Jim Davis - PLANE TALK

from April 2021

EARLY DAYS

ON THE GARDEN ROUTE

I was 26 when I opened my first flying school in George. Then I moved around the garden route a bit before starting 43 Air School. Then uni, then Oz and finally, three years ago I moved back to the area. Now, I keep coming across people who remind me of those days.

26 SEEMED A GOOD AGE TO SETTLE DOWN and be a proper person. I had been living out of my nav-bag for a couple of years and trailing a wife and infant from one country claimed it was a forgery, so I would cough up again. No matter, Mike was exceptionally good company, an excellent drinking companion, and flying club to the next. probably the best instructor I have ever met. I bought Mike van Ginkel’s abandoned The George airfield, with its grass runways, had flying school in George. The school came been the home of the RAF’s Empire Training with a training license, which although not Scheme’s 61 Air School, which used Ansons for a requirement at the time, I thought added coastal recce flights and for training navigators. I some dignity to the think not always with great establishment. It also gave me the the Outiniqua success – the Outiniqua mountain range is not short right to lease a brick building which was mountains are of dead Ansons that met their maker either at night little bigger than a two seater horse box. It had started life as an ablution block on the original RAF war-time not short of dead Ansons or in cloud. Anyhow, I put up a handpainted sign over the door of my shack. I didn’t want base. to confine my customers to student pilots – after all I might do charter flights, But its main attraction was the price. Mike or aerial photography, or crop-spraying – who wanted R20 for it, but I am not one to back away knows what the future might hold? I could also from a bit of horse trading, and I eventually beat him down to R10. It’s true I tell you. For years after that, every time I saw him, he would insist that I had never actually paid him. I took to carrying his receipt around in my wallet, but he foresee that my empire might even expand as far as Riversdale or Oudtshoorn. So, to allow for this contingency I proudly called myself “Cape Flying Services”.

And to afford even greater status to the operation, Old Piet had promised me a commission on aircraft sales. To this end, he had given me a proper metal sign proclaiming to the world that I was a Piper agent. I proudly mounted this on the wall beside the door. Fortunately, the 60s and 70s were a wonderful time for aviation. I can’t claim that I was swamped with business from day one – but it brought in enough to put food on the table, pay the rent, buy fuel, and send Piet his monthly R272 instalment for the aircraft. I was charging R10 per hour for flying training.

ENGLISH LESSONS

My first customers were a Laurel and Hardy duo – Willie Steyn and Andries van Tonder. Willie was a solidly built specimen with arms like dockside bollards, while Dries was an underfed stick insect. They were both local farmers. The pair approached across the concrete one morning. Willie, being the larger, nominated himself as spokesman for the caucus, and addressed me in Afrikaans. After the initial polite “Goeie more, oom…” Good morning uncle... I struggled to follow the monologue, so when Willie paused for breath I inserted my well-practiced phrase, “Ek kan nie goed Afrikaans praat nie, maar ek prober om dit te leer.” [I can’t good Afrikaans speak not, but I’m trying to learn it.]

They looked at each other in horror, and then said, simultaneously and with feeling, “O gats!” [Oh arseholes!] We all stood looking at each other for a bit. Three things were becoming clear. First, future communications would not be easy. Second, I was on the verge of losing some much-needed business. And third, they seemed like thoroughly decent citizens. Using sign-language and pidgin English I was able to determine that they wanted me to teach them to fly, but they considered the language barrier an insurmountable obstacle. In my haste to prevent them from disappearing with their wallets, I was struck by a brainwave. “Okay, guys, I’ll tell you what we’ll do... I will charge you each R10 per hour for English lessons, and you get your flying for free.” They were at first amazed, and then delighted with this elegant solution. There was much laughter, hand shaking and back slapping. And so I had my first proper customers – and what a wonderful pair of human beings they turned out to be. It was huge fun training them – they both had that feel for machinery that’s so common amongst farmers – except they are inclined to pull the throttle back for more power – which is what you do on a tractor. Their English improved dramatically and Willie turned out to be an extremely funny bastard – particularly at parties once he had got himself outside a couple of Castles. After getting their PPLs, they both bought their own aircraft. Fat Willie bought a Tripacer and later disappeared to Otjiwarongo where he started a butchery. And Dries bought a 140 Cherokee. He later became a tiewearing, BMW-driving estate agent in George.

A GREEN AEROPLANE

My next customer was something completely different. I think I may have told you this story before, but it’s worth repeating. I was in my little office when I found myself confronted by a Boris Johnson doppelgänger who was perhaps 40. His name

that feel for machinery that’s so common amongst farmers

was Jeff Towill and he had that bumbling, vaguely out-of-touch manner that some very bright people use to hide their sharp intellect. His Johnson hair matched his floppy appearance. He looked as though he lived in a haystack. He introduced the subject of his visit, in a shambling round-about way as if he were embarrassed to mention his humble request. “Excuse me, but you see, I was wondering if you are actually the sort of flying instructing person around here?” I confirmed that I was indeed such a person, and asked if I could help him in any way.

“Well, I just thought that maybe you might perhaps be able to teach me to fly a green aeroplane.” I assured him that green aeroplanes were indeed within the scope of my abilities. And my license allowed for such a contingency – I could instruct on aeroplanes of any colour up to 6500 pounds. Perhaps he could be more specific. He backed out of the narrow door and invited me to look where he was pointing. There stood a fairly tatty Luscombe Silvaire. I explained that I had never flown a Silvaire, so I would need to take it round the block and get used to its handling before I started to train him. “Well you see, it’s kind of like this, you see – I can sort of fly it but I think I should get a licence.” It turned out that he had just flown the aircraft in from his home in Beaufort West. It seems that the person who had sold him the Luscombe had thrown in some illegal instruction as part of the deal. Illegal in that he was not an instructor and had only just got his own PPL. Which reminds me of a wonderful story that Zingi told me shortly before I left Placo. Don’t worry I will get back to Jeff in a moment. The story is that two farmers had pitched up at DCA, as it was then called, with their logbooks and requested that they both be issued with PPLs. The older brother had logged 41 hours

teach me to fly a green aeroplane

Jim's first wife Christine and infant Vincent. Outeniqua mountains in the background and his little office half hidden behind the nose of his 140 Cherokee, ZS-EKE

ZS- BWH was Jeff’s green Luscombe

while the younger one’s logbook reflected exactly the same flights but showed a total of precisely 40 hours. The young lady at the counter detected the scent of a rodent. She put the brothers on standby while she took the logbooks to Jacques Germishuys, who was the boss of the twentyman operation. Jacques glanced through the books and asked the lady to invite the applicants through to his office for a chat. It turns out that they couldn’t see anything wrong with their training. The older brother had hired an instructor to give him his first lesson on the yellow Piper Cub they had bought. The next day the older brother gave the same lesson to the younger one. They followed this procedure throughout their entire training. The instructor taught Koos, and Koos taught Frikkie. They were nice guys and both had survived this unconventional training, so Jacques used his discretion and went for the practical solution. Both received five hours dual, wrote the exams, were tested by a DCA inspector and then issued with their licenses. I suspect that today they would receive hefty fines and become guests of the government.

Anyhow this brings me back to the Boris Johnson lookalike. It turned out to be the beginning of a lifetime friendship. Jeff was an extremely bright and very funny man. I later did his Com and Instructor training, and then he started a small crop-spraying company in the hangar facing mine. He also did a bit of instruction in a 150 Cessna – so he was technically my opposition, but it turned out fine because Jeff had no patience with students. He considered volume to be the key to good training. I would watch him preflighting the aircraft with a student. Suddenly there would be a thunderous bellow, “Well what’s the bloody thing called?” “Um urr…” “IT’S A FRICKING OLEO. What is it?” “It’s an oleo, sir.” “I CAN’T HEAR YOU. What is it?” “An oleo…” “I STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU.” This method of instructing might indeed get the odd point across in a memorable way; but Jeff’s pupes tended to migrate over to the more peaceful environment of my little school. Eventually he gave up instructing and devoted his efforts to crop spraying – an operation more suited to his human relation skills. Many Southern Cape flyers will remember Jeff Towill, and his wife, Ethny. I have a lovely story about them but it will have to keep till next month. j