Tuesday 4 October 2022--Years ago, on a flight from Iceland to Glasgow, I had a great view of St Kilda, the remote archipelago that was evacuated in 1930, and which still captures a piece of the Scottish imagination. I didn't get a photo because I'd stashed my camera in the overhead bin. That was the last time I did that. I've been hoping for another chance since, and today would be the day I get it, except I'm on the wrong side of the plane. Instead, I get a view of the Flannan Isles, which are interesting in their own right. A lighthouse designed by David Alan Stevenson was put into operation in December of 1899. Just a year later, the three keepers disappeared without a trace. One set of oilskins (rain gear) was found hanging in the keepers' quarters, suggesting that two keepers had gone out in weather, and the third went out in a hurry. Aside from the usual wild speculations about sea monsters, pirates, murder, and so forth, the best guess about what happened is that two of the keepers went to secure some equipment during a storm; the third keeper saw a rogue wave coming and ran out to warn the others. It was bigger even than he figured--there was evidence of damage at points more than 200 feet above sea level--and all three were swept away. The third man's departure from the lighthouse while the others were out was a violation of protocols meant to prevent just such an event, but it was motivated, of course, by the desire to save his co-workers' lives.

You never know what's going to hit you when you step out the door.

I change planes at Keflavík, fly to Boston, and catch the Logan Express to Framingham. Bobby picks me up there and delivers me home. There is no kitty to greet me.