The Boat Yard Reunion
It was the summer of 2025, and the boat yard buzzed with the clatter of hammers and the sharp whine of angle grinders—an industrial symphony that clashed with the otherwise tranquil waterside setting. I was there, rummaging for boat parts, half-lost in thought, when a tall figure in the distance caught my eye.
Something about him tugged at a memory. Familiar. Too familiar.
“What’s he doing here? Is it really him?” I wondered, heart skipping a beat.
We hadn’t spoken in years. Our friendship had drifted apart like two boats caught in opposing currents. I hesitated, torn between slipping away unnoticed or walking up and offering a handshake. I pulled my baseball cap low, ready to vanish into the background—but something stopped me. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t indecision. It felt like an invisible force, a quiet nudge from the universe. This moment was meant to happen.
Hell to it, I thought. Be brave.
I approached him slowly, my hand rising to tap his shoulder. I wasn’t sure what to expect—awkward silence, maybe a polite nod. But when I said, “Hello Andrew,” he turned with a jolt, eyes wide as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Bloody hell—Mike! How are you? What are you doing here?”
His voice was warm, surprised, but without a trace of bitterness. His handshake was firm, grounding. It meant more than words could say.
I took him in—no longer the wiry man I remembered. He wore a beard now, and his slicked-back silver hair gave him a distinguished air. We’d both aged, no doubt, but the memories between us hadn’t. They stirred instantly, fresh and vivid, like pages from a book we’d once written together.
“How very odd,” I murmured, as we discovered we’d both found a new passion: restoring old boats. Another shared interest, another thread pulling us back together. The coincidence was uncanny.
We talked for half an hour—boats, mostly, with a few gentle nods to the past. No tension, no regrets. Just two old friends rediscovering a connection that had never truly faded.
As I watched Andrew sail away, the encounter replayed in my mind like a film I couldn’t pause. My thoughts were ablaze, trying to make sense of it all. But deep down, I knew: this was no accident. Some meetings are written in the stars.
So I waited. Patiently.
Because sometimes, the universe brings people back—right when it matters most.
It was the summer of 2025, and the boat yard buzzed with the clatter of hammers and the sharp whine of angle grinders—an industrial symphony that clashed with the otherwise tranquil waterside setting. I was there, rummaging for boat parts, half-lost in thought, when a tall figure in the distance caught my eye.
Something about him tugged at a memory. Familiar. Too familiar.
“What’s he doing here? Is it really him?” I wondered, heart skipping a beat.
We hadn’t spoken in years. Our friendship had drifted apart like two boats caught in opposing currents. I hesitated, torn between slipping away unnoticed or walking up and offering a handshake. I pulled my baseball cap low, ready to vanish into the background—but something stopped me. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t indecision. It felt like an invisible force, a quiet nudge from the universe. This moment was meant to happen.
Hell to it, I thought. Be brave.
I approached him slowly, my hand rising to tap his shoulder. I wasn’t sure what to expect—awkward silence, maybe a polite nod. But when I said, “Hello Andrew,” he turned with a jolt, eyes wide as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Bloody hell—Mike! How are you? What are you doing here?”
His voice was warm, surprised, but without a trace of bitterness. His handshake was firm, grounding. It meant more than words could say.
I took him in—no longer the wiry man I remembered. He wore a beard now, and his slicked-back silver hair gave him a distinguished air. We’d both aged, no doubt, but the memories between us hadn’t. They stirred instantly, fresh and vivid, like pages from a book we’d once written together.
“How very odd,” I murmured, as we discovered we’d both found a new passion: restoring old boats. Another shared interest, another thread pulling us back together. The coincidence was uncanny.
We talked for half an hour—boats, mostly, with a few gentle nods to the past. No tension, no regrets. Just two old friends rediscovering a connection that had never truly faded.
As I watched Andrew sail away, the encounter replayed in my mind like a film I couldn’t pause. My thoughts were ablaze, trying to make sense of it all. But deep down, I knew: this was no accident. Some meetings are written in the stars.
So I waited. Patiently.
Because sometimes, the universe brings people back—right when it matters most.
Before I continue, there’s something I need to say—clearly and honestly.
During what many consider the peak of the crop circle phenomenon, mistakes were made. By many people. Myself included. This chapter of history is layered with missteps, misunderstandings, and moments that deserve reflection.
I’m here to fill in the missing pieces—to offer apologies where I can, and to preserve truths that have long been buried, distorted, or forgotten. Some truths may be uncomfortable. Some apologies may never reach those who were deeply hurt, especially by individuals whose actions were not just misguided, but cruel. I will speak to those moments with as much kindness and care as I can.
But this story isn’t just mine. It belongs to the dreamers, the skeptics, the artists, and the believers who shaped a phenomenon that captured imaginations and stirred controversy. These are the stories of people who turned fleeting patterns in fields into a legacy—one that deserves to be remembered, not erased.
During what many consider the peak of the crop circle phenomenon, mistakes were made. By many people. Myself included. This chapter of history is layered with missteps, misunderstandings, and moments that deserve reflection.
I’m here to fill in the missing pieces—to offer apologies where I can, and to preserve truths that have long been buried, distorted, or forgotten. Some truths may be uncomfortable. Some apologies may never reach those who were deeply hurt, especially by individuals whose actions were not just misguided, but cruel. I will speak to those moments with as much kindness and care as I can.
But this story isn’t just mine. It belongs to the dreamers, the skeptics, the artists, and the believers who shaped a phenomenon that captured imaginations and stirred controversy. These are the stories of people who turned fleeting patterns in fields into a legacy—one that deserves to be remembered, not erased.
I’ll try and keep this part brief—but it matters.
I first met Andrew Pyrka in 2008, at the Swallows formation. The field was alive with murmurs and camera clicks, tourists wandering in circles, scratching their heads in wonder. Among the crowd, one figure stood out: a man with his young family, radiating warmth and curiosity. His aura shimmered with colour—bright, open, unmistakably positive. (I don’t often speak of it, but I’ve always had a knack for sensing these things.)
I was a mess, truth be told—scruffy from a night spent sleeping in the formation, unsure whether to approach. But something about Andrew pulled me in. “To hell with it,” I thought. “He can ignore me if he wants.”
I walked up and asked, “What do you make of this latest arrival?”
He turned to me with a smile that felt like a handshake. “How on earth can someone make this so perfect in the dead of night?” he said.
That was all I needed to hear. He wasn’t just curious—he was open to the mystery. We chatted briefly, exchanged numbers, and I had a feeling this wouldn’t be our last encounter.
And it wasn’t.
In 2009, Andrew returned—drawn back, like so many of us, by the phenomenon’s pull. I spotted him from a distance, but this time he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by someone whose presence hit me like a cold wind. His aura was murky—black, red, grey. Something about him felt wrong.
Still, I approached. We shook hands. Andrew’s grip was firm, familiar. His companion’s was limp, guarded. I referred to him as Andrew’s “sidekick”—a label that, in time, would prove more accurate than I’d hoped.
From that point on, I kept my distance in person. But Andrew and I stayed in touch—long phone calls, deep conversations. Eventually, I brought up his companion, Paul. I voiced my concerns. Andrew listened, kindly but firmly, and assured me Paul Jones was a good friend. Maybe I was overreacting.
Time would tell. And it did.
That summer, Andrew became a magnet for the phenomenon. He gathered hundreds of images, detailed accounts, and strange encounters—some explainable, many not. My inbox overflowed with his findings. His passion was infectious. He nearly made me a believer again.
“You need to share this,” I told him. “The world needs to see what you’ve captured.”
He took it to heart. That’s when Crop Circle Wisdom was born—his attempt to archive the mystery. The site struggled, plagued by server issues and hosting failures. But the intent was there. The spark was real.
And it all began with a handshake in a field of wonder.
The Rise and Fall of Crop Circle Wisdom: A Personal Reflection
In the quiet aftermath of digital silence, Crop Circle Wisdom rose from the ashes—reborn through the resilience of a reliable and trusted server. At first, its pulse was slow. Despite the flood of data pouring in, the site struggled to find its rhythm. The vision was there, vivid and urgent, but time was not on Andrew’s side.
Andrew, the heart behind the project, spent countless days and nights in Wiltshire—boots in the soil, eyes to the sky, chasing answers in the fields where mystery blooms. He wasn’t just documenting; he was living it. Asking the hard questions. Listening to whispers in the wheat. Engaging with anyone who might hold a piece of the puzzle.
In the midst of this whirlwind, he launched a Facebook page: Report A Crop Circle Formation—known to most as RACCF. I remember cautioning him. His schedule was already bursting at the seams: fieldwork, travel, funding the cause, and trying to keep the digital side alive. Monitoring, updating, and maintaining content takes time—and time was the one thing he didn’t have.
Perhaps foolishly, I offered to help manage the website. My condition? That I could also share my own thoughts and feelings freely. Andrew agreed, with one simple request: keep it clean. He later appointed Krysanna Durand (real name Phylis Durand) as administrator for the Facebook page, adding another layer of support, which proved to be a mistake in time.
Then something remarkable happened.
The site took off—really took off. Crop Circle Wisdom reached a global audience, from the icy reaches of the North Pole to the tiniest islands scattered across the Pacific. It became a beacon for truth-seekers, a digital sanctuary for those who dared to ask what was really happening in the crop circle world.
But not everyone welcomed the light.
The revelations we uncovered—truths that will be shared in time—shook the foundations of the community. The so-called guardians of the phenomenon, or as I came to call them, the gatekeepers, were not pleased. Exposure brought backlash. Hatred. Animosity. And eventually, the verbal attacks became too much. Crop Circle Wisdom was shut down.
That’s why you won’t find me on social media anymore. The cost of truth was high. But I carry no bitterness now.
In fact, I want to offer a sincere apology—to Andrew Pyrka, to Monique Klinkenbergh, and to Steve and Karen Alexander and to anyone else who felt the impact. My involvement, known by few but not many, though well-intentioned, was tangled with frustration and anger. Emotions ran high. Mistakes were made. But time has softened those edges, and I believe healing has found its way into all of us.
This isn’t the full story—not yet. But I’ll share what I can, when I can, with honesty and respect. The journey continues, and the fields still whisper.
Why Now? A Note from the Heart
Thank you for taking the time to read this—what began as a long-winded reflection has led, ultimately, to a few heartfelt words of apology. Some may ask, why now? Why speak after all this time?
The truth is, chance encounters rarely happen by chance. The universe has its own rhythm, its own mysterious choreography. It brings people together, stirs old memories, and opens doors—not when we expect it, but when the moment is right. And this, I believe, is one of those moments.
There is no perfect time to speak truth. No ideal season for reconciliation. But when the calling comes, it must be answered. And I feel that calling now—not as a burden, but as a quiet invitation to set the record straight. To share history not as fiction or filtered narrative, but as it truly unfolded: raw, imperfect, and real.
This isn’t about reopening wounds. It’s about honouring the journey. About acknowledging the mistakes, the misunderstandings, and the emotions that once ran high—and allowing them to settle into something gentler. Something wiser.
So again, thank you—for your patience, your curiosity, and your willingness to walk with me through this reflection. The story isn’t over. But this chapter needed to be written, and I’m grateful you were here to read it.
Blessings to you all.....
Mike F
I first met Andrew Pyrka in 2008, at the Swallows formation. The field was alive with murmurs and camera clicks, tourists wandering in circles, scratching their heads in wonder. Among the crowd, one figure stood out: a man with his young family, radiating warmth and curiosity. His aura shimmered with colour—bright, open, unmistakably positive. (I don’t often speak of it, but I’ve always had a knack for sensing these things.)
I was a mess, truth be told—scruffy from a night spent sleeping in the formation, unsure whether to approach. But something about Andrew pulled me in. “To hell with it,” I thought. “He can ignore me if he wants.”
I walked up and asked, “What do you make of this latest arrival?”
He turned to me with a smile that felt like a handshake. “How on earth can someone make this so perfect in the dead of night?” he said.
That was all I needed to hear. He wasn’t just curious—he was open to the mystery. We chatted briefly, exchanged numbers, and I had a feeling this wouldn’t be our last encounter.
And it wasn’t.
In 2009, Andrew returned—drawn back, like so many of us, by the phenomenon’s pull. I spotted him from a distance, but this time he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by someone whose presence hit me like a cold wind. His aura was murky—black, red, grey. Something about him felt wrong.
Still, I approached. We shook hands. Andrew’s grip was firm, familiar. His companion’s was limp, guarded. I referred to him as Andrew’s “sidekick”—a label that, in time, would prove more accurate than I’d hoped.
From that point on, I kept my distance in person. But Andrew and I stayed in touch—long phone calls, deep conversations. Eventually, I brought up his companion, Paul. I voiced my concerns. Andrew listened, kindly but firmly, and assured me Paul Jones was a good friend. Maybe I was overreacting.
Time would tell. And it did.
That summer, Andrew became a magnet for the phenomenon. He gathered hundreds of images, detailed accounts, and strange encounters—some explainable, many not. My inbox overflowed with his findings. His passion was infectious. He nearly made me a believer again.
“You need to share this,” I told him. “The world needs to see what you’ve captured.”
He took it to heart. That’s when Crop Circle Wisdom was born—his attempt to archive the mystery. The site struggled, plagued by server issues and hosting failures. But the intent was there. The spark was real.
And it all began with a handshake in a field of wonder.
The Rise and Fall of Crop Circle Wisdom: A Personal Reflection
In the quiet aftermath of digital silence, Crop Circle Wisdom rose from the ashes—reborn through the resilience of a reliable and trusted server. At first, its pulse was slow. Despite the flood of data pouring in, the site struggled to find its rhythm. The vision was there, vivid and urgent, but time was not on Andrew’s side.
Andrew, the heart behind the project, spent countless days and nights in Wiltshire—boots in the soil, eyes to the sky, chasing answers in the fields where mystery blooms. He wasn’t just documenting; he was living it. Asking the hard questions. Listening to whispers in the wheat. Engaging with anyone who might hold a piece of the puzzle.
In the midst of this whirlwind, he launched a Facebook page: Report A Crop Circle Formation—known to most as RACCF. I remember cautioning him. His schedule was already bursting at the seams: fieldwork, travel, funding the cause, and trying to keep the digital side alive. Monitoring, updating, and maintaining content takes time—and time was the one thing he didn’t have.
Perhaps foolishly, I offered to help manage the website. My condition? That I could also share my own thoughts and feelings freely. Andrew agreed, with one simple request: keep it clean. He later appointed Krysanna Durand (real name Phylis Durand) as administrator for the Facebook page, adding another layer of support, which proved to be a mistake in time.
Then something remarkable happened.
The site took off—really took off. Crop Circle Wisdom reached a global audience, from the icy reaches of the North Pole to the tiniest islands scattered across the Pacific. It became a beacon for truth-seekers, a digital sanctuary for those who dared to ask what was really happening in the crop circle world.
But not everyone welcomed the light.
The revelations we uncovered—truths that will be shared in time—shook the foundations of the community. The so-called guardians of the phenomenon, or as I came to call them, the gatekeepers, were not pleased. Exposure brought backlash. Hatred. Animosity. And eventually, the verbal attacks became too much. Crop Circle Wisdom was shut down.
That’s why you won’t find me on social media anymore. The cost of truth was high. But I carry no bitterness now.
In fact, I want to offer a sincere apology—to Andrew Pyrka, to Monique Klinkenbergh, and to Steve and Karen Alexander and to anyone else who felt the impact. My involvement, known by few but not many, though well-intentioned, was tangled with frustration and anger. Emotions ran high. Mistakes were made. But time has softened those edges, and I believe healing has found its way into all of us.
This isn’t the full story—not yet. But I’ll share what I can, when I can, with honesty and respect. The journey continues, and the fields still whisper.
Why Now? A Note from the Heart
Thank you for taking the time to read this—what began as a long-winded reflection has led, ultimately, to a few heartfelt words of apology. Some may ask, why now? Why speak after all this time?
The truth is, chance encounters rarely happen by chance. The universe has its own rhythm, its own mysterious choreography. It brings people together, stirs old memories, and opens doors—not when we expect it, but when the moment is right. And this, I believe, is one of those moments.
There is no perfect time to speak truth. No ideal season for reconciliation. But when the calling comes, it must be answered. And I feel that calling now—not as a burden, but as a quiet invitation to set the record straight. To share history not as fiction or filtered narrative, but as it truly unfolded: raw, imperfect, and real.
This isn’t about reopening wounds. It’s about honouring the journey. About acknowledging the mistakes, the misunderstandings, and the emotions that once ran high—and allowing them to settle into something gentler. Something wiser.
So again, thank you—for your patience, your curiosity, and your willingness to walk with me through this reflection. The story isn’t over. But this chapter needed to be written, and I’m grateful you were here to read it.
Blessings to you all.....
Mike F