I’ve already told the story about the flight back from Plettenberg Bay — the one that would’ve gone down as “Pilot Error” on the accident report if my mother hadn’t piped up about icing. So here’s another flying story, this time with me coming off a little better.
Niels had a Jo’burg friend named Mike McGrath, married to Jinny. I knew him from fly-fishing weekends at Three Falls in Lydenburg. To say he was self-impressed would be putting it mildly. He was old-money rich and very pleased with himself — and made sure everyone around him knew it.
A few years had passed since pioneering trip to Inhaca Island, but Mozambique was changing fast. There was a new lodge on the island, and Niels asked if we’d like to come along. Mike had a Cessna Centurion 210, and we’d fly in the Bonanza, ZS-KAJ. Sounded perfect.
Mike had a PPL but had hired a commercial pilot to fly him and Jinny. When I met the guy, I was friendly, as usual. But he was one of the most self-important people I’d ever come across — full of himself from the first word.
Still, he had something I’d never seen before: a green plastic box with a primitive screen — the very first Garmin GPS I’d laid eyes on. Clinton had recently opened the signal for civilian use, and this was hot off the shelf. That part was genuinely impressive.
The weekend itself was great. Fishing, good food, lots of laughs. But this story’s really about the flying.
When it was time to head back, we needed to stop at Maputo first to clear customs. The weather was horrible but not raining — windy, hot, and thick with haze. Inhaca’s strip is short, and Mike, probably out of habit or self-importance, insisted they go first. They took off, and we followed less than five minutes later.
Maputo Approach cleared me to join left downwind for runway 05. As I joined the circuit, they radioed Mike’s aircraft for its position. The pilot gave a completely wrong call — basically 180 degrees off — and I could see him. Hazy or not, I had him in sight.
I keyed the mic and contradicted him. “Maputo Approach, negative — the Centurion is actually left downwind runway 23.”
There was a pause. Then the pilot came back on: “Correct. Left downwind 23.” He was headed to the wrong end of the runway.
They re-routed him back over the airfield and slotted him in behind us.
The approach into Maputo was one of the roughest I’ve ever flown. We were getting thrown around like mad, there was no rain but the hot wind was throwing us around like we where in a tumble dryer. I was pilot in command; Niels was in the right seat. Terry and Carey were in the back. Carey was blubbering with fear — genuinely panicking — and Niels turned around and snapped, “If you can’t fucking say anything useful, then just shut the fuck up.”
It was probably one of the best landings I’ve ever done, considering the conditions. We touched down cleanly.
Maputo has a long runway and an even longer taxi. By the time we parked, Mike and co still hadn’t arrived. When they eventually showed up — maybe fifteen minutes later — Mike came straight over lookin like a thundercloud.
“Peter, how the fuck did you take off after us and land before us?”
I looked at him and decided not to throw his pilot under the bus. “No idea,” I said, and walked back to the bowser to oversee the refuelling of the Bonanza.
While I was supervising the refuel, the commercial pilot came over. Rather than thank me for not revealing his incompetance to Mike he snapped the following at me: “Why are you refuelling? Fuel here is three times the price.” I think this was some vague attempt to re-establish his dominance even though we both knew of his recent fuckup.
“Because I was taught to always take off with full tanks, if possible” I said. “I don’t think it’s worth the risk.”
He gave me a look like I was mad, then walked off. They took off with whatever was left in their tanks.
The following day, I heard what happened. Mike’s Centurion had run out of fuel three or four kilometres short of Lanseria and had force landed into a field. The aircraft was badly damaged. Everyone walked away, but I imagine Mike’s ego — and the pilot’s career — took a bit more of a beating.
Most of this memoir is about the mistakes I’ve made. But now and then, things go right. This was one of those days.