In 1988, during my first year at university, Niels suggested I get my private pilot’s license. Now, why that suggestion came up is classic Rosenfeldt family logic: my dad had lent a pile of money to Niels’ company, Wood Creations. They now had the means to pay it back—but with exchange control still a thing in South Africa, overseas cash transfers were tricky. Enter Robbie Taylor, the company’s accountant. Smart guy. Definitely also wanted to learn to fly. He suggested Wood Creations just buy an aircraft equivalent in value to the debt—and register it in my name.
Obviously, I loved this plan.
Step one: learn to fly.
So around April ’88, I started training at AVEX, based at Grand Central Airport. The aircraft? A Piper Tomahawk. Known in the industry (and by those of us lucky enough to survive it) as the Traumahawk.
On my first lesson, my instructor took us out to the general flying area, west of Johannesburg. “Take the controls,” he said. “Altimeter’s at 6,500. Keep her straight and level.” I did. He looked at me sideways. “Have you flown before?” “No,” I said. “Don’t believe you,” he replied.
The truth was I’d logged many hours in Space City on that invaders game that resembled a flight simulator.. I knew about control lag, overcorrection, pitch. All those Saturdays avoiding shoppers had turned me into a halfway competent pilot.
Nine and a half hours later, I went solo. If you’ve never flown solo, let me explain: it’s the moment you go from “I’m learning to fly” to “Oh God, I’m flying this thing alone.” I taxied, took off, looked to the right—and the seat was empty. No one to save me. Just me and the Traumahawk. I landed in one piece. It was massive.
Before I’d even finished the license, Wood Creations made good. They bought a 1977 Beechcraft Bonanza A36, registration ZS-KAJ. A retractable gear, six-seater, 285HP beast of an aircraft. She was beautiful. Club seating in the back. Double doors. She was a work of art in my eyes. One of those planes that just never needed redesigning, that model has been in continuous production since 1947.
I picked her up from Rand Airport. The salesman—a well-known aviation figure at the time, though his name escapes me—put me in the left seat. At that stage, the aircraft only had a single yoke, so he was a brave man: no way to intervene if I lost control. (A second yoke was added later.) We flew her to Lanseria, where she’d be based. Compared to the Tomahawk, it was like upgrading from a scooter to a Ferrari.
I completed my PPL on KAJ at National Airways Corporation, also based at Lanseria—where my beautiful aircraft now lived, tucked into her hangar. I was 22 years old
So what did I do the day after getting my PPL?
Obviously, I decided to fly across the country, 1000km to Cape St Francis.
Bruce and I planned to fly down to meet up with Pete Becker and friends. My confidence was Olympic. While refueling,pre-flight, a guy came up. “Heard you got your PPL—congrats! Where you headed?” “Cape St. Francis,” I said. He blinked. “Don’t you want to fly around the general area for a couple of months first? Get comfortable?”
Nah. This was pre-breakdown Peter. Hubris in human form.
Bruce’s mum packed us sandwiches. We took off.
First major waypointwas supposed to be Welkom, using the NDB—non-directional beacon—for navigation. I dialed it in… nothing. No signal. I kept flying anyway. Eventually, I had to admit it: I was completely lost. Somewhere vaguely south of Johannesburg, in a Bonanza I barely knew how to fly.
I dropped altitude, went into precautionary landing mode, and scanned for airstrips. Eventually found a grassy runway, did a low pass, and landed. Then—shame of shames—I flagged down a car and asked, “Where are we?”
“Senekal,” the man said.
Maps on the wing. New heading plotted. We took off again.
Bruce was visibly less sure now. Can’t blame him.
The weather turned. We aimed for Ladybrand, and I was now map-reading with full concentration. I made a general radio call to any traffic in the area—Ladybrand was unmanned—and set up what I thought was a standard left-hand circuit.
Except… Ladybrand has a cliff. And because of its position, it requires a right-hand circuit.
There we were, downwind, hugging the cliff face, going way too fast—still at 130 knots—when I realised I’d forgotten the landing gear.
“Oh shit,” I muttered.
Bruce turned pale.
I threw the gear switch, and the wheels dropped. The plane pitched violently—it nearly did a handstand—at least we were not at the proper approach speed of 80 knots and somehow I got her down.
From a payphone—“a tikki box”—I called Port Elizabeth. “Can we get through to Cape St. Francis?” “No chance,” they said. “Weather’s on the deck.”
So we ate Bruce’s mum’s sandwiches and flew back to Lanseria. After about a five hour trip, we were back where we started. Bruce didn’t even punch me. Heroic, really.
And that was my first cross-country trip as a private pilot. A disaster. A triumph. A beginning.
There would be many more.