At seven sharp, that autumn night,
Young Frederick took his maiden flight.
From Melbourne’s glow, he soared away,
Toward King Island, across the bay.
A dreamer’s heart within his chest,
To be a pilot was his quest.
Though Air Force doors had closed him out,
His father’s wealth erased the doubt.
The Bass Strait stretched, a darkened sea,
A void of night, a mystery.
The lights of land grew small, then gone,
Yet Frederick’s spirit carried on.
But minutes in, his calm was shaken,
By light behind—his breath was taken.
Too close, too near, another plane?
Or was his course perhaps in vain?
He checked his dials, his path was true,
Yet still that glow behind him grew.
He called for help, his voice was tight,
“Control, I’m shadowed by a light.”
The tower searched, the screens were bare,
“No craft is with you, none is there.”
Yet Frederick swore it trailed his tail,
A shining orb that did not fail.
Then circling fast, it spun around,
A hum, a whir, a haunting sound.
No earthly plane could move this way,
No mortal hand could make it sway.
His engine coughed, began to die,
As terror gripped him in the sky.
“Some craft is here, it’s orbiting me!”
He cried in fear, in urgency.
Then static roared, metallic grind,
And silence fell, no voice aligned.
They searched the waves, they searched the land,
Yet not a trace was close at hand.
Some claim he flipped, lost to the sea,
His light a trick of mystery.
But others whisper, with hushed breath,
The Bass Strait hides a stranger death.
For many tales of lights that gleam,
Of vanishings that haunt like dream,
Have marked this place, a triangle’s claim,
Where Frederick’s fate was lost to flame.
To this day, his voice remains,
A ghostly echo through the panes.
“Delta Sierra Juliet,” his call,
Still lingers, haunting one and all.