The idea of a fly export business made so much sense to me. I already had a supplier — Pete Immelman’s fly-tying operation in Lydenburg. I tied flies myself, so I knew quality when I saw it. The economics were irresistible: trout flies in the U.S. were going for $1.80 to $2 a pop — around six rand at the time — and Pete was selling to me at 60 cents each. Light, high-margin, and easy to ship. Everything about it checked out.
And I had the capital to get it off the ground.
But there was one problem: I was in third year at university, and my parents had already spent a fortune getting me that far. My mom just said, “It’s a great idea. But finish your degree first.” So that’s what I did.
Still, I didn’t let the business idea go cold. I kept in touch with contacts in the States, sending small batches of flies and collecting feedback — quality, consistency, what could be improved. But my focus shifted to finishing my degree.
One standout from that year was the third-year project for Aeronautical Engineering. My partner was Don Waller — my old room-mate from Rivonia. Don was probably the brightest and laziest person I’d ever met. He was the only guy I knew who could cram for an aerodynamics exam, having done nothing all semester, and still manage to scrape through. Orders of magnitude smarter than me — but he had zero interest in the graft.
So we partnered up. Our project was a frisbee-shaped aerofoil, and part of the requirement was to actually build a physical model and run it through wind tunnel tests. Don was very astute in choosing me as a partner — I had the money to get the best materials and technical expertise, thanks to my training at Spargo's, to build the thing properly.
We built it under the gazebo next to the pool at 10 Sneeubloem Street. And it turned out to be a big success — we scored 83%.
The following year, 1992 — my final year — we partnered again on a new model. I won’t bore you with the technical details, but let’s just say the second project didn’t go quite as well. I think we got around 70%. But I did get to do the formal presentation to the faculty, and I was absolutely in the zone. Nailed it. Won “Best Speaker of the Year” for an aeronautical engineering subject.
Afterwards, representatives from CSIR and Atlas Aircraft came up to me with job offers on the spot. The arms and aerospace industries in South Africa were advanced and well-funded, and they were always scouting. I think they were offering something like R3,000 a month.
But I had much bigger ambitions.
I graduated at the end of ’92, fulfilled my mom’s wish (and my own, to an extent), and turned my full attention to the fly export business. Looking back, part of me thinks I should have used those eight years of engineering study to get into the field properly. But then again — I might’ve ended up designing rockets or tech that ended up killing people. That would’ve sat badly with me. So, in the end, I never had to make the choice. I didn’t take the job. I went all-in on fishing flies.
Those years were magical in many ways — newly married, full of ideas, living in a lovely little home — but with the benefit of hindsight, I can see something else, too. I’d stopped meditating. I’d started to believe my own hype. My ego was growing quietly but steadily. I don’t think I was arrogant in the way my brother Niels could be — but I was definitely a little too impressed with myself. And I think that shift in me was a disservice to the version of me that Terry had originally met — and hopefully, fallen in love with.
That said, there were also beautiful moments of grounded, domestic joy. I used the sprinkler system skills I’d honed in my Illovo matric year to install an epic irrigation setup in our Jukskei Park garden. We had a lush little vegetable patch out the back, and I even had a borehole sunk for an unlimited water supply. At the borehole outlet, I installed a venturi system and a valve to inject nutrients directly into the irrigation lines. The result? The most stunning garden in the whole of Jukskei Park.
And then there were the holidays.
The first big trip we took was to Knysna. Terry’s mom, Mary, had booked us a place to stay, but when we arrived, it had been double-booked. Disaster. Luckily, my mom was with us, and her friend Philippa — a Knysna local — saved the day by finding us a beautiful replacement house.
During that trip, Terry was suddenly hit with a terrible headache. It escalated fast. We rushed her to Knysna Hospital. Around that same time, I got a call — on my brand-new Nokia 2100 — from the vet. My beloved dog, Purdey, who I’d left behind because she was too sick to travel, had died.
I’ll never forget that moment. Mary turned to me and told me to turn off the phone. I was shattered. All I could think was: We never should have left her. Terry was fine — it turned out to be a migraine or something equally non-lethal. But Purdey was gone. And I knew it had been a mistake to leave her, it was a betrayal of the love that dog had given me.
That was also around the time when cell phones were still seen as vulgar. Mine was number 0829 000 583 — literally the 583rd phone in the country, from Nedtel Cellular. Coverage was patchy at best. And if you answered your phone in public, people looked at you like you were an arrogant prick.
The holiday ended and it was to to fly back to Johannesburg. The flight down had been uneventful but the return flight? That was far from uneventful, in fact, we very nearly “bought the farm,” as they say in aviation.
And that story — well, it doesn’t exactly show me in the best light.
But I’ll tell it anyway.
Next time.