Heaven Help Us. She’s Airborne.
One woman. One drone. No clue.
Right. Let’s not mess around. I’m starting this whole saga exactly where I am: Tasmania. Land of moody weather, questionable wildlife, and tourists in socks and sandals. I’ve been swanning around Australia for over four years now - working, wandering, and collecting enough ridiculous stories to fill an entire Netflix series. But we’ll get to those when I feel emotionally prepared (read: when I have a shit ton of wine).
For now, I’m holed up in the lush northwest of Tassie and recently decided it was time to elevate my adventures - literally. I finally bought a drone. Because honestly, if you don’t have aerial footage of Tasmania, were you even here? Or were you just loitering near a cheese shop like some kind of mainland peasant?
Anyway, Fergus Flyboy (yes, I named him - this is me we’re talking about) arrived just after New Year’s and I nearly pulled a muscle from excitement. I was ready. Ready to take to the skies. Ready to create cinematic masterpieces. Ready to crash spectacularly.
Setting him up, however, nearly ended my will to live. Was it user error? Was it complex tech? Was it Mercury in retrograde? Who knows. After some tantrums and several deeply unhelpful YouTube tutorials, I got him working. And Fergus was born.
Naturally, I had to take him somewhere iconic for his maiden voyage - so off I went to Boat Harbour Beach, a place so obnoxiously beautiful it should come with a warning: May induce smugness. Think turquoise water, sand like sifted flour, and vibes so strong they practically slap you in the face.
I pulled up at the lookout, fired up Fergus, and flung him into the sky with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what they were doing. And for ten glorious minutes, he soared. I zipped him up the coastline, down the beach, and around a few stubborn tourists determined to brave the sub-arctic Tasmanian waters. He was a dream. I, however, was not.
Disaster. Fergus flew behind a headland and promptly ghosted me. No signal. No contact. Just me screaming “FERGUS, YOU BASTARD” into the wind like a heartbroken pigeon.
I leapt into the car, screeched down to the beach carpark like a deranged mum late for school pickup, and waved the controller around like I was trying to summon spirits. Miraculously, the signal reconnected. Flight back on. For about thirty seconds.
Fergus then calmly informed me—via passive-aggressive on-screen message - that he was dying and returning to his home point. Which, apparently, is NOT wherever I am, but rather where he first took off. From the lookout. Up the bloody hill.
So off he went, buzzing in the total opposite direction, while I just sat there in the carpark like an idiot with abandonment issues.
I roared LB back up to the lookout, where I found Fergus smugly parked right in front of a very confused tourist who genuinely asked me if he was a UFO. Naturally, I said yes.
Somehow, in between the tech failures and emotional trauma, I managed to cobble together some semi-decent footage. It’s chaotic. It’s average. It’s deeply unqualified drone piloting at its finest.
Watch it if you want. But please, for the love of all things holy, lower your expectations to sea level.
“I’ve never seen someone threaten a piece of machinery into flying. But it worked. Kinda.”
