From the time of our decision to go to New Zealand, I excited my partner with vivid descriptions of its beauty. We arrived there in time for Christmas with my pregnant partner recovering from the toll of the flight. The first place we made home was a rented holiday cottage opposite my mother's house at the beautiful seaside town of Kaikoura on the South Island. Our baby was due at the end of February and we spent our time looking for a small 'bed and breakfast' business or something similar.
By chance I met a casual pilot for the local aero club and he got me interested in sharing his job of fish spotting for a trawler based in Nelson. Thoughts of flying again had long gone, but as my compulsions were now only of a minor nature and the aircraft was not a 747 I decided to give it a go. The only requirement needed for me to get a New Zealand commercial pilot's licence was to sit an examination on aviation law, five hours of flying and a flight test in a light aircraft and a medical pass. The aviation law would be a breeze as New Zealand was where had I learnt to fly, the five hour flying just routine and I had so many flight tests that was no concern, but what about the medical and my compulsion on 747's. My general health was very good, so too was my good fortune that the local doctor, who I had met in clinics with my partner, didn't ask any questions regarding mental health so I didn't divulge my past history. I knew that the last psychiatrist Qantas had sent me to had informed the Australian Civil Aviation that I was OK, so hoped that if any checking up was done I would be in the clear. Like buying from a mail order catalogue my commercial pilot's licence arrived and I went to a meeting at the aero club where the members welcomed me.
Some I had met while I was learning to fly and more interesting were some who were still using a "Griffin Navigational Computer" made by me in my earlier inventive years. I was given the go ahead to do the fish spotting and flew a couple runs with the other pilot, then off I flew, captain of an aircraft again even though it was only a two-seater. There were no taunting start levers here and I settled on a course to inspect the target area for fish and then land at a local aero club and phone any sightings to the trawler. If there were schools of fish, which could vary from five to ten tonnes, the trawler would high tail it to the area where I would be waiting. The fish had very little chance of escape, as from my directions the trawler would go past the fish at full speed, start the release of the trawl net and sweep in a circle around the school back to the beginning of the net, encasing the fish. However if the fish had a smart leader, a quick dive would have them all in safety and the captain pulling his hair out. I was now back to one engine flying and as soon as I was out of gliding distance from land my feet would chatter on the rudder pedals. I had no survival equipment on board and the waves looked so cold and savage. I thought to myself "I don't like this." and I never flew unnecessarily far from land. We had to move out of the cottage for Easter so making the most of being homeless, our family now increased in size by one daughter and a doting grandmother, we set off in our 20-year-old car for a quick scenic trip around the South Island. Our highlight was when we arrived in beautiful Queenstown.
Casually walking round the shops we passed an estate agent and for pure nosiness mother-in-law was sent in to see what it would cost to buy some type of accommodation business as we were all interested in bed and breakfast establishments. As a matter of fact we had put in an offer on a twelve-bedroom ex-convent complete with schoolrooms and chapel in Kaikoura before our departure. After what seemed a long enough time, my partner went to locate her mother and when eventually none of them came out I struggled through the door with the pram and precious contents asking the first person I saw where my family was. I was invited into an office of a jovial estate agent and found the reason for the delay. An older motel had changed hands and the lease was available free for some up-and-coming moteliers. It seemed too good to be true and as we to were trying to impress the agent it came out in conversation that he and I had been members of the Vintage Car Club in Dunedin at a similar time. Although not knowing each other we had the same circle of friends, owners of such classic cars as Bentleys, Minervas, Rolls Royces, Model T Fords and everyone's favourite the Baby Austin Seven. Reminiscing of those good times seemed to take precedent to the motel discussions for a while but eventually we were given a verbal OK subject to the owner's approval. During our picnic lunch on the shores of beautiful Lake Wakatipu surrounded by some of the world's prettiest scenery, our excited discussion was shall we or shall we not. There weren't many suggestions of why not, and after a unanimous decision to go ahead, we saw the vendor's solicitor and hastily signed the relevant documents.
On our return journey back to Kaikoura, our excited conversations were only about one subject. Within a few weeks we were back in Queenstown going through the motels inventory, putting up a new sign and introducing ourselves to the accommodation agents. There was a lot to learn but we were practical and keen and even opened our doors ahead of the start of the lease date. Being so keen at the start I am always reminded of the first cooked breakfast I prepared for a unit full of young men. So intent was I to get everything perfect I forgot to charge them, but then someone has to win occasionally.
Queenstown was full of activities, bungy jumping, mountain trekking, white water rafting, jet boating, gold prospecting trips, helicopter scenic flights to the famous Milford Sound and a new one, paraponting or base jumping. As booking agents for all these activities, we were given numerous occasions to try them out in the hope that we would entice our customers to also try them. With my daughter in her pram on our walks to town, I would watch with awe, as giant butterflies would gracefully soar down from the hill behind Queenstown. I was still fascinated with flight and we would go to the park to watch them land effortlessly. I became friendly with one jumper and he told me that if I had a lesson with the professionals he would let me share his chute at other remote sites, that was if I provided the transport.
Eagerly I made an appointment for my free motelier's lesson and listened with great interest to the pre-flight instructions. It all seemed very straightforward to an ex 747 pilot, the only hard part seemed to be the extra athletic effort required for the initial run down-hill to become airborne. I made the excuse" Ladies first" to watch for any pitfalls and was quite excited when the lady made a successful landing in the paddock below. It was now my moment of truth and I ran as fast down the hill as my short legs would take me. I said to myself "Gear up" at the appropriate time, and as I lifted my legs the feeling of being suspended so high in the air was exhilarating. I carried out a few turns on my glide to the landing paddock where I was to watch an instructor for my landing guidance. He had a baton in each hand and was to signal me when to flare for my touchdown. Unfortunately at the last minute the wind direction changed and he signalled me onto a new direction to fly directly into it. Everything was happening so fast and not being sure when to flare as I was not in a 747 now, I turned my head to look behind me to watch for the crutial instructions, but before I had time to interpolate them and face forward again for the landing there was a loud 'crack' and I was now a crumpled heap on the ground. It was my first crash as a pilot. After watching the young lady before me make a perfect landing, I embarrassingly went to stand and found the reason for the noise. I had broken my foot and painfully I gathered up the chute and hobbled off the paddock, feeling very disappointed as this was the end of my new sport before it had even started.
The hospital soon had my leg in plaster and for the next few days my routine changed from motelier to a critic of daytime television. My fear and horror of being restricted again took over my body and in panic I would be continuously trying to move my leg inside the plaster but it only increased the pain and made matters worse. Trying to sleep was possible with the throbbing of my swollen leg, and my compulsive attempts of movement. Eventually before the required time for having the plaster on was up, I begged my doctor to remove it, promising to stay in bed if necessary. I was at the stage my brain said that it had to come off, and I would have torn it off myself if he had not agreed to.
Living in a ski resort had great benefits and some downfalls. During the summer months there were vast amounts of pollen in the air and as the airways in my nostrils were very narrow I sometimes found breathing through my nose impossible. When I would try to draw in air through my nose the sides of it would be sucked in completely blocking it, a similar feeling as to having a heavy cold. I have always panicked when restricted and this feeling of not being able to breathe normally was no exception. I consulted my doctor who laughed the symptoms off and said that she had them too, and it was really not a problem. But she wasn't in my body and couldn't understand my anxiety. When the symptoms would start to develop I would use any excuse to get out of town into the clearer mountain air and gold prospecting was my favourite reprieve.
Whenever I had panic symptoms they would manifest themselves into my neck and sometime several visits a week were made to a local chiropractor. He must have sensed my anxiety, as he would often advise me to get a close companion who would listen to my problems and help to get them out of my system. Unfortunately I didn't get such a friend and I now realise how important his advice was.
In 1990, our second winter in Queenstown, skiing became a large part of our lives and we even had the luxury of season passes. I was virtually the househusband and took most of the care of our daughter. Bathing and nappy changing were no problem, though little did I know of the traumatic feeling I was going to have with this little girl in the near future. It perhaps wasn't an obsession but I wanted her to be one of the youngest skiers when she was only 15 months old. We bought her tiny skis and boots and to get her conditioned to this new mode of transport when she had only learnt to walk, I built a small ski ramp that clipped onto the dining table. It was well lubricated with talcum powder and the little bundle would be lifted to the top, lean forward like a ski jumper and with a little wiggle, whoosh off she would slide to the rewarding pieces of chocolate at the bottom. When it was time for real cold snow and the nursery slope, the chocolate would be placed in front of her, and with her perfected wiggle to get started the pink snow suited bundle would travel faster than she could walk. After each run I struggled to hang onto the rope ski tow with one hand and the other arm trying to keep a grip on this heavy awkward wriggling shape with all her equipment I was exhausted by the time we reached the top. It was all worth it however as she improved rapidly and soon we were on a chair lift together to challenge a longer slope. Sometimes I think I bit off more than I could chew as only being a novice skier myself, occasionally I had to get help with her going through the rougher patches.
Riding the chairlift on my own one beautiful cloudless day with a perfect snow cover, I was as happy and content as one could be in anticipation of the buzz of another great run. The chair lift had one of its occasional stops and with the abruptness of this stop all the chairs started to rock as the skiers were thrown forward. Usually these stops were a precaution when a skier had fallen over while disembarking, but this one seemed to be lasting a lot longer than usual, Like a lightening bolt from that clear blue sky, I got the compulsion to be out of that trapped situation and the urge to lift up the safety bar and jump to freedom was taking over me. No one else seemed to be perturbed by the situation, as there were many squeals of delight by some occupants purposely rocking their chairs for excitement. Who could get me down if I screamed? I knew that I would be seriously injured or possibly killed if I jumped and what would be best, skis on or off? Stories of skiers being trapped for hours made me feel so scared and I looked around for signs of any emergency equipment. How would I get the rescuers to come to me first? Oh how I wished I had some rope around my waist. It was absolute relief when eventually my backside left the chair at the top after it eventually restarted. That run down the hill was not enjoyable as I had earlier anticipated and if I could have caught a cab down I would have. Once again I had to suffer my fear in silence, as others could not understand having such a feeling.
My next attempt to board the chair lift several days later was with the aid of my old friend Serapax. I was still very uncomfortable and the effects of the drug made my skiing far from safe. My fear of the chair lift only became tolerable if I could be on a chair with other skiers and tell them of my fear and keep a conversation going. My embarrassment was overshadowed by the compassion by my varied travel companions and I would usually make it to the top without pain or fear, confirming that talking really helps as a cure. Occasionally when at the last minute I was left to travel alone "what ifs" would be going through my head the whole journey, with my body sensing every changing movement in anticipation of a stoppage.
I wasn't disappointed to see the snow disappear at the end of the season. Time is meant to heal, but it didn't work for me as during the next summer a scenic chair lift was operating at Coronet Peak ski resort. My partner and daughter boarded one double chair, and as I went to board the next one I froze in terror. The chairs were not very high off the ground and no matter how hard I tried to coax myself on and join family I couldn't. Unfortunately there were no other people waiting to take the quiet scenic ride, thus depriving me the chance of a companion. All I could do was chat to the lift operator until my bewildered family returned down asking why I hadn't joined them. Gradually my tear syndrome came back to me, which left motel guests wondering why I would suddenly leave them standing in an empty office. I just could not talk to anyone eye to eye, and would often burst into tears at the dinner table for no reason at all and have to rush to the bedroom and sob my heart out not knowing what was happening to me. Once I was a 747 pilot living life to the fullest but now I had become a nothing. Unfortunately I was left to deal with my own problems and was never comforted or given compassion by my family. My doctor prescribed antidepressants and things went along tolerably until just after our Christmas rush in 1990 when we decided to take a tropical island vacation to Fiji. I had forgotten the after effects of coming off antidepressants quickly in Sydney, and as I wanted to have a good time and not to worry about the side effects of drinking alcohol, my doctor said I could stop taking them. Oh what a disastrous decision she made. We flew to Auckland and stayed the night, but over dinner I gradually felt stranger and stranger in my head. It was like a steel band being tightened around it and my body was waiting in anticipation of it being released but it never happened, and after a sleepless night we returned to Auckland airport for our flight to Fiji. I paced and paced around the airport terminal wondering what to do. For some reason I didn't want to tell my partner, possibly because I would be chastised for ruining the holiday. I wanted to call my doctor but couldn't find a private telephone to ring her on, and these were the pre mobile days. Trying to cover up my feelings, we boarded the aircraft but as soon as the doors were closing I panicked with claustrophobia and was within a whisker of making a screaming beeline for the exit door and safety. My body was instantly drenched with water droplets as I tried to control my fear. How could a person that once had such a desire to fly end up in a situation like this?
During the first two days on our island I spent most of the time grasping at my head and screaming as I tried to get that imaginary steel band off. When I couldn't stand living like this any longer, I dragged myself to the office to arrange a flight to the mainland to see a doctor and a chiropractor. Imagine my delight on being told that there was a resident doctor in the hotel. It was going to take a couple of days to get me some antidepressants tablets so he gave me large painful doses of Valium. I felt as though he didn't think I was ill as I looked great. It was during this holiday that I had strange feelings when being alone with my daughter. They were not of wanting to cause her any distress or harm but it was just this uncomfortable feeling. Up until now I had done most of her morning rituals of nappy changing, bathing, dressing and feeding while my partner was supervising the cleaning of the motel rooms. Now suddenly it was as though she had some sort of aura that didn't want me intruding in its space.
On our return to Queenstown I took my troubles to a more understanding doctor who prescribed me another brand of antidepressant. These didn't have the desired effect and slowly my feelings deteriorated. When visiting my doctor in tears and describing my panic feeling and how unhappy I was with life he advised me that I needed the professional care of a psychiatric hospital and made arrangements for me to be admitted to Ashburn Hall Psychiatric Hospital in Dunedin. My partner seemed stunned by this drastic decision and she was left to complete the sale of the motel lease that we had commenced.