Christmas of 1988, and I was riding high. I’d aced my university exams, earned my private pilot’s license, and—at least in my mind—I was the toast of the town. Most importantly, I felt that Niels and my father were proud of me. My mother’s love, I simply took for granted. I wasn’t just a brainiac anymore—I was a pilot.
Niels decided we’d rent a house in Hermanus, a beautiful coastal village on the Cape South Coast, for a family holiday. My father would fly out from Mallorca, and best of all, we would fly there in KAJ. I had logged about 60 hours by then, and the idea of flying my parents down for a summer holiday made me feel like a legend in the making.
We flew via Bloemfontein or Kimberley—memory’s a little hazy—crossing the vast Karoo, and landed at Hermanus Airport where Niels was waiting. My passengers? None other than my mother and father—the same two people who’d flown six times in small planes from South Africa to Europe, in aircraft far less capable than KAJ. I was flying royalty.
Granted, neither of them flew anymore, and my mom never had. But she was an excellent observer—and an even better back-cockpit driver.
The flying part of that holiday was magical. We flew from Hermanus to DF Malan Airport (now Cape Town International), with the stunning final approach over False Bay. I’ll never forget my first landing there—I started my final so far out that I actually had to retract the gear mid-descent and speed up down the glide path because the ATC got impatient with me. The sheer scale of the place was overwhelming compared to the small fields I was used to.
Another time, while lining up for takeoff, I was holding short in front of a British Airways 747. I was cleared to depart, and just as I was about to go, a call crackled over the radio:
“Cape Town Control, this is Speedbird 535. You’ve just cleared Kilo Alpha Juliet to take off from Runway 01L with a headwind of 15 knots. It appears to be a tailwind from our perspective.”
There was a pause, then the tower replied:
“Affirmative, Speedbird 535. Is that acceptable?”
Another pause.
“Negative. We cannot proceed. Request taxi to Runway 19L.”
That meant a long, three-and-a-half-kilometre taxi across the airport. I often wonder how much fuel that little wind direction mix-up cost British Airways. Maybe $30,000? But who knows—maybe it saved lives.
We also made a few scenic flights to local wine farms owned by friends of Niels. He was incredibly well-connected at the time, and we landed on private farm strips like we were starring in a lifestyle ad. I felt like I was on top of the world.
Until the trip home.
What should have been a straightforward flight turned into a slow descent into confusion. The weather began to close in, cloud cover thickening, the horizon vanishing. The visibility dropped lower and lower until I was completely and utterly lost.
My dad tried to help with navigation, but by then, his macular degeneration had already started to affect his vision. Map reading was hopeless. I was 60 hours into my flying life and genuinely scared.
Eventually, we spotted a landing strip and put her down. It was the second time in my short career that I’d had to flag down a passing car for help. Turned out we were in Aliwal North. We spent the night at a hotel and flew back the following day.
It had all started with dreams of glory—but by the end of that flight, I had learned a healthy dose of humility. This trip was my first real encounter with what it means to be responsible for lives in the air. And how fast confidence can turn into “Oh, God, where the hell are we?”