My father was already working on the top-secret submarine defense project that would occupy his entire career when, in 1959, he packed us into the Studebaker for the trek to Key West. We loved exploring the creaky termite-ridden Victorian that the Navy had rented for us. The garden was occupied by aging and overgrown fruit trees. Guava, papaya, and fig attracted an array of wild creatures, including the possum that hid under the expansive porch. We felt at home. We learned how to pronounce conch (everyone knows the ch is hard – like “k”). We combed the beach, scooping up hermit crabs and polished sea-glass. Being red-headed and fair, my skin quickly turned a painful shade and stayed that way through that year, but I didn’t care. There were new things to discover, like floating out on that impossibly blue water to magically pull up a sand shark, followed, perhaps, by a big ugly grouper. There was one of the few times I can remember being out alone with my dad – riding out to the naval air station to see the 7th Voyage of Sinbad. I was only four, and the Cyclops and dueling skeletons were totally frightening, but that night was cool and humid and special. We were so very sad to leave the next year.
In 2022, I was honored to be awarded a three-week residency at The Studios of Key West on Eaton Street and was able to return to the Keys for the first time since my childhood. I did not arrive with a plan for what I would work on, but I woke up on my first morning hearing the opening of this piece and wrote the six minutes quickly. There is an alternate version for two marimbas. The nautical phrase of the title is a double musical pun. Yes, keys are islands and also part of the piano, but in addition, the music is almost entirely canonic – in other words, a “round” – Rounding the Keys.

Eric Chasalow