So now Terry and I were officially an item. We were going out. I had a girlfriend—and I was absolutely ecstatic. I was so in love it’s actually a bit pathetic. I remember calling my dad to tell him I had a beautiful girlfriend, and I think he burst out crying. His relief that I wasn’t gay must have been overwhelming.
Anyway, those next few weeks—or maybe a month or two—Terry and I saw each other nearly every single day. I’d pick her up at her house in Linden and take her back to my little cottage in Rivonia. We’d listen to music—I remember Don McLean was a big hit with us—cook together, and of course, there was lots and lots of beautiful lovemaking.
Terry came from a very religious family. And when I say very religious, I mean seriously devout. Her father, Malachy, had been a Catholic brother in Ireland, and her mother, Mary, had been a Catholic nun—also in Ireland. They had each independently left their orders in their early 30s. They were introduced by Mary’s brother, a Catholic priest and missionary in Argentina, on one of his trips back to Ireland.
He was obviously disappointed they’d both left their religious lives, but they had done so because they could no longer live up to the vows of chastity and childlessness. After their introduction, they got married and moved to South Africa. Actually, Mary was South African by birth but had been in Ireland serving as a nun. She was the youngest of three children.
They settled in Johannesburg. Malachy studied hard at night school, eventually earning his accounting degree. He managed to put all three of their children through private school, and they lived in a modest home in Linden. Malachy was one of the genuinely nicest, kindest, and most spiritually aware men I’ve ever met.
He had only one rule for Terry: “When I wake up in the morning, I want you under my roof if you’re living in my house.” Terry was 20 at the time. So, after our evenings together in Rivonia, I’d always drive her back to Linden. On a few occasions, I actually woke up on the couch in their TV room—curtains drawn—while the family had breakfast. Terry had a sister Bernie, a year or two younger, and a brother Paddy, a little younger still. They were still at high school at the nerby De La Salle Holy Cross College.
The family were very happy with our relationship. Terry had previously dated Stuart Lavery, who was now living in the UK. Apparently, he hadn’t treated her very well, and although she’d been madly in love with him, he didn’t live up to the family’s expectations. I think the fact that I went to Catholic Mass—and had a plane—definitely didn’t hurt my standing with them.
It was a magical time. Then my dad announced he was coming to visit, specifically to meet Terry. I remember clearly going to lunch at Frog’s, the restaurant where she was waitressing. She served us, and I introduced her to my father. I could see the approval in his eyes immediately. At one point, he asked her, “Why are you working as a waitress?” She said, “To pay back my student loan.”
“How much is your loan?” he asked. “Thirty thousand rand,” she replied. And I kid you not—he took out his chequebook right there and wrote her a cheque for 30,000 rand.
Seriously. That really happened.
Later that year, between Christmas and New Year, we planned a trip to Cape St. Francis with Pete Becker, Steve Bate, Greg Boden, and Tracy Rosser, who had just gotten engaged. The Bodens had a big house down there, and we flew KAJ to join them.
What I hadn’t banked on was the Boden family’s rather prim and proper approach to sleeping arrangements. The boys had their dorm, the girls had theirs, and never the twain shall meet. As you can imagine, I was enjoying my young sexuality as much as humanly possible, but Terry and I had no private place to be intimate.
So what did we do? We would go back to the airstrip and make love in the cabin of KAJ.
One morning while walking on the beach, Terry turned to me and said, “Why don’t we just get married?” I replied, “Because I’m still at university and I don’t have any money.” She smiled and said, “Yeah, but your dad does. He’d be so happy.” And I knew she was right. It felt right. It was right.
There we were—me, 23, and her, 20—deciding to get married.
We flew back to Johannesburg and drove straight to her house. I asked her father for permission to marry his daughter, right there at the dining room table. Malachy burst into tears and said yes.
Funnily enough, just two weeks ago, I got a similar call from my daughter’s boyfriend. Out of the blue, he asked the same question—and I broke down in tears, just as Malachy had done.
Anyway, back to 1990. Christmas was approaching, and we all headed to Marabou Lodge, an upmarket trout lodge Niels had built in Lydenburg. It sat downriver from Three Falls and was owned by Wood Creations, his company. Terry and I had a beautiful en suite room, and it was absolutely magical.
I mean, I can’t overstate how privileged I was. I realized it then, but at 58, I really understand just how incredibly privileged we were.
After Christmas, the plan was to fly to Kruger National Park for a day trip. Niels would take his two-seater Robinson R22 helicopter, and I’d fly the rest of the party in KAJ.
That morning, I woke up hearing Niels doing his pre-flight checks. The sky didn’t look great—we were high up on the escarpment—and I knew weather in the Lowveld could be completely different. I had this instinct: I should go with him. He was headed to the factory to refuel using the avgas drums there, and I thought, “I know how to instrument fly; I’ll go in case we run into trouble.”
I asked if I could join him. “Of course,” he said.
We took off and flew low through the valley to Lydenburg. Niels landed next to the fuel tanks and filled up. Afterwards, he took a fuel sample to check for water—he used an old balsamic vinegar bottle. Holding it up to the light, we saw there was water in it. He repeated the process a few times until it came out clear. Then we were good to go. Problem was the helicopter had not been quite level and unbeknown to us there was still some water in the fuel tank.
Now, when taking off in a helicopter, you’ve got two choices. You can fly low and fast to build up horizontal speed so that, if the engine fails, the stored energy in the rotor lets you auto-rotate and land. Or you can go straight up, but in that case, you need to be much higher to have enough potential energy to do the same.
Niels opted to go straight up—to clear some nearby power lines. About 30 seconds into the flight, the engine stopped. I just remember him saying, “Oh shit!” He dropped the cyclic immediately, did everything by the book—but there was no energy in the rotor. The ground came rushing up.
He pulled the cyclic, but there just wasn’t enough lift.
The next moment was impact. An incredible noise then silence, except for the hissing of the engine and fuel dripping onto hot metal. I was bleeding from my right eye. My metal watch band was bent and no longer closed properly.
“Are you okay?” Niels asked. “Yeah, I think so,” I said. “My back’s fucked,” he replied. That’s when I realized mine wasn’t feeling too great either.
“Get away from the aircraft,” he said. I climbed out. The pain was immense. I took 20, maybe 30 steps before collapsing on my back. A surreal peace settled over me despite the pain. Blood ran into my eyes. I stared at my damaged watch strap. Then I heard sirens—getting closer.
A South African policewoman was first on the scene. I remember thinking, “My God, those are beautiful legs.”
They loaded us into an ambulance and drove us to the local Lydenburg hospital. They X-rayed us using machines that looked like something out of the Madame Curie era. The pain was indescribable. At some point, the doctor returned and said, in a thick Afrikaans accent, “You guys are going nowhere. You each have three fractures in your spine—L2, L3 and L4.”
We were put in the same small ward, mercifully given pethidine and Voltaren injections straight into the buttocks. The pain finally eased.
For the next 10 days, we weren’t allowed to move. The hospital couldn’t tell if our fractures were stable or unstable. That is, whether the spinal canal had been compromised. So we stayed flat on our backs.
I remember one surreal moment around day eight or nine. Anthony Fletcher—Niels’ great mate—drove down to visit. I’d finally had a bowel movement after days of laxatives (everything had shut down due to the impact), but there was no one to help. I asked Anthony. He graciously wiped my arse.
Eventually, we were cleared to travel to Johannesburg by ambulance. At Morningside Clinic, they did CAT scans and confirmed the fractures were stable. We were soon up and about, wearing Freeman’s corsets—tight, steel-reinforced vests to support the spine.
I remember something else clearly. For a while, it wasn’t certain if we’d ever walk again. And I remember holding Terry’s hand beside my bed. I could feel it in my bones—no pun intended—that she wouldn’t stick around if I were paralyzed.
Even then, I was conscious of the fact that the love I felt for her wasn’t entirely mutual. I carried on, convincing myself my intuition was wrong.
Time would prove otherwise. But not for a long while yet.