A little while ago, a friend sent me a picture which depicted this beautiful riverine scene with a man casting a fly as he fished for trout. The setting was idyllic and the caption read ‘Not all Churches have Pews’.
That sentiment, in a nutshell, is why I fly. I am not a particularly religious person, but having said that, flying provides a connection to a beauty that I can scarcely describe. It’s the stuff that poets write about and it’s the same reason why people find peace and rejuvenation when they go on a trip to the bush. In the film, One-Six Right, one of the pilots that are interviewed comments that (and I’m paraphrasing) “Finding a reason as to why you love to fly, is like trying to motivate why you like Mozart or van Gough. The reason defies words…it just is.” That’s why I find it difficult to put into words why I fly. It’s not about getting from A to B; it’s not a faster method of transport; and it’s not because I need to keep current. There is something inside of me that feels incomplete if I haven’t been in the sky recently. I think that the President of the Piper Aircraft Company, William T Piper puts it quite well, and he’s the sort of authority that carries quite a bit of weight on an issue like this, having designed what is arguably the epitome of what it is to be a recreational aircraft, the J3 Cub. He said “Once you have learned to fly your plane, it is far less fatiguing to fly than it is to drive a car. You don't have to watch every second for cats, dogs, children, lights, road signs, ladies with baby carriages and citizens who drive out in the middle of the block against the lights…Nobody who has not been up in the sky on a glorious morning can possibly imagine the way a pilot feels in free heaven.” I think that every aviator has felt this way, and sadly, sometimes this passion is lost in the progress of efficiency and safety that rules out the pilot and is translated into the binary codes of computers. That is why recreational aviation is so important and it must be safeguarded, like all things that are so terribly vital to happiness and rejuvenation. For me, a life without flying would be like a life without music. It would be dull, the lesser for its loss. I don’t think that this romantic view of aviation is confined to these aerie-fairy musings, but somehow it also incorporates a personal challenge. You only compete against yourself when you fly; for the perfect landing, the balanced turn, or the optimal cruise. I think this reason is probably similar to why people play golf. It’s for the personal satisfaction of rewarding and testing yourself. Coaxing all of that machinery into one fluid, graceful movement is part of that satisfaction which, I suppose, makes up so much of its appeal. You might have read the musings by Robert Traver where he tries to articulate what drives him to go fishing whenever he has a spare moment. I like what he has to say, because I understand where he is coming from and I’ve adapted his words to suit my passion: “I fly because I love to. Because I love the wide open spaces of sky and cloud that swallow up my worries and let me be free. No matter what the weather, the skies are invariably beautiful, contrasting the places where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly. Because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape. Because in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing what they hate, my flying is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion because in flying there is an absolute truth. Aircraft do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed, or impressed by power. They respond only to quietude and humility, and endless patience. Because I suspect that men are going this way for the last time and I for one don't want to waste the trip. Because in the sky my skills are reflected in honest judgement by the craft, and although I will never reach perfection, there is a thrill when I get close. Because in the sky I can find solitude without loneliness. ... And finally, not because I regard flying as being so terribly important, but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant and not nearly so much fun.”
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Although it has become quite a cliche, spring is one of the most invigorating times of the year. Browns turn to green and a myriad of colours start to form at the tips of trees as they blossom. I find myself feeling positive and healthy with the change in temperature, and all of this LIFE was celebrated as I took to the skies on Friday. In our flimsy biplane, I arched and ebbed a few hundred feet over the undulating Magaliesberg mountains. Iridescent yellows caught my eyes in their valleys and the winter-dormant trees celebrated the sunshine with their new flowers. The drone of the engine and the wind in my face reminded me of sailing, or perhaps riding a motorcycle, but the freedom that flying oozes is still something that is unsurpassed. Beneath my wings, I followed the animals: herds of dazzling zebras, serious buffalo, elegant Sable and nervous wildebeest. Acacia trees drew long shadows on the ground, and beneath them I saw the shapes of dozing lions. Summiting the peak of a rocky outcrop, I joined a family of Ostrich on the other side, and then made my way towards a sheet of bontebok and springbuck. The sun curled its arms through wispy clouds and began to lick hues of red and orange and it began to set. I decided to make my way homewards, indulging in a brief detour over the Johannesburg mine dumps, leaving the animals behind to pretend that I was flying over the stretches of the Namib Desert. Waves of snaking sand meandered over the dumps, as if they were once part of an ancient lake bed. The Tiger Moth's shadow grew and faded beneath me as the ground rose and fell away, and i felt an utter sense of peace. It is incredible what is on our doorstep if we only take a moment to open our eyes to it. Nobody would believe that I was flying over part of South Africa's 'big smog' and it wasn't much of a stretch to think I was pioneering pilot flying over the uncharted wilderness of Africa.
There is something about old aeroplanes that is simply intoxicating. I suppose it is something to do with that fact that flying them makes the pilot feel like they are transported back in time. The aircraft are intricately flimsy, braced together by wires and struts and covered in taught canvass. Their wooden structure are often hand-made, and there is something romantic about the idea of men and women dressed in suits and white coats meticulously creating these flying marvels. The aircraft fly differently too, and each one has a distinct personality. They are not driven into the air, but coaxed and nurtured. The touch on the stick needs to be a gentle one, and just like the captain on a yacht, every change in the wind can be felt through the controls. In an open cockpit, like our Tiger Moth, the pilot is more akin to a motorcycle rider than anything else, and the sense of freedom, exhilaration and escapism is unrivaled. Old aircraft have their own histories and stories too, like John Illsley's Aeronca C3 with little more than a few horses produced by its tiny engine, it managed to fly from England to South Africa in the 1930s. The pilot even did an engine overhaul in the bush, replacing the standard pistons with high compression ones using only a few tools for the job. Then there is an aircraft like the Dragon Rapide owned by Mark Sahd, an aeroplane that is an icon of pioneering flights across Africa. Flying in formation with a Rapide has been a long-time bucket list dream of mine, and at the Petit Vintage Fly In, I was afforded the opportunity to do just that. After taking off in our yellow and blue Tiger Moth, balancing rudder snd aileron in the strong crosswind, I looked behind me to see the silver twin engined biplane clawing its way skywards behind me. A gentle turn to the right brought me closer, but the speed differential was too great, and I was only able to formate on the Rapide for a few seconds. And even though the moments were numbered, it was one of my most memorable flights.
Earlier, I had sat in the cockpit of the immaculately restored Rapide. It felt just like how a real aeroplane should, with plush green leather embroidered with the DH of de Havilland. Wood panelling in a shiny varnish lined the interior and in front of me, an array of old instruments stood at attention, their needles like soldiers, ready. The stick moved silkily from side to side and the view out of the sliding window made one feel like a real captain of the skies. And even earlier on in the day, I was holding the lead position in a formation of eight other aircraft, all vintage types. As I looked down over the drought-parched landscape, I could place the shadows of my compatriots, their biplane and monoplanes bumping around the sky with me. We had Tiger Moths, Chipmunks, Cubs and a Flybaby knitted together in their positions, and looking out onto each wingtip, I felt that this is what real aviation is all about. Stepping back in time with friends and their toys, releasing ourselves from our technologically driven world into a place that just seems simpler and more authentic. I guess this is why I love to fly. There are two types of pilots, those who are on training wheels and those who fly proper aeroplanes. And of course, I am referring to Taildraggers.
This year was my fifth patronage to Nylstroom for Richard Nicholson's event that celebrates these aircraft types. It promised to be a spectacular weekend, beginning with a five ship formation which I led from Krugersdorp. Bradlee and Michael Crause joined us in a sling, Ryan Beckley was in the Chipmunk, my brother Pat was in the newly acquired Flybaby, Dad flew the Tiger and I was in the C140. Later on, at Nylstroom, Brian Davidson joined us in a J3, so we have a veritable squadron in attendance for the entire weekend. As we were heading off to the bush, our proud name became 'Boskak Squadron'. And fun label set the tone for the weekend. Time was spent flying in formation, wandering around aeroplanes, talking about aeroplanes, and in the evening nursing cold beers around a blazing fire. Some highlights included flying a three-ship formation with Patrick leading in the Flybaby, Dad on his left wing in the Tiger and my position as number two in the 140. Not many people can claim to fly in a family formation with three different aircraft. It was absolute bliss! Thanks to Pilot's Post, a fantastic video describing the event: Inspired by Saturday's atmosphere, I couldn't resist putting pen to paper, so this is the edited version of the poem that I scribbled on the back of one of my flying maps while the 1930s was being recreated around me:
An Ode to a Vintage Past Infused in the air Is locomotive cologne; Water soot steam sweat and oil. Intoxicating In its simplicity. It engulfs everything In deep breaths As an eruption of smoke Forcing a bass beat Along steel railways. The sound elicits crinkled Smile creases Like lines of crumpled paper On the edges Of coal-darkened engineer eyes Flames lick The edges of a riveted boiler And brass-rimmed gauges Keep a pressured watch Like horn-rimmed goggles. A patchwork of iron Clack under laden wheels And a churlish whistle Echoes in meandering hills. Overhead An elongated note that Is Gypsy in origin Winds canvas wings Whipping a yellow-blue biplane. Leather-jacketed pilots Flock to the steam, Their silk-white scarves Undulating from the cockpit And they peer earthwards. Returning their open-mouthed smiles Is eloquent coachwork And wooden spoked-wheels Varnished to a sheen Of bright coloured cars. Shining brass and nickel and silver Headlights chase the Tiger and the train With the cacophony Of combustion Resonating steam and fuel. The past and present combine And in some way a penny drops From the pleasure of reconnecting With romance And reminiscence. Of paintings and stories Charcoal-sketching Glorious days of Hard men, Beautiful women. When travel was not An irritant but an exploration And flight was not a passing drone But a source of upward awe. Of excitement. The senses remind us That our past is not too far away And while we might be lost In being frantic We can still take time to appreciate. Courtney Watson Over this past weekend I was fortunate enough to be able to combine everything that I love into two spectacular days. I'm going to add some photographs of the event which will probably do more justice that my writing (which will come later) but in summary it started with an early drive on Saturday Morning in the Alfa Monza to Krugersdorp Airfield where I began to arrange the cars and aircraft in the twilight dawn. The 1904 de Dion, 1911 Fiat, 1945 Cessna 140 and 1941 Tiger Moth all needed to be parked along the apron at the airfield. Then it was a short flight over the steam train to Orient airfield among a gaggle of other period aeroplanes and lunch at Magaliesberg with a backdrop of the other veteran cars and train. Then back to Orient in the Fiat alongside the puffing Reefsteamers engine for a flight back to Krugersdorp! Photo credits to Athol Franz, Freek du Toit, Heinrich Kirstein, Ian Morison, Maurice KurpershoekNiel Swart, Paul Koski, Peter Thomas, Pierre Lombard, Shaun Bell and Vanessa Bentley. On Sunday, Dad organised a run for the cars older than 90 years around the Krugersdorp Game Reserve. It is quite something to be able to drive among the animals in a vehicle that was made at the turn of last century!
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