FAE / EKVG Vagar Airport, Faroe Islands
May 18, 2025 in Faroe Islands ⋅ ☀️ 59 °F
Captain’s Log – 18th May, 2025
World Heritage Sites Air Adventure: No Time to Die—My Own Eulogy
As written by 007, who joins us today from the copilot’s seat and is serving as our special guest log writer on this episode of The Sky Podcast, brought to you by Starlink Aviation Solutions.
As the Tiger Shark Squadron transits from Colombia to this corner of the world, preparing to launch the Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers tour, we pause for a special side mission. Today, we honor a great agent of Her Majesty’s Secret Service here in the Faroe Islands:
Kalsoy, Faroe Islands. The wind cuts like memory, the Atlantic roars below. If you’re reading this, my time has run out. Let these words serve as my own eulogy-brief, honest, and true.
M once quoted Jack London: “The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.” Those words became my compass. I did not drift through life. I burned.
“I would rather be ashes than dust!” London wrote. I agree. I chose the brilliant blaze, not the slow fade. Duty, danger, love, and loss-these were my companions. I never asked for thanks, nor forgiveness. I did what had to be done, so others could sleep in peace.
M also said, “We all have our secrets, we just didn’t get to yours yet.” My secret? I lived. I loved. I did not waste my days.
So, raise a glass. Remember me not as a number, but as a man who used his time. If you ever stand on these cliffs, with the wind in your hair and the sea below, know I am there-in the legend, and in the life well-lived.
Farewell.
Bond, James Bond.
End logRead more
(EGPB) Sumburgh, Shetland, GB
May 19, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ ☀️ 54 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventure: No Time to Die – A Shetland Whodunit
By DI Jimmy Perez, Shetland Police, guest log writer from the copilot’s seat on this Sky Podcast series-brought to you by Starlink Aviation Solutions.
Episode 1: Sumburgh (EGPB) – 19th May 2025
We begin at Sumburgh, where the wind off the headland carries the salt of the sea and the weight of troubling news. A British secret service agent—one of the legendary ones, if the rumours are true—is presumed dead after an explosion on Kalsoy in the Faroes. No body was found—just scorched rock and a single witness who saw a man calling himself Daniel Craig vanish into the mist. Now, we believe he’s crossed to Shetland, hoping the wildness here might hide him.
I’ve called on Cropduster and his dogs, Lani and Kai—more partners than pets, bound by trust and loyalty. Lani, the ex-Malay Special Forces German Shepherd, and Kai, the chocolate labrador with an uncanny nose for search and rescue, are more than a team—they’re family. We gathered on the apron at EGPB, the Tiger Shark Squadron’s aircraft ready, Starlink Aviation keeping us connected as the clouds pressed low. The plan is simple: start here, work north, and trust the dogs and the islands to reveal what secrets they hold.
After a VFR flyover of Sumburgh Head Lighthouse and the dramatic southern cliffs, the crew and I regroup in Grutness village at the Sumburgh Hotel’s lounge. Over bowls of reestit mutton soup and pints of Valhalla Brewery’s Auld Rock Ale, we listen to the barman’s tale of a stranger asking about ferries north. Lani and Kai sniff around the pier, picking up a faint trail as the mystery begins.
With the taste of malt and smoke lingering, we step back into the Shetland wind, ready for the next leg. The hunt for Daniel Craig has begun, and on these islands, secrets never stay buried for long.Read more
(EGET) Tingwall, Shetland, GB
May 20, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ ☁️ 54 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventure: No Time to Die – A Shetland Whodunit
DI Jimmy Perez, Shetland Police—your ongoing guest log writer on the Sky Podcast series, with support from Starlink Aviation Solutions.
Episode 2: Tingwall: Closed Doors and New Leads
Departing Sumburgh, we flew VFR past Mousa Broch and Bressay Lighthouse, tracing the rugged coastline. Our next stop was Tingwall (EGET), near Lerwick, only to find the airfield closed for major maintenance until June 1. Undeterred, we landed nearby (the gray side of legal/illegal/didn’t get busted/official police business) and strolled Commercial Street, regrouping at the Lounge Bar. Over bannocks with smoked salmon and drams of Lerwick Distillery’s single malt, we discussed a crofter’s account of a quiet Englishman buying a ferry timetable. The dogs led us to a shed by the loch, where we found a map marked with our next destinations—a silent invitation to continue the chase.
________________________________________
Whalsay: Clues Among Crab Sandwiches
Eastbound, we skirted the Out Skerries and passed Skaw Taing Lighthouse, finally touching down at Whalsay (EGEH). In Symbister, Harbison’s Bar welcomed us with Whalsay crab sandwiches and Shetland Reel Gin & Tonic. A fisherman recalled a visitor asking about boats to Unst. Under a bench, Lani found a discarded ferry ticket—another breadcrumb on the trail. The dogs’ noses confirmed it: we were still on the right path.
________________________________________
Out Skerries: The Edge of Britain
We ended today’s flight at Out Skerries Airstrip (EG78/EGOU), Shetland’s easternmost outpost. The airfield is little more than a windswept ribbon of tarmac, but for us, it was the end of the line—for now. The Skerries, a trio of islands lashed by sea and sky, felt like the edge of the world.
At the Skerries Community Hall, Mrs. Jamieson, keeper of the post office and local stories, poured us mugs of strong tea and offered bannocks with fresh crab. She remembered a tall, quiet stranger with a London accent, asking about boats to Unst and the wartime bunkers on Grunay. Down by the slipway, Lani and Kai discovered a battered oilskin coat, smelling faintly of explosives and expensive cologne.
As dusk settled and the lighthouse blinked to life, we gathered on the pier, the wind whipping at our coats. The clues—a ferry ticket, a marked map, an abandoned coat—pointed north. Somewhere out there, Daniel Craig, or whoever he truly is, was still one step ahead, using Shetland’s wildness as his cloak.
Tomorrow, we follow the trail to Unst. But tonight, on the Out Skerries, the mystery deepens. Here, secrets are as old as the rocks themselves—and tonight, they whisper on the wind.
X-Plane note: this is AMAZING!!!!
https://forums.x-plane.org/files/file/95310-pho…Read more
Baltasound, Unst
May 21, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ 🌬 48 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventure: No Time to Die – A Shetland Whodunit
Episode 3: Unst – 21st May 2025
DI Jimmy Perez, Shetland Police—your ongoing guest log writer on the Sky Podcast series, with support from Starlink Aviation Solutions.
Baltasound, Unst
Before heading north, I spent a memorable evening among da folk of Out Skerries—the sort of place that lingers in your mind long after you’ve left its shores. Out Skerries, perched far to the east of Shetland, is a place shaped by the sea and the wind. The islands are small, but their spirit is anything but. Here, I was struck not just by the rugged cliffs and stories of shipwrecks, but by the quiet industry of the islanders—especially their knitting.
On Skerries, knitting is more than a pastime; it’s a lifeline. With patterns inspired by sea and sky, islanders have always turned local wool into garments tough enough for the wildest weather. Even now, the tradition endures, each stitch a testament to resilience and ingenuity.
As a small mark of their welcome, Mrs. Williamson—the island’s most renowned knitter—presented Lani and Kai with knitted tactical vests, crafted in the unique style of Out Skerries: warm, durable, and patterned with the island’s signature motifs. She knelt down beside the dogs, her hands gentle as she fastened the wool around their shoulders.
“Noo, look at you twa,” she said, smiling at them both. “Dis’ll keep du warm when da wind’s up an’ du’s oot on da job. I’ve put a peerie pocket here for a treat or a compass—never kens when du might need it. Mind, Skerries wool’s tough as anythin’, just like you. Tak care o’ each other, an’ come back for a scratch if du’s ever by again.”
Lani, usually reserved, nuzzled Mrs. Williamson’s hand, tail wagging in rare approval. Kai, ever the optimist, pranced in circles and leaned in for a scratch, clearly delighted by the snug fit and the scent of fresh wool. It was a gesture that spoke volumes: a blending of tradition and purpose, made especially for my two loyal companions—and a memory I’ll carry with me long after we’ve left these shores.
I was especially taken wi’ @79-Airtime, a man who’s left his mark on da island in more ways than one. He shared his story over a mug of strong tea and a slice of bannock.
“Aye, I wis born here in ’79, left for da mainland for school in ’95. Came back in 2006 wi’ da wife and twa bairns, biggit a hoose while she was expectin’ da third. When da salmon farm folded—ye’ll see da old cages rustin’ yet—we had tae move back tae da Shetland mainland for work, been there a bit over ten year now. But Skerries is aye home, ken?
Du kens, at one time, Out Skerries had da shortest commercial airstrip in da world. Da Islander would land here—sometimes had tae go via Whalsay if da weather or da load wis against us. Tingwall tae Skerries—folk still blether aboot those flights.”
We shared a dram and a laugh, and I left with a deeper appreciation for da island’s spirit—and for those who keep its memory alive.
The next morning, we flew north, da dogs restless, Muckle Flugga Lighthouse blinking at da edge of da world. Here on Unst, da land feels like da end of da road—closer to Norway than to Shetland’s southern isles.
Baltasound is quiet, da main road lined with daffodils and da odd sheep. In da Baltasound Hotel’s lounge, da locals are talking about da price of diesel and da ferry running late again.
Salt beef and tattie soup warms da bones, served with thick slices of beremeal bannock and a dollop of butter. I wash it down with a pint of Valhalla Island Bere, the local ale—malty, with a hint of sea air. Shetland Reel whisky follows, smoky and warming.
A mechanic, hands black with oil, glances up as I approach.
“Du’s lookin’ for dat English body, is du? He cam by da shed, borrowed a spanner an’ left a page fae some auld spy book. Said he wis keen on da ferry tae Fetlar. Strange een, dat. Left half a cigar burnin’ on da windowsill—smelled like he’d nae taste for it. Mind du, he wis bletherin’ awa’ like a peerie wren in a gale. It admires me how some folk can blether so!”
Later, I notice a faint scent of expensive aftershave lingering by the pier—a note of something foreign, out of place among the salt and diesel. Kai’s nose is twitching. The scent’s fresh. Fetlar’s next.
End log.Read more
(FEA) Fetlar, Shetland, GB
May 23, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ ☁️ 48 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventure: No Time to Die – A Shetland Whodunit
Episode 4: Fetlar (FEA) – 23rd May 2025
By DI Jimmy Perez, Shetland Police—guest log writer, reporting from the copilot’s seat on the Sky Podcast. Powered by Starlink Aviation Solutions and Cropduster’s pick: Refill & Repeat Roasters, serving up fine beans and repeat cravings.
Arrived: Houbie, Fetlar
We left behind Unst Airfield—just a runway and a hut, now only for the odd Air Ambulance. No flights, no tower, just wind and silence.
We detoured to Yell, where the past lingers. In 1942, RAF Catalina Z2148 crashed into the Hill of Arisdale in bad weather, seven of ten crew lost. Flight Sergeant Dan Lockyer, ankle broken, crawled two miles to raise the alarm. The site is still marked by a Celtic cross and scattered wreckage—a stark reminder of Shetland’s wartime role.
Fetlar greeted us with westerly wind, low cloud, and drizzle. Landing was rough—salt spray, biting air, and secrets thick as the mist.
We were following the trail of a stranger who unsettled the locals: sharp coat, untouched whisky, and a notebook full of cryptic notes—“old runways,” “circles closing,” “the man from the Ministry”—with a singed Queen of Hearts tucked inside. Annie at the café said he always watched the door, spoke like someone used to being obeyed. She hummed an old Unst Boat Song as Sean joined in, boots tapping. “Some songs outlive the singers,” she said, pocketing the card.
Sean later summed up the stranger: “Moved quiet, that one. You’d look away and he’d vanish, like mist.” There were whispers of a silver Omega and drinks ordered “shaken, not stirred”—even here, that turns heads.
Fetlar endures—wind-battered and stubborn. The café and shop keep the island’s heart beating with crab sandwiches and Shetland Reel gin.
I’m just a guest—usually based in Lerwick. This case called for Cropduster from Hawaii, who’s landed in places most folk only dream of. Even he admits Fetlar is different.
And then there are the dogs: Lani and Kai, in their new Out Skerries vests—every bit as vital to this mystery as the rest of us.
We spent a day and night on Fetlar; every answer led to another question. As the haar thickened, I knew the real story waited ahead, in the fog at Scatsta—where secrets never stay buried for long.
Take care of yourself.
End logRead more
(EGPM) Scatsta, Shetland, GB
May 24, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ 🌧 48 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventure: No Time to Die – A Shetland Whodunit
Guest Log by DI Jimmy Perez, Shetland Police
This Sky Podcast is sponsored by Bark & Brew Shetland—strong tea, fresh coffee, fast wi-fi, scones that never last. Lani and Kai say it’s the best place on earth. Humans allowed—just don’t steal the dogs’ treats.
Episode 5: Scatsta (EGPM) – 24th May 2025
Scatsta, North Mainland
Leaving Fetlar, we detoured back over the Hill of Arisdale on Yell, where the RAF Catalina crashed. The Celtic cross stands on the moor. We scattered Hawaiian flowers—just a small gesture for the crew lost that January night. The Tiger Shark support aircraft circled in salute. For a moment, only the wind and the quiet presence of the past.
We landed at Scatsta. Engines ticking as they cooled, nobody said much. Sometimes, that’s the best way to remember.
Scatsta airfield is a ghost—wind through broken windows, moss cracking the tarmac. We overflew Sullom Voe’s oil tanks and North Roe’s radar dome, relics of watching the Russians. The terminal is silent, save for gulls. Outside, a cold north-westerly sweeps low clouds across the mossy runway, haar thick as buttermilk.
Cropduster’s dogs, Lani and Kai, explore in their Out Skerries vests. Kai finds a fire pit—embers still warm, ringed with cigar butts. Someone was here, not long ago.
Lani noses out a half-burnt photo—an island cliff, waves crashing below. On the back, a single line:
“We all have our secrets. We just didn’t get to yours yet.”
At the Brae Hotel, laughter spills from the bar, black pudding and clapshot on the air. Cropduster and I share a pint and a dram of Glengoyne—malty, fruity, a gentle sherry finish. A comfort after a day of chasing mysteries through the haar.
Davey Niven, retired airport worker, leans in:
“Du’s no fae roond here, are du? Dat English lad wis here—kept tae himsel’, asked aboot da Papa Stour ferry, left in a hurry. He wis askin’ aboot da auld Dambusters—617 Squadron, dey trained here. Left a fancy cigar stub, but didna finish it.
Mony a peerie mystery’s been left in Scatsta’s stoorie corners. Folk say da ghosts come oot when da haar’s thick as buttermilk.”
The words linger, cold and final.
Take care of yourself.
End log.
Cropduster’s flight note: Now flying with Orbx’s TrueEarth Great Britain North.
“Ho, brah! WINNA WINNA CHICKEN DINNA!”Read more
(PSV / EG79) Papa Stour, Shetland, GB
May 25, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ 🌧 50 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventure: No Time to Die – A Shetland Whodunit
By DI Jimmy Perez, Shetland Police—guest log writer.
Sky Podcast powered by our main sponsor, Starlink Aviation Solutions. Special thanks to Sassermaet—purveyors of fine Shetland Kye Beef sausages (“Absolutely no Spam”) as series sponsor. This episode is brought to you by Coffee is for Kings, Tea is for Queens—royal brews for everyone.
Episode 6: Papa Stour (PSV/EG79) – 25th May 2025
After leaving Scatsta, we swung north again for another look at RRH Saxa Vord—once RAF, now a remote radar head still on duty. Cold War shadows linger, and the Lockheed Martin AN/TPS-77 keeps quiet watch. It’s a wild patch—north of St. Petersburg, level with Anchorage. The ground’s familiar. Unst doesn’t change much, but it never gets old.
From there, we tracked west past the Eshaness cliffs and the old Muckle Roe Lighthouse, then over the First World War relics of a coastal defense site—a reminder of Shetland’s days guarding the shipping lanes from German U-boats.
Circling Papa Stour, we landed on the gravel airstrip near Biggings. At the community hall, locals served seafood stew—mussels, brown crab, and ling, with beremeal bread and Shetland Pale Ale. Highland Park whisky made the rounds.
Lani and Kai were treated too—Mr Timothy “The Daltonator” Leggett, with the vet’s nod, set out bowls of fresh fish, mussels, and dulse. The dogs finished in record time.
Fisherman and amateur sleuth Georgy Lazenby, drying his hands, leant in:
“Du’s efter dat stranger? Quiet een, helped wi’ my boat engine. Left a postcard—Scatsta, ‘Full circle. 25th May.’ Asked about Foula next, heard tales of folk vanishing there. Left a cigar butt on the pier—wind near took it.”
By the fire, Vesper Lynd, knitting a tammy norrie, glanced at the empty doorway a moment too long. Her voice was tense:
“If du hears da gulls at dusk, change is coming. The sea’s always telling stories, if du’ll listen.”
Vesper’s drawn to the stranger—a mix of suspicion and something deeper. She’s lived with danger since nearly drowning in a lift, and secrets come as second nature.
As dusk settled and the last stew was mopped up, stories lingered in the hush between waves and gulls’ cries. Cropduster and I stepped outside to share a Cohiba Robusto. Near Haku, our Tiger Shark Squadron Beechcraft, I spotted a slip of paper on the wing:
“You know my name. But you’ll never know my real one.”
The same elegant handwriting—a taunt, or perhaps an invitation.
The sea keeps its secrets. Tonight, we’re only scratching the surface. Next stop: Foula.
End logRead more
EGFO - Foula, Shetland Islands, GB
May 26, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ 🌬 50 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventure: No Time to Die – A Shetland Whodunit
By DI Jimmy Perez, Shetland Police
This episode is also brought to you by the X-Plane.org Forum—where every virtual pilot, scenery artist, and aircraft tinkerer comes together to swap tips, share liveries, and troubleshoot your latest “creative” landing. If you’ve got a question, they’ve got an answer (and probably a plugin for that).
X-Plane.org Forum: Where sim pilots go when they need a little lift.
Episode 7: Foula (EGFO) – 26th May 2025
On this Memorial Day, Cropduster’s Tiger Shark Squadron paused to honor fallen friends and teammates—many among them with storied military backgrounds and memories of comrades lost.
Having lifted off the gravel runway at PSV / EG79 – Papa Stour, we set course for our next destination, which is Foula—rising from the sea like the back of some ancient beast, its cliffs sheer and wild. As we land, South Ness Lighthouse flashes and the wind batters the wings. In Ham, the island’s only village, the pub is alive with tales—selkies, shipwrecks, and now, a stranger.
Cropduster’s Tiger Shark Squadron’s support crew arrived in style, landing their C-130 Hercules, Maui, on Foula’s short, rugged airfield—a feat well within the aircraft’s legendary short-field and unprepared strip capabilities. Before heading to the pub, the crew made a quick stop at Foula Primary School. The children’s faces lit up as we delivered boxes of school supplies—new books, art materials, and even a globe for their tiny classroom. Their teacher, Mrs. Tulloch, thanked us, saying,
"It’s not every day that folk from another island—one so far away—think of us out here."
The squadron’s generosity left a mark on the island as bright as the lighthouse beam.
Meanwhile, some of our support crew found warm beds and Shetland hospitality at Leraback B&B. Over hearty breakfasts and stories by the fire, they swapped tales with Mrs. Jamieson, the proprietor, who seemed to know every secret the wind carried across the moors.
Back at the pub, Melina Havelock, the owner, served steaming bowls of fish soup—haddock and tatties with cream and dill—alongside oatcakes, smoked mackerel, and bottles of Simmer Dim Ale. The air was thick with peat smoke and a faint tang of cigar.
An old crofter, Grampa Bond, his hands rough from lambing and famous for overstaying his welcome, leaned in:
"Aye, du’s askin’ aboot him, are du? He wis mendin’ up da auld croft, kept tae himsel’. Asked if da plane tae Fair Isle wis still runnin’. Left a bundle o’ papers and a napkin wi’ a flight plan—Fair Isle, 27th May. Left a cigar stub in da bothy—smelled o’ foreign lands. Mind du, Foula’s a place whaar da haar can roll in quick as a blink, and da cliffs are nae place for da faint-hearted. He left half his pint and a cloud o’ smoke. If du hears da skriechin o’ da swaabie, it’s best tae bide inside."
Locals know Grampa Bond as Roger George Moore, a secretive man originally from Stockwell, London.
The old men by the fire nodded,
"Foula’s da last place folk vanish wi’out a trace. But if he’s runnin’, he’ll no get far on dese cliffs. It’s a mercy da dogs dinna mind da wind."
Outside, Cropduster’s two super-intelligent dogs, Lani and Kai, exchanged a knowing glance. Their alert posture and low whine signaled to us all: the end of the search for the stranger is drawing near.
Tucked into the napkin, I found a phrase written in Russian: For your eyes only. I wonder how many languages this man has used to say goodbye.
Stay sharp out there, and watch the mist.
End log.Read more
EGEF - Fair Isle, Shetland Islands, GB
May 27, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ 🌬 52 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventure: No Time to Die – A Shetland Whodunit
Just putting a few things down, one last time.
DI Jimmy Perez, Shetland Police.
Aye, that’ll do.
Episode 8: Fair Isle (EGEF) – 27th May 2025
The last leg. We skim past Sumburgh Head, lighthouse flashing, then out over open water. Flew over Skroo North Lighthouse, the George Waterston Memorial—a museum dedicated to the much-loved ornithologist and conservationist who helped save Fair Isle’s community and founded the Bird Observatory—then Skroo South Lighthouse, and EGEF. Fair Isle’s strip is short and rough, but the landing’s good. At the Bird Observatory’s bar, bannocks and crowdie cheese are passed round, with platters of smoked salmon and wild herbs. The locals pour Azure IPA and pass a bottle of Scapa single malt, peaty and sweet.
A knitter, Honey Ryder, hands busy with needles, glances up:
“Du’s lookin’ for da stranger, are du? He’s been oot by da airstrip, starin’ at da sea. Left a cigar stub on da stones—folk here say if du see a storm petrel at dusk, change is comin’.
Mind du, Fair Isle’s a place whaar da wind can turn in a blink, and da cliffs are aye whisperin’ secrets. If du bide a while, du’ll hear da yarns floatin’ in da simmer dim.”
We find him at the airstrip, standing at the edge, coat collar turned up against the wind. No disguise, no weapon—just a man worn thin by years of running. He turns, blue eyes sharp, a hint of that famous, sardonic smile flickering. He’s holding a battered cigar, gaze fixed on the horizon, the North Sea restless at his feet.
He doesn’t flinch as I approach. Instead, he speaks quietly, voice edged with both fatigue and that familiar, unbreakable resolve:
“Funny, isn’t it, Perez? All these years, all those missions, and in the end, it’s not the bullets or the villains that catch up with you. It’s time. We all run out of it eventually.”
He glances at the sky, stoic as ever.
“You know, I used to think I could outrun my fate. But you can only live so long in the shadows before you start to disappear. The world doesn’t change much, not really. Just the faces.”
He offers a dry smile, the echo of a life spent in tuxedos and gunmetal:
“I suppose I should offer you a cigar, but I never was very good at sharing. Old habits.”
I ask if he’s tired of running. He shrugs, a ghost of that old bravado:
“Well, I wouldn’t be very good at my job if it did bother me. But I suppose even a blunt instrument gets dull in the end.”
He looks out at the restless sea, voice softer, almost confessional:
“Letting go is hard. Harder than facing down a villain or staring at the end of a barrel. But there’s a peace in it, too. I’ve had enough of shadows and lies. I’d rather face the wind out here than the suits in London. At least the wind’s honest.”
He turns back, eyes clear and searching, as if weighing the very meaning of existence:
“You do what I did for too long, and there’s not much soul left to salvage. But I’d rather burn out than fade away. The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.”
He flicks the end of his cigar into the grass, watching the smoke curl away.
“If I don’t come back, blow it all to hell,” he mutters, almost to himself, then gives a final, wry smile. “But I think, for once, I’m not coming back because I choose not to. We all have to stop running sometime.”
The dogs sit quietly, sensing no threat. I radio London: “No sign of the suspect here.” Some mysteries are better left unsolved. As he walks into the mist, I realise this island’s given us both a second chance. The circle closes, and in the hush of Fair Isle, a new life quietly begins.
“The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.”
Epilogue:
Before I sign off, I’d like to say a quiet thank you to Cropduster, Lani, Kai, and the whole Tiger Shark Squadron—crew and aircraft alike—for their patience and good humour. Shetland’s mysteries are rarely straightforward, and it’s not often I find myself solving them with such company, whether on the ground or in the air.
I managed a small gesture—handed Cropduster a velcro patch I’d had made up, just for a laugh.
“Thought you might appreciate this, seeing as you’re always keeping us on the right track,” I said, doing my best to keep a straight face.
It read:
DO NOT PET
Service Human
(Still in Training)
Cropduster looked at the patch, then at me, and couldn’t help but laugh—especially seeing Kai and Lani’s tails thumping, eyes bright with mischief. That’s when it dawned on him: Kai, Lani, and I had all been in on it together from the very start.
Truth be told, it’s the tarmac BBQs around the support aircraft I’ll remember—breaking into the cargo hold for a Cohiba Robusto, a dram of good Scotch, and strong coffee, all of us gathered round as the sound system played some of my favourites: “Brothers in Arms” by Dire Straits, “Fields of Gold” by Sting, and, for good measure, “The Dark Island” by The McCalmans. There’s a certain comfort in that—smoke curling into the Shetland dusk, laughter carrying over the wing, and the sense that, even in the thickest haar, there’s always someone watching your back.
Wouldn’t have managed half so well without you all.
DI Jimmy Perez,
Shetland Police—and friend.
End log.Read more
North Ronaldsay, Orkney, Scotland
May 29, 2025 in Scotland ⋅ ☁️ 50 °F
No Time to Die - Special Post
I was awoken on Fair Isle in the small hours for a MEDIVAC—Roy Batty, an old crofter, my sole passenger, sat silent as we readied for flight. The urgency of the mission hung in the air, but Batty’s calm was unsettling, his eyes intense and searching, fixed on the night beyond the windscreen. He is silent.
Shetland to North Ronaldsay, Mid-Flight)
Roy suddenly speaks:
“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.
Peerie towns an’ villages at nicht, alive wi’ fire an’ shadow, spread oot below like gems in the mirk.
I’ve watched storms roll ower the voe, lightning skirlin’ low, closer than you’d ever daur.
I’ve felt the machine flicht, the horizon tilt, as we slipped atween worlds—land and sea, nicht and dawn.
A’ those moments, a’ those sights—lost in time, like tears in rain.
Time tae land.”
We touch down on EGEN.
I shut down. Batty steps toward the waiting ambulance, head bowed. He releases a bird into the night—it vanishes in the dark. I watch, silent; Batty’s fate unclear. The bird is gone. Rain falls, soft and steady, blurring the world.
.
.
.
And after all that, one thing stays with me: where did he find a bird?Read more
