So I settled into my new semi-independent life on Harry Seftel’s property, just off Rivonia Road. I was still eating at my mom’s place a couple of times a week—partly because her food was better than mine, partly because I missed Purdey and Wellington. And, of course, I missed her too. But I knew I’d made the right decision to move out. I focused on my studies, settled into a routine, and tried to move forward.
That August, instead of me flying out to Mallorca, it was decided that my dad and Kirsten would come to visit us in South Africa. My dad suggested we take KAJ and go exploring—see a bit of Africa. On the surface, it was a fantastic idea: more flying hours, some adventure, time together. I hadn’t seen much of the continent since my Toyota trip to Botswana and nearly to Zambia.
So I started planning. The itinerary was ambitious: fly up to Victoria Falls, stay at the famous hotel on the Zimbabwean side, then on to Inyanga in the eastern highlands of Zimbabwe—where Briony’s then-boyfriend, John Bredenkamp (the notorious arms dealer), had a property. There’d be trout fishing. After that, we’d continue to Lilongwe, Malawi's Capital, then to Lake Malawi.
It all looked perfect on paper.
Then my mother decided to come along. Why she thought that was a good idea, I’ll never fully understand. But off we went—my dad, Kirsten, her youngest son Mark (who was two years younger than me), my mom, and me—all packed into KAJ.
I remember it clearly. The dynamic was predictably awful. My mom took every opportunity to snipe at my dad. At Victoria Falls, she and I shared one room, while my dad, Kirsten, and Mark shared another. The falls themselves were breathtaking—but inside, I felt numb. My internal world simply didn’t allow me to enjoy any of it.
From there, we flew to Inyanga. I tried some trout fishing but couldn’t focus. The anxiety was back—rising inside me like a tide. I didn’t know if it was the pressure of having both my parents in close proximity again, stirring up memories of the trauma we’d all lived through in Mallorca. Maybe it was just chemistry. All I knew was that the old panic was back. I wasn’t drinking—I’d been very careful about that since Mallorca. In fact, I don’t think I touched alcohol on the trip. But the fear was there, all the same.
Next came Lake Malawi. It’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. I should have been in heaven. I was flying my own plane, all expenses paid, my life back on track. University. Stability. A second chance. And yet I was desperately, crushingly unhappy.
I remember going for a long run along the shoreline, trying to escape the weight in my chest. Running was one of the few things that helped when the anxiety hit hard—and it was hitting hard. My mind was spinning: what if I couldn’t get them home? What if I crashed—not the plane, but myself? What if it all collapsed again, like Mallorca?
I couldn’t stop those thoughts. I was back in the echo chamber of fear. Not fear of flying—but fear of falling apart. Again.
I wasn’t taking in the beauty around me. I was trapped inside my head. And I’m sorry this chapter is such a downer—but it’s important. Because it marks the moment I made a decision. I decided not to give in to it. I would finish the trip. I would fly that plane. I would hold it together.
From Lake Malawi, we returned to Inyanga for a couple more nights. I remember lying in a luxury lodge, staring at the ceiling while waves of anxiety washed over me. But the next day, we flew to Harare to clear customs, and then back to Johannesburg. I gritted my teeth. I did what needed to be done. I flew the plane. I got us home.
A few days later, my dad, Kirsten, and Mark flew back to Mallorca, and I threw myself back into my studies. But something had shifted. I knew I needed something more—something deeper. Some form of meaning or connection I couldn’t find in academics or flying hours or even family.
Mariana Stuve had introduced me to meditation and to the idea of going inward. Briony had passed me a stack of woo-woo books—astrology, Shakti Gawain, The Celestine Prophecy, stuff like that. I started reading. I started meditating every day. I felt something begin to soften inside me.
I began going to evening mass at the Catholic Church in Rosebank. Not for the doctrine—never that—but for the space, the quiet, the sense of something beyond the material. I started praying. I couldn’t return to religion in the old sense, but I knew I was reaching for something sacred. Something I hadn’t yet found.
This was before the internet, so spiritual resources were limited. But I made do. I ate healthily. I kept up my meditation practice. My mom had brought back a biofeedback machine from the UK—this odd little device with headphones and finger sensors that would emit a changing tone as you relaxed. I used it often and found myself entering truly deep states of calm.
And at some point, I let go. I let go of the belief that I had to lose my virginity to become whole. That I needed a relationship to be valid. That there was some checklist of manhood I had to tick off.
I let it go.
This chapter may seem flat. There’s no humour in it, no drama, no punchlines. But it matters. Because everything that came next—the most important chapter of my life—only happened because of this one.
Because after this, I met the love of my life.