharing it with the world.

People can be harsh critics. I know that because I’m one of them. There’s been many times where I’ve held court at balmy Southwest jam bars. The stories of the Florida Man are no exaggeration.

Southwest Florida is a brilliantly complex world. It’s where the Northerners go to do two things, either escape the rut of day-to-day life in the cold, or to take a brief few-month-long break. I’ve been there for one of these long breaks, I can’t say I blame the other snowbirds.

Like a boomerang, many of us end up back in the same bundles of warm clothing at some point or another. You’ll find many people down there with anything but a Southern accent. They’ve come for the carefree life, where paradise isn’t only confined to postcard pleasantries.

There’s white sands, and hardly a shell to step on. It’s not the East coast of Florida, it’s not the panhandle either. It’s something else entirely. The very frontier of our coast, opulent skyscrapers and boutique shops line a stretch of road.

Beach access is simple: take the car out of the gate, turn left, proceed straight. Keep going straight, keep going straight. Turn on New Wave, Duran Duran is on now. Roll down the sunroof, undo the top button and relax. Keep going straight, watch the speed. At the intersection, you’re going to want to hang left then keep going for ten minutes until you take a right; then one more right.

Now you’re getting the ocean air in your lungs. Shuffle at times can pick the perfect song for the perfect day to remember. The Talking Heads have some interesting things to say through the Bose car speakers. I’m sure the retirees in the next lane in their elaborate luxury automobiles have something to say as well, I like to play the hits loud.

Sunglasses don’t need to be taken off down here, there’s only sunshine. Once a day I would walk the coast for an hour in the morning and contemplate. Many words would come. The crashing sound of ocean waves has a certain rhyme, an attitude.

It’s hard not to hear inspiration from the sky, or the clouds obfuscating doses of solar skin cancer rays. It’s not always guaranteed the seedlings of ideas will germinate on these walks, but at the very least it clears out the mental rolodex of cobwebs. Gets the body and mind working in conjunction, feet connected to the natural world; the only barrier between the two being tiny grains of sand.