Sailing Adventures with B. Frank

Article by Josh Colvin

A reader asked me recently if I’d heard from B Frank Franklin, our popular former columnist. “Do you know what he’s up to?” Truth is I haven’t talked to him recently, but we do make a point to check in with each other. Sometimes it’s a static-filled phone call (he rarely has a good signal), other times it’s by dog-eared postcard. Occasionally he’ll even send a text. I was sitting at a high school basketball game once, with teenagers looking over my shoulder, when my phone buzzed and a photo of B Frank popped up. He was on a beach somewhere, cocktail in hand, big white beard, wearing nothing but a Speedo and Santa hat. He laughs about “Nude Santa,” but I still get strange looks from local families.

We’ve sailed together a few times too. In the course of one weekend we tried to sink several boats. Frank is as salty as they come—he practically pees varnish—but I realize now that some people like to create adventures—maybe just because they just need things to write about.

I’d flown into Louisiana to meet Frank and Lola, and before long we were launching one of his fleet into a local bayou. Unfortunately, neither of us had checked the drain plug (I was jet-lagged after all) and before the boat was off the trailer, the cockpit was full almost to the gunnels. Not thinking to let it drain slowly, we towed the boat back up the ramp and the weight of the water ripped the transom away from the hull.

Plan B was to take his older 12-foot catboat out for the day. Shortly after launching I’d asked about the water bubbling around the bilge, but Frank mumbled something about rain and continued to sail us away from shore. I quietly made note of the water volume until it was clear we were indeed sinking. Frank finally conceded, but continued to casually point out and name various boat and airplane types (he really does know them all) as we crept back, water up to our knees, the trolling motor’s battery terminals only inches above the sloshing water.

That night we licked our wounds, sipped a few beers and “sucked the heads” from a giant plate of crawfish. In the morning we headed out in his flagship, a Manatee 22 called Elsie. The wind was howling and the water shallow. I was at the helm (Frank was busy tamping his pipe) when we ran hard aground. I offered to walk the anchor out so we could kedge. Once I was some distance from the boat I froze. Cattails, frogs, brackish marsh water—it suddenly occurred to me. “Frank! Are there alligators here?” I screamed over the breeze.

“No,” he shook his head. Just as I breathed a sigh of relief he yelled again. “The sharks keep ‘em away!” •SCA•

First appeared in issue #132