When we got back from that first fly-fishing show in Denver, reality hit hard. Yes, Versitex had agreed to rep our flies in the States, which sounded great on paper, but thre reality was it was going to take a lot of time to get going. I could see clearly that this “international fly empire” I’d imagined wasn’t going to materialise overnight. And in the meantime, we were were living on capital and I needed to get some gainful employment.
I could’ve gone back into engineering. There were opportunities at Atlas Aircraft and Denel, especially for someone with my qualifications, but the idea of going into weapons development didn’t sit right with me anymore. I know I used to be a bllod thirsty little shit in my teams with my love of firearms and hunting but something had shifted. After what I’d been through with my breakdown and recovery, I just didn’t want to be involved in building things that killed people.
That’s when Bill Barclay presented an opportunity. He was Bruce’s dad and had been a stockbroker, but he’d also invested in a small business called Electronic Tube Corporation. They specialised in re-gunning cathode ray tubes — the old TV screens. Basically, when a TV started going dim, you could chop off the back end, weld on a new “gun”, and get the thing working again. Much cheaper than replacing the whole set.
It was a solid little business, and Bruce’s elder brother John had been running it. But after he was shot one night while locking up — a failed robbery, deeply traumatic, though he thankfully survived without lasting injury — the family decided to emigrate. Bill, Gloria, Susan, John, Anne, and their spouses. All the Barclays except Bruce were heading to Canada. Bill needed someone trustworthy to run the business. I needed an income. And that’s how I ended up managing a TV tube factory in Industria, Johannesburg.
It wasn’t glamorous, and Industria wasn’t a pleasant place to work. My salary was about R3,000 a month — hardly exciting, even then — but it was enough to slow the drawdown on our capital. I had two full-time employees: one was an Indian fellow named Karim, the other a Black guy named David, so between us we represented and example the Rainbow Nation working togther nicely. We got on well. Tubes would arrive from local repair shops, we’d replace the gun, run a full vacuum, and send them back. Simple work, but satisfying in its own way.
During the day I managed the factory; in the evenings I kept working on the fly-tying export business — mostly online via CompuServe, but also in regular contact with Fishy Pete (Pete Immelman) up in Lydenburg.
Then came 1994, the year everything changed. South Africa’s first democratic election.
There were something like fifteen parties on the ballot — maybe sixteen — and the lines were huge. I remember going to vote with Terry and our maid Agnes, and standing for hours in the sun. The atmosphere was calm, even festive. People were friendly. It felt like a celebration.
I voted for the Democratic Alliance, the DA. Everyone knew the ANC, led by Nelson Mandela, was going to win — that was never in question — but I felt it was important that the ANC have a strong opposition.
When the results came in and the ANC won outright, with no need for a coalition, it was an extraordinary moment. This country had walked itself out of apartheid and into a peaceful, democratic transition. We’d even voluntarily dismantled our nuclear arsenal. I genuinely thought the world might be on the right track. The Soviet Union had just collapsed, the Berlin Wall had come down, and suddenly everything seemed possible.
South Africa had been under heavy sanctions for decades, and now the whole world wanted to do business with us. Apartheid had been a travesty, no question — but the ANC inherited a country with first-world infrastructure, arguably the best in Africa by a country mile.
Writing this now, thirty years later, that sense of optimism is hard to describe — and even harder to hold onto, with democracies around the world under threat both internally and externally.
At the time, my sister Briony tried to convince us to move to London. She had job leads and a spare room, and I had a Danish passport through my father, while Terry had a British one through hers, so it wouldn’t have been difficult. But I didn’t want to go. We both felt proud to be South African and wanted to stay — especially after living through all the hard years of uncertainty and change. Things were finally looking positive. Around this time, I also got a letter from the South African Defence Force, telling me to report for my two years of national service — something I’d managed to defer every year by being a virtually professional student. I wrote them a letter saying I was in the UK looking for work. I mailed it to Briony and had her post it to them from there. A few months later, I got a reply saying that when I returned to South Africa, I must contact them immediately. Of course, I never did — and that was the last I ever heard from them.
Orders from Fred Claghorn in the States kept growing through 1994, mostly for the salt-water patterns Pete Immelman had designed and taught his team to tie. It was a real boost. Most weekends I’d fly down to Lydenburg, load the finished flies, bring them back to Joburg, invoice, pack, and ship them off to Fred. After a few months it was clear I should be more than just the export agent, so I bought into Fishy Pete’s for about R20 000, joining Niels and Pete as the third shareholder.
Terry and I were visiting Lydenburg often, staying with Niels, Carey and their three little boys at Valentine Farm, the smallholding they had bought just outside town. By then Niels was running the plywood side of Wood Creations, with the factory in Lydenburg. I was now a four-way partnership: Mario Garofoli and Niels (the originals), plus Robbie Taylor the accountant and Andy Menides, who handled the Clip-Lok reusable-packaging business. Their Clip-Lok customers were the big car manufacturers in the Eastern Cape, namely Daimler Chrysler and Volkswagen. Work was busy; life at the farm was even better. Niels kept a huge vegetable garden, cooked like a pro, and the evenings were all red wine, great food and lots of laughs.
After the helicopter accident Niels had sworn off helicopters, but he was working on a private pilot’s licence. Lydenburg’s unmanned municipal strip was fine for my visits in KAJ, yet he wanted something closer. Valentine Farm sits on a slope; Niels was sure a 600-metre grass strip would fit. Out came the bulldozer.
One weekend, with the final grading done, he asked if I’d test it. I walked the length, checked the numbers against what the Bonanza needs, and ran out of objections. He dropped me at the town strip. “Give me fifteen minutes,” he said, “then come in.”
I took off, crossed the valley, and set up for approach. Half-way down finals I didn’t like the look of some branches, so I aborted the approach , landed back at Lydenburg, and phoned him. “Too many trees on the threshold.” “Give me half an hour,” he said, chainsaws already buzzing.
Second try: clear enough. I touched down in the uphill direction -this was strictly a one-way strip-, rolled to a stop, Niels was waiting and climbed in. We turned around and roared off downhill. Acceleration was quick, the ground dropped away, and we sailed out over the valley. First landing and first take-off on Lydenburg’s only private strip, done.
A couple of months later Niels bought a small four-seater Piper 210 and put up a hangar beside the strip. He flew to and from Johannesburg all the time. Looking back, I still can’t believe I never phoned the insurer about that runway before using it. We lived large back then and, somehow, got away with it.
That was 1994 wrapping up. The next big change came from Fred Claghorn again, but that’s the start of another story.