Life Trove: flight

Showing posts with label flight. Show all posts

April 21, 2026

Flight to Cape Town

A 26 hour journey from Sydney to Cape Town on Singapore Airline. I was delighted to have three seats to myself for 2 of the 3 legs. Wonderful!

3 seats to myself for two of the three legs

Blissfully reunited with Jo

April 01, 2026

Henk's Flying Memoirs

Henk loved nothing more than to fly planes and to collect and drive vintage cars. Here is a wonderful memoir he wrote about his flying experiences. So beautifully written.

Henk's Flying Memoirs

Late 1949 I responded to an advertisement in the local Bloemfontein newspaper for volunteers to join the S.A. Air Force Reserve—this meant being taught to fly for a reserve commitment of 10 years. Flying would not interfere with my studies and/or work as all tuition would be conducted for an hour every morning at 6 a.m. and on Saturday afternoons. My dad had learnt to fly in Holland in the closing stages of World War I—Holland was neutral so he saw no combat. I discussed my interest with him and he encouraged me to go for it.

There were 53 applicants and from these, four prospective pupil pilots were to be chosen. Firstly the 53 were medically examined and the number was reduced to 21. From these a further seven were to be chosen. The final seven were then flown to Voortrekkerhoogte for aptitude and decompression tests. After two days of intense testing and written and oral examinations, a final four were selected for pilot training. I was one of the lucky ones!

My initial training started on 11 January 1950 in the De Havilland Tiger Moth ZS-AJA—this was to last three months in which period I amassed a total of 50 flying hours. I solo-ed in 7 hours 55 minutes—an experience never to be forgotten. After a further test by a SAAF instructor I was declared proficient enough to attend a month's training course converting on Harvards at Central Flying School in Dunnottar. This was an intense instruction course in which I collected a further 35 flying hours on Harvards, solo-ing in 5 hours 40 minutes.

After this course it was back for further instruction on Harvards for 12 months in Bloemfontein. This period was quite uneventful except for one incident that rattled me. I was scheduled to carry out aerobatics one particular morning—the sky was overcast and a typical Highveld thunderstorm was threatening. The instructor told me I could go up and go through an opening in the cloud formation, but to watch it, to come down when it closed up.

I executed a roll-off-the-top—this is a half loop, being upside down on the top of the loop and then half rolling to a normal upright position. This manoeuvre is to be smoothly carried out because one is close to stalling the aircraft. Then all hell broke loose as the thunder, lightning and hail came crashing down on me as I was still in the inverted position. It scared the hell out of me resulting in my aircraft stalling and going into a spin.

To say I was confused is putting it mildly. Instinctively I pulled back on the joy stick which only aggravated matters—by now the Harvard was spinning merrily down, no let up in hail and lightning. Then good training came to the fore and I performed the standard procedure of getting out of a spin—stick forward and opposite rudder, and eased out of the spin. I was in full control again, albeit shaken up, as I cleared the clouds and could see the ground again!

But the saga did not end there. My compass had gone awry so I couldn't orientate myself. It was still raining heavily, visibility not good and I couldn't recognise any salient points. But then I saw a soft glow, obviously the sun, so now I thought I knew where East was. Then I crossed a railway line and followed it because sooner or later I would pass a siding or station indicating where I should be. After all, I was South of the aerodrome. But time marched on and still no known point, bearing in mind visibility was poor.

Suddenly I saw a village looming ahead and following the railway line could now determine where I was—Trompsburg! It did not make sense, as I had flown East of the sun so I should have reached Bloemfontein! Then it dawned on me that it wasn't the sun in the East, but the reflection of the sun through rain clouds in the West. I had been flying on a 180 degree reciprocal! I turned around immediately and now flew Northwards to Bloemfontein where my instructor was anxiously awaiting his pupil and Harvard—he was more concerned about his aeroplane than his pupil! All in all, it was an excellent learning curve.

The 12-month period now consisted of aerobatics, instrument flying, night flying, formation and navigation. Then in May 1951 I went up to Central Flying School for my final wings course for a further 35 hours, culminating in receiving the covetted wings badge and 2nd Lieutenant pip. My parents came up for the parade. I was now a fully fledged officer of the SAAF, and posted to 8 Squadron, Bloemfontein.

The general flying area at that time was 10 miles (16 km) to the West of Bloemfontein. My parents lived on a plot alongside the main road to Kimberley. Whenever I finished my exercises I would do a low level flypast and waggle my wings at them. As I passed over their house I saw a stationary bus offloading some passengers and carried on at low level to give them a treat—apparently some people were highly upset. The bus driver took the time of day as well as my registration number painted on the underside of the wing.

When I went up to Dunnottar for the wings parade, I was called to the Commandant and given a dressing down for illegal low flying and gated for the duration of the month. My parents came up to Dunnottar for my 21st birthday where a party had been arranged for me. My dad went to see the Commandant to see if I could be released for the Saturday evening—no deal! It was a punishment for illegal low flying and was to remain as such.

In the meantime I befriended the guard at the gate and told him my story of woe—he was most sympathetic. For two bottles of beer he would look the other way, furthermore I was to be back by midnight because after that the gate would be closed. I had a wonderful birthday bash in Johannesburg!

My military flying with 8 Squadron was confined to Saturday afternoons only—this worked well as it did not encroach on my other recreational activities. In summer I volunteered for one early morning 5 a.m. met. flight per week—this was most enjoyable as you climbed up to 20 000 feet (6100 metres), taking and noting pressure and temperature readings. You were allowed an hour for this and generally you had about 20 minutes left before returning to the aerodrome.

On this particular day after Christmas Day, I carried out one loop after the other, from 20 000 to 7 000 feet. Now the Harvard when looping, makes an awful din when upside down, it is a characteristic of the machine. In my noisy descent over Bloemfontein, a lot of good folk were highly upset and phoned Control who promptly ordered me to stop messing around so early and to come down. The editor of one of the local newspapers had something to say too, but it all blew over quietly.

On another occasion returning from a met. flight, I flew over Mazelspoort where my folks were holidaying. They were standing on the weir across the river with some friends where I did a low level pass at 200 feet (60 metres) and executed a victory roll directly over them. Mom apparently had pups whilst dad stood there very proud to see his son doing such a low level roll—no doubt reminding him of his own youth!

I applied for a private pilot licence and because of my SAAF training, obtained it as a mere formality. My licence was for any single engine aircraft not exceeding the weight of a Harvard. No single engined aircraft was heavier so I had an open licence to fly anything—all that was required was a familiarization flight with an instructor. After 6 years of squadron flying, the then Minister of Defence, F.C. Erasmus, shut down all reserve flying squadrons so my 10-year commitment was cancelled, although I still had 4 years to go—that was the end of my military flying. I also missed an opportunity to convert to De Havilland Vampire Jet fighters.

I had one nasty experience during my training period at Dunnottar. I was told to practise short take offs. A short take off consists of the aircraft turning into wind, brakes on and throttle fully open—releasing brakes, flaps fully down and as soon as the aircraft lifts off, you pull back the stick and climb away steeply, the aircraft is barely flying but hanging onto a screaming engine. At 150 feet (45 metres) the engine cut out. You have no flying speed so the aircraft literally fell to the ground. It was over in seconds and I hit the ground, shearing a wing off and leaving a mangled wreckage for the rest. The ambulance was there in minutes, I was examined and declared O.K. I was taken up immediately again with an instructor to clear up any psychological after-effects—there were none!

After my military flying had ended, I now switched over to private civilian flying. Here I was indeed fortunate because of my profession as an engineer. I could fly to most building sites—this enabled me to build up hours and further experience. I hired aircraft for this purpose and could write it off as tax relief. In 1985 I bought a half share in a Cessna 182 Skylane and enjoyed this machine until I retired from my work as well as flying. I sold my share as part-owner and we retired to Cape Town. To have kept up my licence would have cost too much. I had a lot to be thankful for, having piloted for 44 years. I still keep an active interest in all aspects of flying—I realize that progress cannot be kept at bay—in the early fifties flying was much more relaxed and less regulated. It was just so much more fun then.

TOTAL NUMBER OF HOURS FLOWN: 2482 HOURS 15 MINUTES ENDED FLYING: NOV. 12th 1992

Aircraft flown as pilot in command:

Tiger Moth
Harvard
Piper Cub
Piper Cruiser
Beechcraft Bonanza
Piper Tripacer
Aeronca Chief
Piper Vagabond
Mooney
Piper Colt
Piper Supercub
Piper Cherokees 140, 180, 235
Cessnas 150, 172, 182
Beechcraft Musketeer
Beechcraft Sundowner
Piper Tomahawk (20 total aircraft types)

Vintage/Classic Cars:

1937 Chevrolet Dicky Seat
1961 Jaguar MK 2 3.8 litre
1938 Buick Roadmaster
1947 Bentley MRK VI
1948 Studebaker Champion
1953 Citroen Light Fifteen
1957 Rolls Royce Silver Cloud I
1963 Jaguar MK 2 3.4 litre
1967 MGB Roadster
1972 Rolls Royce Shadow I

March 30, 2026

Memorable moments: The toothbrush technician

In 2023, I set off for Nepal to trek to Everest Base Camp. In preparation, I’d invested in a pair of incredibly expensive, top-of-the-line hiking boots, renowned for their "waterproof" nature. As it turned out, in the extreme, muddy conditions of the Himalayas, "waterproof" simply meant "doesn't let a single drop of sweat or rainwater out." My feet were a squelchy mess for most of the trek, but the boots were comfortable and sturdy—a solid investment for a man who spends his weekends dodging bull ants in Berowra.

I stayed in Kathmandu a few days longer than the rest of my group, giving my boots a cursory clean before flying back to Australia. It wasn't until I was filling out my arrival card on the plane that the gravity of the situation hit me.

Australian Border Force is legendary for its biosecurity rigor. The questions on the arrival card that they use for screening are pointed: Have you been hiking? Is there mud on your shoes? I suddenly had a vivid, terrifying memory of my friend Gavin telling me his boots had been confiscated and permanently destroyed because of a single stray clump of foreign soil.

Panic set in.

As soon as I cleared the initial gates and reclaimed my bag in the arrivals hall, I made a beeline for the nearest restroom. I hauled my luggage into a tiny toilet cubicle and locked the door. I retrieved my boots, my toothbrush, and prepared for battle.

I spent the next hour in a state of frantic, meticulous labor. Using the water from the toilet bowl and my own toothbrush as a scouring tool, I scrubbed every lug, every lace-hole, and every millimeter of the soles. Between the vigorous scrubbing sounds, the splashing, and my own rhythmic muttering and swearing, I can only imagine what the people in the adjacent stalls thought was happening in my cubicle. It must have sounded like I was performing a very aggressive, very watery exorcism.

By the time I was finished, the boots were in a state of cleanliness an army sergeant would have admired. They were glowing. I packed them away, straightened my clothes, and joined the biosecurity queue.

The officer looked at my card, then at me. He was clearly in a risk-averse mood. "It says here you've been hiking," he noted, "but you’ve marked that your boots are clean?"

"Yes," I replied, my chest swelling with pride. I was ready to whip them out and dazzle him with my handiwork. I wanted the "all-clear" to be a standing ovation for my efforts.

He didn't even ask to see them. He just nodded, stamped my card, and said, "Good. You can go through."

March 30, 2026

Memorable moments: The Ryanair descent

They say airline travel is hours of boredom interrupted by moments of stark terror. In 2004, while working for Volvo, I learned exactly how "stark" that terror could be. I was on a Ryanair flight from Stansted to Gothenburg—the kind of extreme low-cost experience where you half-expect to be charged for the air you breathe.

Suddenly, the air decided to leave us.

The plane didn't just dip; it plummeted. We fell a staggering 1,000 metres in a matter of seconds. There was a violent, bone-shaking thump that sent luggage cascading out of the overhead lockers like plastic hail. Then, the nightmare trifecta: smoke began to coil through the cabin, the oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling with a synchronized snap, and the screaming started.

Even the flight attendants, usually the stoic guardians of "tea or coffee," were white-faced with genuine panic. The man sitting next to me broke down completely. He whipped out a photograph of his wife and twin girls, staring at it with the haunted intensity of a man saying his final goodbye.

And me?

I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s some prehistoric, hard-wired glitch in the Myburgh DNA. Amidst the smoke, the screams, and the falling luggage, I got the giggles.

I tried to suppress it, knowing that a full-blown guffaw would be the height of social impropriety while my neighbor was mourning his own life, but I couldn't stop. I sat there, strapped into my seat, giggling uncontrollably into my yellow oxygen mask. It was as if my brain had decided that if we were going down, we might as well go down finding the whole thing ridiculous.

Eventually, the plane stabilized. The smoke cleared, the screaming subsided, and we landed without a word of explanation from the captain. That’s low-cost travel for you: you pay for the seat, but the life-altering trauma is complimentary.

For weeks afterward, I walked around in a state of pure, shimmering euphoria. I had stared into the abyss through a plastic mask while laughing like a maniac, and coming out the other side made the world seem impossibly bright. It turns out that a near-death experience is the ultimate "reset" button—even if your specific reaction to it is enough to make a grieving father think he's seated next to a psychopath.