Open Writing

After gaining my Private Pilot Licence in 1989 I flew extensively throughout the North Island of New Zealand and, as there was no air service from my town, was often asked to fly locals into Auckland International Airport. As a PPL holder I was not allowed to fly for monetary gain but accepted ‘donations’ to cover my costs.

I had purchased a share in the Coromandel Aero Club’s Cessna 172, “Charlie Sierra India” or ZK-CSI, and we were the perfect match for each other. No other 172, even later, better equipped models, could match this girl, even though she was as old as I was.

Together we entered many local and national competitions with a great deal of success.

Two months after gaining my PPL I flew to the NZ Airwomen’s annual conference which was held at Nelson at the top of the South Island. This was the farthest I had ventured and it was with mixed feelings of excitement and trepidation that I and two other local lady pilots slowly crossed the white-capped ocean between the two islands.

It was a successful trip, resulting in my bringing home the prized trophy for the forced landing. This competition entails a simulated engine failure at 3000 feet, with a controlled descent while carrying out mandatory checks. It is anticipated that the aircraft should touch down within a small marked grid, almost invisible from the air. I competed against 33 other women, many with a lot more experience than myself, and was ecstatic to land ‘smack bang’ in the centre of the grid for maximum points.

A couple of years later at the NZ regional competitions I won the ‘spot landing’, a competition to complete the most accurate takeoff, circuit and landing, while attempting to touch down on the mark. Of all the aero clubs from the upper half of the North Island, little Coromandel Aero Club, consisting of ten flying members, had shown them how it was done – and by a woman too, by God!

I went on to the national comps and, once again, CSI and I were triumphant against the crème de la crème of New Zealand’s PPLs, taking away the coveted trophy. Those were the days.

It was a sad day for many when a member overloaded our club aircraft with bins of fish and crashed on landing at a short strip, demolishing CSI. Luckily John and his wife (who was terrified of flying) walked away with little more than injured pride.

When I eventually moved to a larger city I joined the local, more active aero club, which became my second home. It didn’t take long before I was elected deputy club captain and took charge of organising all social events, fly-ins, and guest speakers.

At the same time I was studying by distance for the five commercial pilot exams – principles of flight, aviation law, meteorology, aircraft technical knowledge, and navigation. I had decided to progress onwards and gain my commercial licence in the hope of flying ‘the big one’ one day. I could just see myself in the navy suit, gold epaulettes and braided cap. I guess I have always been a dreamer.

In October 1993, after much intensive training and aching brain, I achieved the coveted status of commercial pilot. So there I was with the freshly printed paper in my hands and no chance of a job for miles around. There was already a glut of CPLs on the aero club’s voluntary list as it was – and still is.

I continued providing my friends with chartered and scenic flights while slowly losing enthusiasm and belief I could ever attain airline pilot status. Everywhere I looked there was fierce competition - more experienced, more confident pilots with many more hours than me – so I put my big ambitions on the backburner, until the following year.

When the opportunity arose to buy a Tiger Moth and operate scenic flights, my former partner (a humble PPL of 20 years experience) and I jumped at the chance. Little did we know at the time the can of worms we were opening.

Neither of us had flown a Tiger Moth, although we both had experience in Piper Cubs, which operates the same tailwheel system, instead of the more modern tricycle arrangement.

We had an Operations Manual drawn up at great expense and dealt with the masses of legal paperwork, while I trained on our newly rebuilt, racing green Tiger. She had been in a bad accident a few years before and broke the pilot’s back, although he fully recovered after a long recuperation.

I loved that aeroplane with a vengeance – even though it popped and banged and experienced engine surges that hastened my heartbeat – and was soon flying her solo every chance I got to build up my experience on the type.

The Tiger is an aeroplane that can be as smooth as silk one day and bite you in the bum the next. Flying conditions had to be perfect with this grand old lady – 15 knots or less headwind and 10 knots or less of crosswind (preferably zero crosswind) or she became difficult to handle on the ground.

I had an experienced Air New Zealand pilot for my instructor, who had spent a bit of time in the Tiger Moth, so I had no problems in mastering her little foibles.

A few months later I was a driving a friend back from a weekend away when the radio announcer said a Tiger Moth had crashed into a Kiwifruit orchard in Tauranga and there was no word on the condition of the pilot.

I knew it was my Tiger as it was the only one in the region. Suddenly, I was a danger on the roads, driving at frightening speeds on narrow, country lanes. My friend didn’t drive so in retrospect I should have pulled over and found another way home, but I was in shock; my heart was beating, I was hyperventilating and I had tunnel vision. Somehow we made it to the nearest airport and chartered a flight back to Tauranga.

On arriving at the hospital I learned my former partner was in surgery but would survive. He spent six days in intensive care, had a multitude of stitches to repair a deep cut across his face and experienced superficial burns from the fuel leaking from the tank above him. It was fascinating to see bright purple bruising gradually appear where the five point harness had covered his chest before snapping.

It appears he stalled the Tiger at low level, entered a spin and crashed into a kiwifruit orchard. Crashing through a timber framing acted as a buffer, saving his life. Even so, the engine was completely buried in the earth.

This ended our foray into the scenic flight business, disappointing a lot of locals who had pre-booked flights as gifts for fathers and grandfathers and, ultimately, disappointing me. Not only had one of the most immaculate Tiger Moth’s in the country been ruined, but once again I was jobless.