Turbulence? I am The Turbulence.
I don’t fly straight. I don’t fly smooth. And I definitely don’t come with a safety briefing.
Well, after the untimely and utterly tragic death of Fergus the First (RIP sweet prince of the skies), I did what any heartbroken, slightly dramatic drone mum would do: I flung myself into the arms of DJI’s customer support with the emotional resilience of a damp tissue. I laid it all out - every teardrop, tantrum, and traumatic tree collision - and to their eternal credit, they took pity on me. Or maybe they just have a script for ‘hysterical woman sobbing over aerial footage loss,’ but either way, they didn’t block me. I’ll call that a win.
Enter the $130 DJI Care Refresh plan. Honestly? Best investment I’ve ever made, and that includes the time I bought an air fryer thinking I’d become a domestic goddess but mainly just used it to reheat nuggets. But I digress. The plan gives me four blessed chances to completely butcher drone flying before they cut me off for good and gently suggest I take up crochet instead. It’s hands down the most understanding, low-maintenance relationship I’ve ever had. No passive-aggressive texts, no ghosting - just quiet replacement drones and unwavering support. I dig that.
So, after what I assume was a quick seance and factory reset, a brand-spanking-new Fergus II arrived via Australia Post and divine intervention, zipping over Bass Strait with all the optimism of a gadget that didn’t yet know what it was in for. He landed in my trembling little hands like a gift from the drone gods themselves - clean, untouched, and blissfully unaware of his predecessor’s leafy demise.
To celebrate Fergus II’s birth (or reincarnation, depending on how spiritual you are about DJI serial numbers), I decided to head south to a little place called Tasmazia and the Village of Lower Crackpot. I mean... Crackpot. If that’s not a personal invitation to unhinged people everywhere, I don’t know what is. I felt seen. I felt called. I felt... home.
And look, this place? It’s not just a tourist destination - it’s an experience. I spent several delirious hours navigating hedge mazes that felt like they were designed by someone who had beef with GPS. Every corner revealed either a tragic dad joke on a signpost or a low-hanging beam ready to yeet your forehead into next Tuesday. Between the optical illusions, tiny buildings, and recurring concussions, it felt like stepping into a tourism ad written by someone on mushrooms and a tight deadline.
Eventually, I stumbled - disoriented, mildly bruised, and giggling - into the handcrafted fever dream that is the Village of Lower Crackpot. It’s equal parts satire, chaos, and ‘how did they get away with that?’ signs. Zero political correctness. Maximum charm. It’s basically if your weird uncle designed a theme park with a glue gun and a dream.
And then - the moment. Fergus II’s maiden voyage.
I cradled him lovingly, whispered ‘Don’t you dare betray me like the last one,’ and launched him skyward like a caffeinated seagull on a mission. He soared. He soared, dammit. Gliding over hedge mazes, bizarre villages, and a strategically placed lavender field so gloriously in bloom it could trigger hayfever on the mainland.
Side note: Tasmania is violently obsessed with lavender. It’s everywhere. It's in soaps, candles, ice cream, salad dressing, probably contraceptives - I wouldn’t be surprised what they put it in. If you’re not into purple flowers that smell like your nan’s underwear drawer, this state is not for you. It’s like purple crack.
But back to Fergus II. My glorious sky boy executed a flawless mid-air pirouette, captured footage that David Attenborough would weep over, and landed so delicately at my feet I swear I heard applause from the drone gods. I scooped him up faster than a toddler chasing fairy bread, gently and lovingly tucking him in his travel case before the park staff could confiscate my joy and report me to Air Services Australia.
You want to take Fergus II from me? You’ll have to pry him from my cold, unhinged, kung-fu-gripped hands.
With Fergus II safe and sound, I collapsed back into LB (my 4WD and emotional support vehicle), and she carried me home like the loyal beast she is while I rewatched the mental slideshow of the day’s events in my mind, complete with dramatic internal monologue and occasional snort-laugh.
So yes - Fergus II lives. Lavender reigns supreme. And the crackpot within me? She’s not just alive - she’s thriving, concussed, and absolutely ready for the next flight.
“That drone landed smoother than my ex ever did.”
