B. Frank Franklin

A classic from issue #62

Having just heard from longtime roaming contributor (others have used more colorful language to describe him) B. Frank Franklin, we thought we’d share one of our favorites of his columns below. —Eds

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Fair Winds Big Buoy

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I avoided looking at the gentle mound of fresh earth as I knocked the last crumbs of dirt from the shovel. Lola stood near.

I managed a weak laugh as I thought of the many naps he had taken in the shade of the old tree. I’d joined him there on occasion, and can think of no finer place on land to rest.

Lola tried to smile as she squeezed my hand and nodded toward the house. I returned the nod and turned, hove to, as if the breeze came from Big Buoy’s tree.

In a long moment it occurred to me that this was a time when B, as we called him, would have sighed or groaned disdainfully, a reminder that he knew things which those with fewer legs could not understand. Taking the hint, I went inside.

Walking into the study, I was reminded of Lola’s astonishing ability to live in one moment while planning for the next. On the desk of B. Frank Franklin rested a bottle of Laphroaig and a tumbler. A fresh sheet of paper lay in the carriage of my typewriter, a notebook and pencil to starboard.

Putting first things first, I made the glass half full, recalling the dancing pup who was not meant to be ours. He actually was our son’s dog, but soon after Big Buoy’s arrival, the lad had gone off to see the world. They do that.

In addition to the normal challenges of puppies—chewing, whining, and things even less endearing, Big Buoy ate a manuscript. It could be that he saved me from the complications of fame and fortune. What are friends for, right?

It was my magnum opus, a story of a small boat going south from Cincinnati. I had revised it several times and was ready to mail it to a publisher. I returned home from a rendezvous to find B gnawing contentedly on the first, and as it turned out, only remaining page. There was evidence that he had digested it as thoroughly as any editor, and perhaps more kindly.

Big Buoy took an early liking to Ol’ Blue, and could hear the movement of my keys from a deep sleep. A good thing, too, since he took many naps. But he soon expanded his realm, and watched the world go by from the passenger seat with the detached authority of a monarch. When I snarled at the antics of another driver, he reminded me of the futility of my rant with a sigh and sideways glance.

Big Buoy and Ol’ Blue got along famously, and one of our early trips was with Elsie in tow. He watched with some interest as I launched and rigged, but did not offer to help. He did a fine job of guarding the cooler, though, and always kept it in sight.

His first boarding of Elsie was tentative, but he quickly explored the boat and gave it passing marks for accommodations. At first he resisted wearing his PFD, and he always sighed when I approached with it. In truth, it was one of the few times he assented to my authority, probably because he understood what it means to be the master of a vessel. After all, he was the master of our house.

Big Buoy became an enthusiastic daysailor and sometimes cruiser. He preferred the leeward side, unless we were hard heeled, when he would remind me with a glance that I should take better care of my crew. A broad reach seemed his favorite, though he sailed well on all points, and never complained of foul weather. Not once was he seasick, a fact which I attribute to his taste for gingersnaps, a favorite snack.

Our shipmate had lots of favorite snacks. Meat, of course, was at the top of his list, but he did not turn down vegetables and fruit. He had a sweet tooth, too, and a particular liking for Nutty Bars. He had his standards, though, and never once ate a tomato, spicy foods, or MRE.

Big Buoy seemed to like most people, especially those who were quick to rub his ears. If you were good at that, he would offer you the chance to scratch his belly, a gift that dog lovers understand. Less gifted people were embarrassed or confused, and B seemed to enjoy that.

Cats were always a part of B’s family, and he got along well with Shiphead. Shiphead liked Big Buoy, and often rubbed against him, or piled on him for a nap. The cat would sometimes take a liking to something in B’s dish, and I was always surprised to see them eating together, though it seemed only fair, since he raided the cat’s dish at every opportunity. Once in awhile, though, Big Buoy wanted to dine alone, and a low growl reminded everyone that he meant business.

He was the strong, silent type, and did not bark often. But cats and dogs who did not belong were chased away with a deep roar and big teeth. He had a particular dislike for raccoons, and knew when they were near. He chased them with noise and dedication, but lacked the speed and climbing ability to catch them. A good thing, I suspect.

His bite was worse than his bark. A scar in my hand reminds me of that, and it was received in play, not anger. Even as I bled, I couldn’t be mad at him since we were having such fun. That scar is a lasting gift from a friend, and I treasure it.

Time and tide do not wait, and we aged together as we rode and sailed. We became less lean and agile, and boarding truck or boat became more difficult and less frequent. Eventually, he seemed less interested in sailing, and I stopped taking him, as moving around the boat seemed hard for him. I sailed without him, but it was painfully different. Sky and water were full as always, but my missing shipmate left the boat feeling bigger and more empty than she really was.

Big Buoy’s last night was hard, his relief well earned. The days which followed were peculiar, like when you enter a room and something is odd, but you can’t quite identify the feeling. I still have days like that, but I’m able to smile now.

Other lives come into ours, and some linger. Our favorites become a part of us. Big Buoy Franklin had a knowing innocence beyond the abilities of humans. He is shipmate, friend, and family, and will always be aboard.

Fair winds, Big Buoy. •SCA•