Sailor Of The Year Grading Sheet: Fill & Download for Free

While serving as a detective, in Shetland, I received a notification that paramedics were attending a stabbing incident, in Scalloway harbour. The victim was fading fast, we were told. My colleague and I made our way there, some 5 miles from our offices, in Lerwick. We arrived quickly and paramedics rolled up at almost the same instant we did.While they attended to the victim, who had been on board a yacht, moored in the harbour, one of them confirmed that it was likely to be life-threatening, and a witness stated that an older man and a youth had left the area, hurriedly, just before the victim had been found. We were given a very brief description and I recognised it as fitting two males, who I had seen walking away from the harbour area, as we had arrived. I passed a description of the men, and we checked the streets of the small village, without success. We returned to the seafront, where I wanted to check inside a local hostelry, just as the two walked out, having removed their jackets and hat (in the case of the younger man). I spoke to them both and they identified themselves as New Zealand nationals, a “respectable businessman” and his son, who were visiting Shetland on business. The son - still a teenager - looked like he wanted to throw up, but his Dad appeared entirely calm and unruffled, as if he had not a single care in the world.I detained both men, on suspicion of aggravated assault, and - to much protest from them both - arranged to have them conveyed back to the station, separately, for later questioning and investigation. Having done so, we returned to the harbour, where the paramedics had realised the victim was suffering a single penetrating stab wound to the chest, which had caused a tension pneumothorax. They had aspirated him, with a needle and were conveying him to the local hospital, for urgent and critical procedures. We were advised he was not stable, at that time, having lost a lot of blood.The victim was identified to us as a German national, and yachtsman, resident in Shetland, while the suspect was identified as being the older Kiwi.We returned to the station, where the custody sergeant informed me that the older suspect had just volunteered under caution, during his detention process, that the German had been drunk and had attacked him with a filleting knife. There had been a struggle and Dad alleged that his son had grabbed the knife off the man, accidentally stabbing the victim with it. He would say no more (having blamed his own son, the brave soul that he was).The son had made no comments, but had appeared stunned, the sergeant said.I interviewed both, separately, as I was the senior - and more experienced - detective present, albeit only a Detective Constable, myself. This was, by now, an attempt murder enquiry, plus I was the better interviewer. Dad spent 45 minutes saying, “no comment” to every single question put to him, relating to the incident. He still appeared as unruffled and calm as if he was out for a Sunday stroll, showed no stress, no discomfort, and still claimed to be a respectable New Zealand businessman. Other than that, “no comment”.The son said he was in Shetland with his Dad, who wanted to see about buying up an old inter-island ferry boat, which was being sold off. He told us that Dad had sailed around the world, many times, and knew that if a boat could handle the seas around Shetland, in a harsh winter, it could pretty much handle the seas anywhere else in the world, at their worst. He said Dad’s was a tourist-derived business, but declined further comment, when asked for more details - about anything else.We were a small department - a detective sergeant and then two detective constables (a third was on annual leave), with five uniformed officers then on shift, all with their own duties. But as this was an attempted murder, we could direct them, in assisting us with our enquiries. Their interviews turned up some more details - the yacht was owned by Dad, but the German had arrived in Shetland, having sailed the yacht there, months earlier. Dad had arrived in mainland Scotland, and then onto Shetland, only days earlier, with his son in tow. He had spent time in the company of some locals, who had said he had shown “a nasty temper” and they “wouldn’t want to mess with him”.So I went back into interview, with Dad. He was irked by this, now slightly testy and refusing to answer any question with anything other than “no comment”. I told him he was perfectly entitled to do so, however it wouldn’t stop me asking my questions. He grew louder and louder in his, by now, yelled, “no comment!” to every question and I could see I was getting to him. So I took another break, as we had now gone through another 45 minute tape.I brought his son back in, put Dad in to his cell, and let them see one another - just a glimpse of son being led out, as Dad was placed in the cell. Dad started screaming at his son, “No comment, boy! You make no fucking comment!”I told the son, honestly, that his father had already made a voluntary statement under caution, blaming him (the son) for the stabbing. I told this terrified 17 year old that the German was in surgery and still might not make it out, alive. In which case, with the absence of any further information, it was Dad’s word, weighed against his own son’s silence, that son was responsible. If he did not make any comment, at this time, his father’s account would be accepted, son would be arrested - either for attempted or actual murder (if the victim expired as a result of his injury) - and face the consequences. He would be unlikely to receive bail for such an offence and so would be held in custody, in prison, until such time as a trial would commence.That was it. Son puked in the wastepaper basket and started crying. He immediately denied having stabbed anyone. He made plenty comments, thereafter. In fact, he said Dad and the German knew one another for years. The yacht was owned by Dad, although used by the German. The two men had argued, while they were all drinking onboard the yacht, about money owed the father, which Dad said the German was ripping off from him. This has escalated, the two had fought and Dad had grabbed up a knife, from the galley kitchen area . The German fell, son realised his father had stabbed the man, and then he and his Dad hurriedly left the yacht, his father disposing of the knife overboard, into the relatively shallow harbour waters.Having received this information, I tasked a police unit to return to the harbour and see if the knife could be seen, and put into motion a request for a diving team, via my supervisor - a Detective Inspector 300 miles away, in Inverness. The uniformed cops thought they could see the knife, but would need the divers, to be sure.I advised our local Procurator Fiscal Depute, of the case, and enquiries up to that point. He told me that, even if Dad copped to the stabbing, unless there was something else there, that could be evidenced, this “businessman” would be bailed, come Monday morning (this was now tea-time, Friday night). If I could arrest him, I had a weekend, no longer, to hold him in custody.I told him that what bothered me was this guy was unfazed by having almost killed a man. He never even asked how the man - an alleged old friend - was doing, or showed any concern or regret. There was…. nothing. “He is too cool”, I told the Fiscal. “This guy makes the skin between my shoulder blades itch. He is dangerous.”“Prove it”, I was told.The hospital came on, to say the German had pulled through, but the stab wound was deep, and either well placed or accidentally almost-lucky, as it had just missed his heart, nicking his vena cava, instead.Now, when I said this guy bothered me, I mean he really, really bothered me.So I went back into interview with him, and took him for one of my “walks around the houses”, as an old colleague used to call them. Seeming unassociated chat and questions, almost like a free flow of investigative consciousness - of which I took a careful note, of course. Early on, he was testy. Then he became narked, yelling his “No comment! No comment!” again, to anything and everything I said. When I started talking about his business - I had Googled his given address, he got antsy and even more angry. He ended up yelling at my colleague, “Can you not make him shut! The fuck! UP!!” I was all sweetness and light, still talking about New Zealand, tourism and his business, as if I hadn’t heard. He put his head in his hands and at that point, I asked him why he had stabbed his friend, who was alive and now recovering. His head shot up and he went very still and didn’t answer - which I pointed out, for the tape, describing his demeanour for purposes of the recording. I asked why they had been arguing, and if Dad owned the yacht. He didn’t answer and I pointed this out, again, with his demeanour. I asked why he had wanted his son to take the blame. Same response. I asked why he had thrown the knife overboard and the skin around his weatherbeaten eyes went very white. I told him we had divers coming for the knife, that he was staying all weekend and that we would be talking again. He tried, unsuccessfully, to upend the table, at that point, lunging to his feet, face now stark white, other than two red spots on his cheeks. He whispered, surprisingly calmly, “I could kill you.” I repeated that statement, for the benefit of the tape. I think he recognised that as a mistake.I spent three hours of my own time, after knocking-off time, that night, open source-searching this guy, on my work computer. He had an unusual name, and I used it in connection with “New Zealand” “kiwi” “yachtsman” “sailor” “round the world” and similar phrases.Finally, I got a hit, and it was a good one. It was a front page story in a south east-Asian newspaper, about a corrupt justice minister who had been arrested and tried, having been taped, several years previously, whilst in a three-way call between the suspected head of the world’s largest Triad gang (no, really!), and a New Zealand drug dealer. The NZ dealer had also served time in an American federal penitentiary, it seemed, having once sailed a yacht packed with drugs into a harbour, there, and straight into the arms of US Customs. The reports said he was now (at time of publishing) linked to this Triad gang and the world’s largest “Shabu” factory, believed to somewhere in or around the Philippines. “Shabu” is how they refer to Crystal Meth, down there.Real “I am the one who knocks!” material (no, really!)I spoke to the PF Depute, at his home (before finally heading off to my own home), to be told that he would try and use this to hold Dad, in custody, as a flight risk, and was fairly certain he could get at least two weeks on a “lie-down”, out of it. He went on that I should get Dad’s prints off to our Interpol liaison, ASAP, with a request to have them prioritised. I had already done so, but was advised it would take at least three weeks for any hit to come back. Meantime, he was still a “respectable NZ businessman”, newspaper article aside.I went home, head whirring but knackered. Three and a bit scant hours later, I was awoken by an urgent call from Force HQ, on my mobile, telling me that I had to be at my office desk within 30 minutes, as a call would be coming in for me. I asked if a message could be taken and the Detective Sergeant at the other end - our Force Intelligence Officer - laughed and said absolutely not. He had been woken up in the night, for this, and so I could face the same fate! He wouldn’t say any more, so I dressed and made my rather bleary way into the station, and my office.Sure enough, almost bang on the hour, my phone rang. “Call for you”, said our unnaturally cheery Force Intel Officer, and with that, I found myself suddenly talking to a rough-voiced, blunt-spoken (i.e. he swore a lot) Australian gentleman, who identified himself as a Detective Superintendent in an international task force. He asked if I had (insert name of Dad, here) in custody. I confirmed that I had. He asked what for and I told him I planned on reporting Dad for attempted murder. He paused to yell, off-handset, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!” then asked if it was “a good one”. I told him I believed it would be. I explained about the stabbing, about the son, the German, the yacht, the alleged “rip-off”, and that got him excited. He asked me to wait one, and I heard him yell out that he had a cop in “Shetland?”, (I confirmed this and next heard him cry, “Will some bastard find me Shetland on a fucking map!”) on the phone and this “inspector” had (insert Dad’s full name here) in custody, on an attempted murder - a stabbing, no less. There were a few more yells and swears, in the background, and he told me the prints had been flagged, and he had been notified of a hit, in Scotland, of all places. He explained they had been tracking Crystal Meth, arms and even people, all being smuggled out of SE Asia, into Australasia. His main target was a big-time Bad Man (with capitals), in Australia, but Dad was the means by which the drugs and other items were believed to be shipped there. He explained this guy, Dad, travelled around, using his sailing prowess - he was a genuine former competitive yachtsman - to buy up suitable boats. These were used to ship their cargos to their destinations. He told me that Dad had been implicated in several murders, directly, by witnesses - former colleagues in his ventures - always with a knife. He liked to get “up close and personal”, while dealing with these “rats”, having been in the military, once upon a time and even lied to underlings about being ex-Special Forces, to boost his legend. Upward rising knife thrust to the heart (missing the ribs), with a long thin blade, was his alleged preferred killing stroke. Unfortunately, any and all witnesses had subsequently disappeared. The task force believed Dad had either killed them, or else had them killed. “Watch your witness”, he warned me. He promised I would have an Intel file, via our Force Intel Officer, within 24 hours, for our Fiscal and the Crown Office. Their difficulty had been in identifying his travel. They had his NZ passport flagged, but there was no record of him having left the country, in years, other than the odd short trip once or twice. I asked about his Panamanian passport and, again, he went quiet. “His WHAT?!” I explained that I had noticed, at the custody bar, while his belongings were being processed, that he had two passports - one from NZ, one from Panama. I knew that, at that time, it was possible to effectively buy a Panamanian passport, if you had business registered there, sufficient capital and enough connections. This gave Dad dual nationality and, from his reaction, it seemed that the task force didn’t know about it. “Do you have it?” he asked, excitedly. “Yes, but it’s sealed in his belongings and can’t be opened unless he is present, without lawful authority”. He swore profusely until I told him I had photocopied both passports and their contents, in case they’d come in useful. He was fairly chuffed, by this, and when I read off some of the travel dates and destinations, he was even more so.I arranged to send him all I had, in return for everything they had. He ended the call by telling me that I might even get a promotion to Chief Inspector out of this. I told him that might not be that likely, as I was a Detective Constable. He wouldn’t believe me, so I told him my details would be on the email, when he got it all. He ended by saying that Dad was number 6 on their 10 Most Wanted list, at that time, in Australasia, while his Aussie counterpart was #2. I told him I’d take 6 of 10, by their standards!Anyway, I re-interviewed Dad, who was fairly crestfallen that NZ had been in touch, already. He hurriedly amended his story, alleging self-defence, but it was too late. He appeared in court, both passports were seized and he was placed in prison on that 14 day “lie-down”, while I carried out further enquiries.And then…He had the German “helped” out of the hospital and off the island, by two large men, posing as cops, to hospital staff, while Dad was on his “lie-down”, awaiting his first diet at court. We checked plane and ferry terminals (benefits of an island) and then passed info and photos, from ferry CCTV, to mainland police, who identified a hire vehicle, just too late to stop them leaving. The licence plate went into the National ANPR system and it was tracked headed for Newcastle and the international ferry to Holland, there. The German was retrieved, safe and well, and went on record, claiming that the two men had plastic sheeting and shovels in the hire car (they did) and had planned on killing him and burying his body over there, before returning, one man lighter.We couldn’t pin that on Dad, as the two men wouldn’t cough to it, and the German wouldn’t press it, simply relieved to be “home”. He gave evidence against Dad, and then buggered off, sharpish. Never saw him again.Dad got 3 and a half years for assault to severe injury, and I got a call from Force Intel, months later, that his calls were being intercepted (lawfully) and in one of those, he had asked an unknown male how much trouble it would cause, and how much it would cost, to “off a cop”. He had been advised against it.That was the one and only time I worried about one of those clowns who swear they will find you and kill you….So I repaid the favour, by continuing to keep in touch with my Australasian friends. They arranged for him to be met at the prison gates, on the day of his release, by plainclothes Officers, cuffed and conveyed to London. He was furious, as he expected to be free and clear to carry on about his business. They handed him off to New Zealand cops, who flew him home and locked him up. Turns out his wife/partner was an illegal immigrant and he was abusive towards her, and their son (who she now knew had been implicated in the stabbing, by his own Dad). The authorities offered her citizenship and she offered them all the info on his kiwi businesses and criminal dealings. I don’t know if they ever got the Aussie Bad Man, but Dad died, several years later, having served yet more time back home, and having been confirmed as HIV+, contracted whilst in prison.One of the two best arrests I ever made.As my sergeant noted, at my appraisal, that year, “not many cops your rank get a head on the wall like that one”. Of course, I still had to fight for a high assessment grading and then defend it to an outraged senior officer. I never got so much as a memo from my own force, related to that one. Several above me got promotions, though, funnily enough.The last thing I’ll say (yes, there’s more) is that the first seizure of Crystal Meth in Scotland was recorded as being in Aberdeen, a few months after Dad’s arrest.That’s not quite correct.The first such seizure was albeit minimal, but was in Shetland, around the time Dad was here. But the powers that be sat on the info, rather than (they thought) make the place look bad (no, really!).The info, from my task force chums, was that Dad had been seeking to establish a pipeline, for the drug, into the U.K., and rather than coming up through Europe, into the very heavily policed Dover, this switched-on and experienced sailor had planned on having boats packed with it, sail, first into Shetland, then down to one or more of the numerous remote inlets or bays, on mainland Scotland (of which there are thousands), from whence it could be distributed nationally - the latter part being what the OCGs were doing with Cocaine, at one time. Customs would need to check every single fishing boat, small ferry or able bodied sea-faring vessel, in order to defeat those tactics - and there was no Customs presence in Shetland, as there was no longer international travel to and from the port here.That case gives me a warm glow. Drug smuggler. People trafficker. Murderer. Simply awful father! Man of the world, career criminal, tripped up, in sleepy wee Shetland, and now pushing up daisies (better him than me!!), while I get to write long-winded stories about his nefarious ways.Evil bastard.Eat your heart out, Ann Cleeves.Here endeth the (long) lesson.

Q: What was it like to be demoted in the military? Where you able to recover and make the best of your career?Drunk and disorderly. Assault. International incident. Those are some of the words I heard to describe what I did. The thing is, I barely have any recollection of the event at all. This was 1989, it would be 12 more years before I realized I had a problem with alcohol. The question isn’t about that, anyway.The short of it is this:I was in the Army at my first duty station; Camp Market, Bupyong, South Korea, from June 1989 to June 1990. In early November of that year a buddy and I were out in the town drinking heavily, and he wanted to go to some girl’s house in the ‘ville. We, of course, could not find it (too drunk) and caused a ruckus in some unknown neighborhood. When one of the residents came out to see what was going on, we beat him up. Then we were mobbed, and got beaten up ourselves. The Korean National Police arrested us and held us in the KNP station until the MP’s came and got us. They took us to 121 (the big hospital in Seoul on Yongsan) to have blood drawn and then back to Camp Market. This I only know secondhand. My memory of the incident was drinking at the Green Door, then waking up in the MP station (with a few flashes of memory that I don’t know were real or imagined in between) in urine-soaked jeans being stared at by the First Sergeant and Company Commander. I filled in the blanks later based on the MP report and witness statements. That’s the short version?Alcohol-related incidents then and there were an automatic Field-Grade Article 15. It would not be long before I was standing at attention in front of the battalion commander. The Army and Air Force call it “Article 15,” the Marine Corps calls it “NJP,” and the Navy and Coast Guard call it “Captain’s Mast.” It is a provision of the Uniform Code of Military Justice that allows administrative discipline without a court martial. A court martial could result in a criminal conviction and carry greater penalties than any Article 15 hearing. I was advised by my attorney that I might suggest that because I was so intoxicated, maybe I wasn’t the primary antagonist (or the antagonist at all). I couldn’t sell that because I knew I was involved (one of those flashes of memory). I accepted the Article 15 and more or less threw myself on the mercy of Lt. Col. Abraham. My team leader, Staff Sgt. Thomas, spoke for me, saying I had been a good soldier up until that point and that he believed it was an isolated incident. Lt. Col. Abraham imposed his punishment: 25 days restriction to post, 20 days extra duty, loss of 1/2 of one month’s pay, and loss of one grade in rank. My heart fell. The only thing I hoped to avoid was loss of rank. Then he continued, stating that the loss of pay and loss of rank would be suspended for 90 days and because of my rank, the Article 15 would be filed on my restricted fiche (as opposed to my performance fiche, which could affect future promotions). I also had to attend the Alcohol and Drug Addiction Program. I was happy just that the loss of rank was suspended (unbeknownst to me, I had been promoted to E-3 just before the incident, but they hadn’t had a promotion ceremony). Losing that one stripe would have told the whole world I was a fuck-up.So, my demotion was suspended, which would have been difficult to recover from, but not impossible. I still had five or six months left in country. During that time I kept a very low profile. It was obvious that some people identified me as a POS and warned newly assigned soldiers to avoid me. I didn’t care. All I cared about was walking the straight path and finishing my time in Korea without getting in any more trouble. We had gotten a new First Sergeant about two months before I PCS’d. When I went to 1st Sgt. Ovalle to sign out, he didn’t know who I was and that’s just the way I wanted it.I headed home, then to Ft. Drum and the opportunity for redemption. I wasn’t the best soldier in the company, but I was the best soldier I could be. I served the remainder of my enlistment at Ft. Drum. I went to Air Assault school, I went on several deployments. I received a Good Conduct Medal and an Honorable Discharge. Although I satisfied the conditions of my suspended demotion, and thus didn’t actually lose rank, I think the response should be the same: Keep your head down, don’t get in more trouble, and be the best Soldier, Marine, Sailor, or Airman you can be. If you believe it was an isolated incident, prove it to the world.ARTICLE 15 FACT SHEETNon-judicial punishment - Wikipedia

Mostly it’s an offshoot of hero-worship and misconceptions about how the defense budget is spent.The military does actually buy some good equipment; weapons optics, aircraft electronics, etc. do tend to be of good quality - for the year they were initially made.Military equipment often requires ruggedization. This means it might technically suck but it can survive things as if it were made by Nokia, save for the common kryptonite that is known as a “Marine.” (Also, particularly incompetent sailors, airmen, or soldiers in control of strong equipment that can easily break other equipment).This means that “military grade,” doesn’t necessarily actually have to be good. Most things that servicemembers encounter on a daily basis suck. Toilet paper? Half-ply, and costs double than the ultra-mega-Uber-soft stuff that you get at Wal-Mart. Duct tape? Good stuff, but $100 per roll.Other items are just ridiculously priced because people are corrupt or bad at math. The thousand-dollar coffee cup story is infamous, and I once reported a sheet-metal rag big that we spent $50,000 on, and replaced yearly because it was about as poor of quality as you could imagine.So the overinflated budget could be reduced without harming the military, just corrupt politicians and suppliers, and would probably would give people a better idea of what “military grade” means by not deluding them with a high price tag.