Frank Sandford and Galveston Bay

I think it was the summer of 1965. My cousin Frank Sanford came for a visit from Dallas. Frank was 14 years old. I was a year younger, another cousin Danny Williams was 12 and my brother, Larry was turning 11.

Someone rounded up a Sunfish sailboat for us to sail on Galveston Bay. A Sunfish is sometimes called a “board boat”, because it resembles a giant surfboard with one colorful, triangular sail. There is no keel to keep it upright, so it is susceptible to turning over…especially if you do it intentionally. Sunfish are intended to be a one-person or two-person sailboat, but since we were lightweight boys, we made it work with all four.

The great allure of a small sailboat is to get it to plane or “surf” while going downwind. On this day, there wasn’t enough breeze to give us the chance to surf, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t try.

Two boys would stand up in front of the mast, one in the back steering and one in between. When there was a glimmer of hope in surfing, the two in front would grab the mast and lean forward. On one occasion, the stern of the boat lifted completely out of the water, fell to one side and dumped everyone in the bay. Of course, this resulted in great belly laughs and we tried to replicate the feat over and over.

The next trick was to put the Sunfish on its edge with one boy standing at the mast and leaning leeward. Another would hang over the windward edge of the boat with both feet on the dagger board to prevent the boat from turning over. The other two would shift back and forth, up and down trying to maintain the boat with the sail just out of the water, but still sailing…sort of.

Frank was an athlete, starring in football at the high school level, and always in great condition. As an adult, he became a long-distance runner, completing multiple marathons. His story of the Fort Worth Marathon circa the 1980’s is worth repeating.

Frank was being transported with other runners to the starting line in a school bus. Traffic was a mess; the bus was delayed, and the runners were late. Eventually, they got close, exited the bus and began running to the starting line.

Frank was more than ten minutes late to the starting line and had been running a quarter mile to get there. He clicked on his stop watch and took off.

Frank was a serious runner and had the shoes, gear and dedication of an experienced marathoner. The field had spread out, so when he caught up with the back of the pack, it was largely inexperienced, first-timers. Some were on a lark, some wouldn’t make it halfway, but some would trudge their way to the finish line.

Frank was running considerably faster than the folks at the end of the crowd, so as he passed them, they would call out. Sometimes encouragement, sometimes amazement, sometimes jealousy. Mile after mile, Frank passed through the runners and noted the change in the runners and their demeanor. When he finished, Frank recorded his best time to that date.

Frank Sandford eventually qualified for and ran in the Boston Marathon, the pinnacle of the distance running world. Certainly, Boston was tremendous honor, but the Fort Worth race may be the better story.

Frank Sandford died earlier this week. His battle with a fourth cancer was more than even he could outrun.

Although I spoke with Frank recently, I rarely saw him as an adult. Over the decades, I met and befriended scores of wonderful folks and I value them deeply.  But nothing is more vivid than the memory of Frank and Danny and Larry and me on a hot summer day in and out of the Texas saltwater.

I can picture a muddy, placid Galveston Bay. I can see the Sunfish halfway over, barely moving. There’s one skinny, brown-skinned boy falling off the boat. Another is already dragging in the water. Someone is on the tiller trying to create jubilant mayhem.

Everyone is laughing like there’s no tomorrow.

Perhaps, there was no tomorrow. Perhaps, that day on the bay is eternal. Perhaps, Frank and Danny and Larry and I are still trying to surf a Sunfish…somewhere.

Jay Williams