After getting lost twice—once with Bruce and once with my parents—I’d adopted a far more cautious, and ultimately healthier, approach to flying. I began planning meticulously and map-reading obsessively from the moment the wheels left the ground. I’d learned the hard way that radio beacons weren’t always switched on.
It was now 1989, and most of my flying revolved around ferrying Robby Taylor—Wood Creations’ accountant and partner—down to the factory in Lydenburg. Niels had relocated there with Carey and their two toddlers, living on Valentine Farm just outside town. A couple of connected flights from that period stand out vividly.
It began when the secretary at National Airways approached me. She worked with the Reach for a Dream Foundation and told me about a young boy, just 12 years old, who had been hit by a car in a hit-and-run while cycling. He was paralyzed from the neck down, on a permanent ventilator, and not expected to live more than a few months. The foundation had managed to get Mala Mala, one of the private game reserves in the Lowveld near the Kruger National Park, to donate a weekend stay for him, his parents, a doctor, nurses — and a pilot. She asked if I’d be willing to fly them down, free of charge.
Of course, I said yes. But I also said, “To be on the safe side, this kid is, you know, pretty badly hurt…”
She confirmed: “Yeah, he’s on a permanent mechanical respirator. During the flight, his nurses will have to aspirate him manually the whole way." The flight would be about an hour and 45 minutes.”
I replied, “Okay, that’s fine — just make sure everyone’s there at 6 a.m. sharp so we can take off by 7 at the latest.”
It was mid-summer, and the Highveld mornings were relatively cool — early 20s — but the heat built fast. As the sun warmed the land, huge cumulus clouds would form, bringing violent turbulence. While the storms themselves were easy to spot and avoid, flying a six-seater plane through that kind of turbulence was like riding a cork on a stormy sea. Timing was crucial.
Come flight day, I was at the airfield at 6 a.m. sharp. The ambulance carrying the boy and his carers arrived — I kid you not — at noon. I warned them: “This is going to be a bumpy trip.” They reassured me, “No, it’ll be okay.”
KAJ, my beautiful Beechcraft A36 Bonanza, had double doors at the back. You could open them and remove the seats, making a big, cavernous entrance. The boy — strapped to a stretcher — was wheeled in along with a nurse and a doctor. Both seemed Irish and were likely part of some missionary organization. We got him onboard and ready.
As I taxied out, I turned and said to the nurse — who was possibly also a nun — “It’s going to be bumpy.”
She just smiled and said, “It’s all right. I pray, I pray, I pray.”
I thought to myself, Yeah, let’s see how that goes.
But I kid you not — the aircraft flew like it was on rails the whole way. Not a single air pocket. Huge cumulus clouds surrounded us, but somehow we glided through as if guided. The same happened on the return trip. The nurse just said, “I was praying really hard.” Well, that’s probably the closest thing to divine intervention I’ve ever seen.
That boy had the weekend of his life. They took him out in open Land Rovers, propped him up in his wheelchair, and the staff treated him like royalty. He saw all the animals he had hoped to. A few months later, I learned that he had passed away — but at least he got that experience.
On that same trip, I met an older English couple — probably in their 50s, clearly wealthy — who asked if I’d consider flying them to the Lowveld in the future. I explained I wasn’t a commercial pilot, so technically it wasn’t legal. They said they didn’t care and wouldn’t say anything. I gave them my details.
Sure enough, a few months later, I received a fax — this was pre-email — asking for a quote to Londolozi. I think I quoted 600 pounds, which was steep, but still far less than a proper charter. They agreed. They were to arrive at Jan Smuts Airport (now OR Tambo), and I would meet them there.
By then, I was good mates with the Lanseria air traffic controllers. I asked if they could arrange special VFR clearance for me into Jan Smuts — I didn’t have a commercial license or an instrument rating yet. They organized it. It was thrilling — flying into a major international airport surrounded by 747s and serious aircraft. Johannesburg Approach talked me in, and I landed.
But when I parked, I was so far from the main terminal that it felt pointless to have even flown in. I walked what felt like kilometers to the arrivals hall, stood with a sign, and eventually met the couple. I apologised for the walk back to the aircraft — they were gracious enough. I got them on board and we took off.
The weather forecast had looked “good, not great,” but it was quickly turning “pretty shit.” I had clearance through Waterkloof Air Force Base heading east. But by the time we got to Middelburg, the weather was properly dodgy. I landed at the unmanned Middelburg airport and phoned my brother Niels from a tikki box. He lived in Lydenburg, further along our route. He said, “There’s no chance of you getting through here.”
Niels, a helicopter pilot himself (in his R22 — I’ll tell you more about that elsewhere), knew what he was talking about. I returned to the couple and said, “I’m sorry, but we can’t go on.”
They protested — “We have to be there by 6 p.m. for the game drive!”
I insisted: “It’s not safe. I’ll fly you back to Johannesburg — and I’ll personally drive you to Londolozi at no extra cost.”
They had no choice. They agreed, though they were clearly furious. They kept telling me they had a friend in the UK with a small plane and they had flown in much worse weather with him.
As we headed back, the weather got worse. I kept descending to stay under the cloud base until I realized I was flying below the tops of telephone lines — a death trap.
Now, I had 20 hours of instrument time on the simulator and a couple of hours under the hood — the black visor you wear during instrument training. I knew the stats: the average non-IF pilot loses control in full cloud in under three minutes. But I trusted my training enough to take the leap.
I climbed into cloud and called Waterkloof, informed them I was now IFR (instrument flight rules), and requested clearance to flight level 90. They asked me to confirm: “You are instrument-rated?”
“Negative.”
Silence.
“Confirm you are in IMC?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you can’t continue IMC if you’re not instrument-rated.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
They passed me to Johannesburg Approach. Same reaction. Eventually, they routed me over Swartkops Air Force Base, and then back to Lanseria. Finally, Lanseria Approach came on:
“Lanseria, Kilo Alpha Juliet.”
And Bo Berger — who I knew well — replied, “Who’s been a naughty boy, then?”
“Bo, I’m sorry, I had no choice.”
He said, “Yeah, it’s okay. What are your intentions?”
“NDB letdown, runway 24 left.”
“Roger. Proceed. Come see me in the tower when you land.”
I landed and went up to the tower. Bo said, “The boys at Jan Smuts are pissed off, but I’ll smooth it over — just bring me a case of beers on Monday.” I did.
But I still had a problem: two sulking Brits.
I drove them back to Parkmore in my Golf, asked my mum if I could borrow her Volkswagen Jetta — better for a long drive — loaded them in, and drove to Londolozi. We arrived around 11 p.m. No offer to stay the night. They handed me 300 pounds, when I enquired about the balance they said they had paid for an aircraft not a car and said goodbye.
I turned around and drove out of the game park. On the way back, I came across a lion kill. At least 20 lions on the carcass of a buffalo — I know it sounds ridiculous, but there they were, milling around in my headlights. I wish I’d had a video camera.
I continued back up the Escarpment, through Sabi, and over Long Tom Pass into the Highveld. By now, I was nodding off at the wheel. I wasn’t about to find a hotel at 1 a.m. in Lydenburg. So I headed to Nooitgedacht, about 16 km of dirt road out of town — where Niels had stayed during the Lydenburg factory project I’ve mentioned elsewhere. The staff let me in. I crashed there for the remainder of the night and drove back to Johannesburg the next morning.
And that was my first real instrument flight — with some ungrateful Brits who should never have hired a non-commercial pilot. I should never have taken the job. But I am proud that I did not cave to their pressure to fly into unsafe weather. That could’ve ended badly.
I still remember when I first got KAJ, being taken to the offices of Dennis Jankelow & Associates, aviation insurance brokers. Dennis Jankelow himself sat me down and said:
“I’ve been insuring aircraft for 35 years. Ninety percent of accidents happen when pilots feel pressured to continue a flight because of passenger expectations. Alone, a pilot will turn back and tell war stories at the bar. With passengers whispering in their ear, that’s when accidents happen.”
I took his advice seriously. And I’m bloody glad I did.
They missed their game drive. I got shorted. But we all made it back alive.