Frank

Frank first came to Fiordland in the 1980s. He started out as a bait boy, the lowest rung on the crayfishing ladder. Long days gutting fish, coiling ropes, and scrubbing decks. Over time, he worked his way up to skipper and spent years working the rugged coastline of Fiordland, hauling pots in remote, weather-beaten places few people ever see. It was hard, physical work in one of the most unforgiving parts of the country. But Frank stuck at it. He got to know every headland and haul-out spot, every turn of the coast.

He met his now-wife in Milford Sound.  She was working at the hotel and their paths kept crossing. She used to sneak him leftover chocolate mousse at the end of the night. One thing led to another, and they built a life together, not always a straightforward one, but she’s a patient woman with a good sense of humour. You’d need both.

When the fishing days slowed down, Frank moved into tourism. Same waters, different kind of work. Still behind the wheel, still out on the fiords, just with a new purpose.

Frank’s always been an ideas man. He’s tried a bit of everything, even had a go at launching Frank’s Fresh Fish, delivering seafood inland. But an icy bridge at Blackmount put an end to that. He’s also got a reputation for being a bit accident-prone. If there’s a way to fall off something or hit the one thing you shouldn’t, Frank will find it. Usually patched up, but always carrying on.

What sets him apart is how he sees things. He notices what others miss.

While most people looked out at Fiordland and saw just cliffs and coastline, Frank started noticing something drifting just offshore, logs. Massive old trees, waterlogged and heavy. Totara, Rimu, Mataī. Torn from the hills by slips and storms, swept down rivers and into the sea. Where others saw debris, Frank saw potential.

The idea took hold. Could these be saved? Used? Repurposed?

Frank’s not the sort who’d naturally dive into bureaucracy. He’s dyslexic and has always found paperwork a challenge. But he spent years poring over the coastal plan and relevant legislation teaching himself as he went, and eventually earned a certificate from the regional council granting him permission to salvage the logs. One at a time, he began pulling them from the deep.

Frank doesn’t talk about conservation or design much. But he’s a sculptor at heart. He sees form in the timber, sees how a twisted old branch might become a bench, or a gnarled slab a table. He likes turning these weathered trunks into functional pieces of art, something with purpose, weight, and story.

Fallen Furniture was born from that vision. From the quiet skill of a man who spent decades on the coast, who saw value in the forgotten, and who found a way to carry the forest forward, one salvaged log at a time.