Before the Black Pearl, There Were Dolphins

Long before the Black Pearl stood defiant on New Brighton beach, held together by myth, nails and community spirit, something quieter—but just as magical—was taking shape on the same stretch of sand. This is where it all began.

Back in 2012, I wrote this for SevenStreets, after stumbling upon a series of driftwood sculptures that had appeared like flotsam fairy-tales along the Mersey. It was the work of a man named Frank—part beachcomber, part artist, part local legend—who used the tide’s offerings to build sea creatures from nothing but driftwood, rope, and imagination.

So, before there was a pirate ship… there were dolphins.

DRIFTWOOD AND DOLPHINS

By Rory Wilmer - Originally published in SevenStreets, September 2012

Fanciful sea creatures are beached every day in New Brighton. But no emergency rescue is needed—these are the creations of an artist with an eye for bringing flotsam to life.

Along the sandbanks of the Mersey, strange and wonderful creatures have started appearing almost daily. Driftwood dolphins. Sea dragons. Mermaids. Octopuses. All pieced together from whatever the tide brings in. Welcome to the world of Frank, New Brighton’s very own tide artist.

His work has been popping up along the shoreline from New Brighton to Seacombe, and most of it is the handiwork of one man. Frank is a retired accountant. Handy with tools. Obsessed with the beach. Deeply rooted in his community.

“I’ve built a lot of things at home,” he tells me. “I’ve done a bit of wood carving too. Not professionally—just a hobby, really.”

You’ll find Frank on the beach most mornings. He arrives early to tidy up and see what the tide has delivered overnight.

“Mostly it’s all plastic,” he says, brushing sand off a triangular scrap of driftwood. “Last week we found a plastic net, all tangled up in the rocks. I didn’t see rubbish—I saw perfect mermaid hair.”

As we walk, we come across the corpse of a baby porpoise. Frank stops, starts digging a shallow grave.

“The council will collect them if reported,” he explains, “but the smell gets awful and dogs tear into them. So I bury them myself. I mark the spot, in case the council do come later.”

Some of Frank’s sculptures—particularly the dolphins—have stayed in place for weeks, unmoved by wind or tide. Locals and dog walkers pass by and stop to admire them. They’ve become part of the scenery.

Frank’s efforts haven’t gone unnoticed. His little patch of beach has become something of a meeting point. One morning we meet Harry, a former apprentice at Cammell Laird. Back in the day, he was a chippy in the shipyard. These days, he collects driftwood for the fire and often lends Frank a hand.

“I help him move the bigger bits,” says Harry, hefting a thick plank onto his shoulder. “He borrows my saw, now and then. One time we found a massive oak beam—it must’ve come off a timber ship. Me and my lad dragged it home, looked it up online. Worth twelve hundred quid, it was.”

Frank’s not in it for the money. His work is a gift—to the place, and to the people who find joy in it.

“It’s all about connection,” he says. “Kids especially—they get curious, want to know more, want to help. It’s a way of discovering their relationship with the sea. And it’s good for me, too. There’s a proper endorphin rush when you manage to pull something huge out of the rocks and drag it up here.”

People often ask if he’s being paid. “I just smile,” he says. “I tell them it’s free.”

We talk about the ‘new’ New Brighton—the Hungry Horse pub, the mega-Morrisons.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” he admits. “But it’s better than what was here. Still, the architecture and public spaces could’ve been more ambitious. That’s modern economics for you.

What I’m trying to do is bring people back to the beach. Help them enjoy what’s already here—our space, our tide, our environment.”

As we speak, Frank is working on a huge tree root, hauled in by the Harvest Moon tide the night before.

“It took three of us to shift it,” he grins. “I was trying on my own this morning, then a woman from Canada offered to help—she said they know their wood over there. Then another woman joined in. No men to be seen. It was exhilarating.”

He stops and steps back, wiping his brow, admiring the twisted tangle of roots and branches.

“Just look at it,” he says. “It’s beautiful.”

The original story published in Seven Streets, a Liverpool magazine no longer in print.