After you get your PPL—Private Pilot’s License—the next step in your aviation journey is a night rating, which is exactly what it sounds like: legal permission to fly at night. So, not long after getting my PPL, I began working on my night rating at National Airways at Lanseria. It involved a few nighttime flights with an instructor—maybe around 10 hours in total—and culminated in a test flight to get signed off. After that, I was officially cleared to fly in the dark.
In 1989, KAJ—my trusty plane—was still being maintained and funded by Wood Creations. There was probably still some lingering debt owed to my dad. There I was, with my own plane hangared at Lanseria, serviced by National Airways Corporation. Honestly, I was the epitome of a spoiled brat. I tried hard not to act like one.
One of the first times I took Niels up in KAJ, Carey came along and did what Carey does—rummaging through the old logbooks. She made a remarkable discovery: one of the plane’s previous owners was a Durban-based pilot named Errol Edley. It turned out KAJ had once been involved in a dramatic shark-attack rescue in the 1970s. Carey’s brother Kim had been surfing at Trenarese on the Wild Coast when a tiger shark attacked him, taking his leg. Miraculously, Kim managed to body-surf back to shore, where a doctor happened to be vacationing with his pregnant wife and had a full medical kit. The doctor stabilized him with a drip setup, and then, by sheer coincidence, Errol Edley flew by in KAJ, saw the commotion, landed on a nearby strip, and offered to help. He ended up airlifting Kim to Durban, saving his life.
That little aside only deepened my appreciation for KAJ. She was a remarkable aircraft—and I knew I was lucky to fly her. But I also knew my father's financial support wouldn’t last forever. I began looking for ways to offset costs, including offering to fly paid passengers. Technically, I only had a PPL, so this was pushing boundaries. Still, I was determined to log hours—toward the 600 needed for a commercial license—without draining my dad’s wallet.
One flight in particular sticks with me. A group of businessmen hired me to fly them to Pietersburg in the Northern Transvaal. While they worked, I spent the day lounging by the hotel pool. That evening, we climbed back into KAJ. The weather was perfect. Flying at night in calm conditions can be serene—smooth as silk. Still, in a single-engine aircraft, there’s always that background hum of risk. If the engine fails, things get very serious, very fast.
We landed safely at Lanseria, and I taxied up the apron. As I brought the plane to a stop just a few feet in front of a Cessna Centurion, I was distracted during shutdown. I hadn’t set the parking brake, and my feet must have lifted slightly off the pedals. Suddenly: thwack, thwack, thwack. KAJ’s idling propeller had crept forward and smashed into the Centurion’s propeller.
The first strike tore through its nose cone—clean off. The next obliterated the blades. It was a disaster.
The businessmen disappeared quickly. I drove home in a fog of guilt and shame. I don’t think I slept that night. But the next morning, I was at the airport early to face the music. The Centurion’s owner—a man scheduled to fly that day—was already there, red-faced and livid. The plane, blue and white, bore the Anchor Yeast logo. It was their corporate aircraft. He tore into me with every right.
I took the tongue lashing and gave over the insurance details. Strangely, the whole episode ended better than I deserved. Because of the damage, KAJ’s engine needed to be fully dismantled and inspected. But National Airways pointed out that KAJ was already approaching a major scheduled inspection, so it made sense to do a full engine overhaul now.
While that was happening, Wood Creations agreed to repaint the aircraft and redo the entire interior. The result? KAJ emerged transformed—gleaming white with gold and blue stripes, and fitted with dove-blue leather seats and soft carpeting. She looked and smelled brand new. It was 1989. KAJ had been built in 1977, and to this day, I know she’s still flying. In 2011, I even found an article about her surviving an engine-out crash shortly after takeoff—fully loaded, hot day—and everyone walked away. That pilot must have been exceptionally skilled. It made me even more grateful to have flown such a magnificent bird.
As I mentioned, my ultimate goal was to earn my Commercial Pilot’s License. In addition to the 600 required flight hours, you had to pass six academic subjects. I enrolled at AVEX Air Training at Grand Central Airport—the same place I’d done my first solo—and started classroom instruction while in my second year of aeronautical engineering at university.
There were about 25 or 30 students in the class, all men. Most had been out of school for a while, and quite a few struggled with the math and trigonometry. For me, it was effortless. I like to think I wasn’t smug, but deep down, I probably took some quiet satisfaction in being so far ahead academically.
It was during this course that I met Charles Funkey—someone who will feature prominently later in my story. His younger brother, Jeremy, had been in my class at St John’s. Charles came from a large family—four or five boys, if I recall—and they’d endured deep tragedy. Their mother died when they were still young, and one of the brothers passed away not long after. Jeremy, who will appear in an upcoming chapter, also died far too young. Charles, the survivor, went on to build a career in aviation. We’re still connected today—on Facebook.
Eventually, I stopped attending class altogether. I already understood the material, so I crammed over one weekend before sitting the exams in Pretoria—and scored straight distinctions. I believe this was still in ’89 or early 1990.
Next came the practical test. I had to fly with an independent examiner at Wonderboom Airport in Pretoria. It was nerve-wracking—especially the night segment—but I passed. I had my Commercial Pilot’s License.
The first thing I did was buy myself a proper set of gold stripes—three bars—and a pilot’s shirt with epaulets to display them. I didn’t go as far as getting a captain’s hat. Still, there I was—22 or 23 years old—entrusted with lives in the sky and earning money for it. The terrified little boy had become a young man.
And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet voice still whispered:
You’re not a real man—you’re still a virgin.