Chapter
Two
LEAVING
SCHOOL
In 1956, my final year of high school, I
excelled in technical drawing, so the careers advisor arranged for me to be a
draughting cadet with the New Zealand Lands and Survey Department in Dunedin.
Lodgings were arranged, and off I went to start my career in the city workforce.
I was quickly brought
down to earth about my draughting skills by the chief draughtsman, as every
morning the new cadet's first hour was spent doing printing practice. One fellow
cadet was a dainty young lady, and her work always put mine to shame, giving me
the idea that beauty creates beauty. As I became more familiar with the
structure of the department, and with a view to becoming a land surveyor, I
applied for a survey cadetship when one became available. I was unsuccessful in
that bid but, determined as I was, I found a cadetship with a private firm of
surveyors.
The only problem with
being a cadet with a private firm was that the pay was very low, and eventually
I had to admit defeat, as I became tired of living on the breadline and not
being able to enjoy life's basics, or begin the enormous task of rebuilding my
Delage, a 1924 French classic car.
A friend and I had
bought the car for five pounds, 'as is', in hundreds of pieces. There was no
body; nor was there any manual, but we eventually found a place for all of the
parts, and were about to try and start it when a lone unidentified part was
discovered. After much searching and head scratching, the part was identified as
coming from the oil pump, necessitating that the engine be disassembled to
insert it.
Reassembly was easy,
and after flattening our batteries trying to start our car, without success, we
took the easy way out and ran it down a long hill. Unfortunately, we had to be
towed back up to our garage, but with a few repeats of this procedure we
eventually succeeded in bringing the old beauty back to life, and managed to
achieve a daylight warrant of fitness.
The Delage had a
beautifully proud radiator, similar to a Rolls Royce, and the engine was a work
of art, with the beautiful machine-polished aluminium crankcase completely
filling the space from one side of the chassis to the other. It had an advantage
at rallies, as the starter motor was also the generator, connected to the engine
by a chain. For a quick start, it was
just a matter of having the car in low gear and, when the signal was given,
pushing on the starter button to start the engine. When the engine did start,
the car was given an extra boost from the battery-powered starter motor, and
when the button was released the starter motor would convert to a generator.
One particular long
weekend rally was to the high country sheep-station of the inventor of the
'Hamilton Jet Boat'. As our car had no bodywork, a plank was bolted across the
rear of the chassis, and an old seat was fastened to it to carry our rally
mechanic. He was only an apprentice mechanic, but to us he was tops so, with a
roar, this flying skeleton of a car took off.
We had many stops along
the way, as the tyres were bald and those with holes had great sleeves inside
that were prone to giving up the ghost. The tyres were of the style of the '20s
and no longer available in New Zealand, so we had to put up with the familiar
bang and make our rally-style wheel changes. It was wintertime and darkness fell
well before we had reached our destination; to make matters worse it had started
to snow. Mud from the wheels was flying everywhere and our goggles became
useless without wipers. Squint-eyed, we pressed on in the pitch darkness,
following the feel of the ruts in the gravel road. When we saw the occasional
signpost, it was a case of examining it with a cigarette lighter in the
darkness. However, not everything was dark, as the snow and sleet falling on the
engine was shorting out the uncovered spark-plug leads, and they looked like
four blue illuminated stripes, but with the disadvantage of causing a great loss
of engine power. There were cheers from the early arrivals as we eventually
pulled into the woolshed yards at Irishman's Creek, as I think most people were
amazed that we made it there at all!
After the exciting
weekend activities it was a tired crew that steered this muddy frame back to
Dunedin. On dusk, the police thought that what they saw streak past them
couldn't possibly be registered or roadworthy, and stopped us seventy miles from
home. After showing him our papers, the amused officer suggested that we not
break the law by driving on the main highway without lights. We found an
obliging home owner who agreed to let us leave the car in his yard and we
hitch-hiked home, to return the next weekend for our well-rested steed.
The police must have
hated this car. One day I was stopped in the main street of Dunedin by a traffic
officer, who would have thought that he had a sure catch. From my open cockpit,
I signalled him that I would go around the next corner, but he insisted that I
stop there and then. As he walked sulkily away without being able to lay any
charges, I called him back and explained the reason I'd wanted to park around
the corner. I had a flat battery, and now I would need his help to push-start
the car. It was a great feeling having this now grumpy policeman push my pride
and joy down the main street, accompanied by cheers from the pedestrians. That
could not happen today!
Cap in hand, I applied
to have my old draughting job back at the Lands and Survey Department. I was
offered a draughting cadet position again, but it was to be in Hokitika, a small
town of 3,000 people on the west coast of the South Island. I had never been
there before, and for me it was going to be a new
adventure.
My draughting skills
didn't improve much - but my personal life did. It seemed easy for a city boy
who had experienced tough competition to be the fastest swimmer in this new
town, and I was elected captain of the swimming club. Swimming was only a summer
sport in Hokitika, as the swimming pool was outside and had no cover on it. To
make matters worse, the water was not heated and was changed weekly, making
Monday - the filling day - very cold for training. At the club events in the
evenings a large drum full of burning wood was kept blazing away to keep the
chill off the shivering bodies wrapped in their damp towels. One positive
outcome of swimming in the cold water was a desire to get out of it, and the
sooner you reached the finish, the sooner your forehead would stop hurting from
the cold. I didn't do so well when competing with clubs in other towns that had
heated pools, so perhaps my speed in Hokitika was a factor of the cold
water.
In New Zealand a
drivers licence could be obtained at the age of fifteen and naturally, on my
fifteenth birthday, I had presented myself for the test. This was really only a formality as I
had always driven when out with my father. It wasn't very long before I had
saved enough money for a motorcycle, and my days of pedaling a pushbike up hills
or against headwinds were over.
Ballroom dancing had
always been a part of my background, as my father had once been a pianist at a
popular dance hall in Christchurch. I became even more interested in ballroom
dancing when my father's dance promoter friend visited us with his daughters
when I was sixteen. I showed off my motorcycle to the older daughter, spellbound, and from
then on, whenever I was in Christchurch I would pay her a visit. I was always
hoping for a date, but was never actually rewarded with
one until at least ten years later.
Perhaps the only reason
I was made a welcome visitor at her house was because of the past friendship and
music association of our parents. I bought a saxophone, thinking I could follow
in her father's footsteps, but despite all the lessons I could never make that
instrument make music the way he did when I showed him my new acquisition. Just
listening to him playing basic scales sent shivers through my body! A picture of
our two fathers in the orchestra fifty years ago now stands proudly on my
ex-wife's grand piano. Not one of our three children, unfortunately, followed in
their grandfather's footsteps.
I was very involved in
running the swimming club's Friday dances and when they stopped running at the
end of summer I thought, 'Here is my chance to become a promoter,' and took up
the challenge. I rented the hall plus a three-piece band, and on occasion I
would join in with my saxophone, which I'm sure added a few extra notes that
were not appreciated! In those days in the '50s supper was a major part of the
evening, so to my skills I added the craft of sandwich
making.
By this time I had restored
my French vintage 1924 Delage, driving it with pride. The tyre problem had been
overcome by re-spoking the hubs with rims from a Model A Ford. It was a painstaking job cutting
each spoke and hand threading the end, but it was worth the blisters when I at
last took to the roads not having to worry when the next flat would be. In the
'20s many car makers would leave the body building to coach makers, and it was
up to the owner to choose how he wanted his horseless carriage to look. Not
being able to find any information on original designs, I built a standard body,
but with the minor variation of a one-piece bonnet, fastened down by two great
leather straps that looked as though they were holding down the power of a great
supercharged engine. It was all for show, as it really only had a small four
cylinder engine, but it was still great for delivering the food and the large
containers of cordial drinks to the dances.
Drinking alcohol was
illegal under the age of 21 in New Zealand and the law stated that there was to
be no alcohol within half a mile of a dance hall. It was now approaching winter
and my dances lacked support; gradually they became less popular. What was I
doing wrong? My last venue was embarrassing, as only three people turned up and
I was still left with the bill for the hall and the band. After refunding the
entrance fee to my last faithful supporters, I was now left contemplating my
role as an entrepreneur.
Teenagers weren't
allowed in pubs, with most congregating in the local milk bars, and one day I
was asked if I could make a sign for my local milk bar. Using my draughting skills, I produced a
work of art. As there was no sign-writer in the town I seized the opportunity
and enrolled in a sign-writing correspondence course. Some aspects I could
manage, but others were beyond even my determination. Only so much can be learnt from books,
so when the chief draughtsman was not in the draughting room I would work on my
designs, giving my thoughts to my next sign and not the pastoral lease I was
meant to be drawing.
I managed to secure
contracts to produce large signs for tobacco and ice-cream corporations, but I
became unstuck when I quoted to silkscreen several hundred signs for the
Forestry Department. No matter how I tried, I couldn't make the process work for
me, and eventually I had to spend days and days painting all the signs by hand.
The artwork I enjoyed most was working with gold leaf. Even today I look in awe
at signs done in gold leaf, with rich colours used as a shadow. I always get a
smile from sign-writers when I tell them that the adhesive for gold leaf in my
day was egg white, but the surveyors I talk to look at me as thought I am
'Father Time' when I tell them that the cross hairs on my own theodolite were
delicately placed spider web!
One of the popular
activities each year was the production put on by the Hokitika Revue Society.
Cast members came from all walks of life and performances were played to packed
halls. My singing voice was as rough around the edges as my draughting skills,
so most of my vocal parts were mimed. One of the problems was that everyone
needed a copy of the music for study and rehearsal, but photocopiers had not yet
been invented. The most similar apparatus available was a photostat machine, an
enormous one of which, perchance, was in the possession of the Lands and Survey
Department! You guessed it - I was the normal operator, and one night, aided by
the caretaker, I sneaked into the government buildings.
Making my way in the
darkness to the photostat room, my heart was pounding. If caught, would I be
charged as a burglar? No, that wouldn't happen - the policeman was in the revue
society! The room was designed as a darkroom so, with none of the dim red light
giving me away through the window, I mixed the chemicals and started the mammoth
task of copying reams of sheet music. It was late into the night when I scurried
out of the building after perhaps one of the county's biggest music scams.
I was the most popular
person at the next rehearsal, as now everyone had his or her own music. It took
a little juggling of the books to account for the large amount of photostat
paper that had suddenly vanished. The rolls were about eighteen inches (or
forty-five centimetres) wide and it was very obvious in the light of day how
much I had used. A couple of rehearsals later I suddenly started to panic when a
new member of the society was introduced to the cast. To my dismay, it was the
chief surveyor. As he was given his music I thought I was done for, but no. He
looked at the familiar paper … looked at me … and that was that! He couldn't
have been too worried, as luck came my way and with his recommendation I was
given a survey cadetship with the Lands and Survey
Department.
It was a tough and
demanding job, but I loved it. I did most of the hard work of digging holes and
clearing lines, as for me it was a way of keeping fit for my sports. Those were
the days before calculators, and most of a surveyor's calculations were done by
logarithms. Corrections had to be made
to measurement for the slope of the ground, the temperature variance from the
standard for the tape, and a final one for the amount of sag that the tape had
during the measurement.
There must be an easier
way to do this, I thought, and invented a small circular slide calculator that
could be used to obtain the corrections. My prototype was made of cardboard and
worked really well, so the next step was to work out how to make it in
plastic. New Zealand was behind in
a lot of things, and printing on plastic had not been done or - more to the
point - I couldn't find anyone that could do it!
While on a visit to see
my mother in Christchurch, I was put in touch with a bookbinding firm that had a
machine used for the gold embossing
of book covers. With much trial and error some positive
results were made. The process involved
pressing a heated printing plate through a carbon-like film, which melted the
pigment on the film into the plastic. It was now a matter of finding the right film
and pigment that would take the wear and tear of the continual rubbing of dirty
fingers.
On that particular trip
I paid my normal visit to the dance promoters and, of course, their daughter.
Why she was so patronising I don't know, but she invited me to join her and her
friends at a camping ground in Nelson over the Christmas holidays. A few days
after she had set up camp, I showed up with my borrowed one-man tent. I couldn't
see, as I was always spellbound in her company, that she must have regretted
ever inviting me on her one chance for a parentless holiday. Here she was with
her girlfriends, hoards of eligible young men at her beck and call, and one
liability - me. It must have been a strained situation, her trying to have a
serious relationship with any young man with a watchman always outside her tent!
The main social event
was the weekend dance two miles away. Not having any spare cash, I would walk to
the venue and patiently wait for a gap in the queue to ask her for a dance.
Knowing that I had no chance for the 'last dance', I would start my long trek
back to the camping ground early, only to be saddened by the serenade of car
horns as my acquaintances, male and female, passed me in their cars. By the time
I arrived back at the camping ground all the goodnights had been said, and with
silence all around I would crawl into my tent, thinking of the way things might
have been. Even with all the setbacks, I still enjoyed the holiday and kept up
my visits to her.
Now that I was learning
the skills of surveying I branched out into drawing plans of farms, showing
their paddocks and all pertinent details. All the information such as survey
maps and aerial photos was at my fingertips, and although not qualified I was my
own boss on these jobs. Some days I would spend hours in the strong-room,
pondering, as I wandered through the old surveyor's field books. It was like a
history book written in pictures, as those wiry explorers were at the forefront
of this new country. Gold was luring people to the West Coast, and in my
dreaming I hoped that I would find an important clue in the notes of a secret
find that the discoverer had never returned to.
One weekend I was doing
some measuring on a farm in a remote part of the West Coast when the flying
doctor arrived to examine one of the farm owner's children. During a
conversation with the pilot I was offered a seat on the small aircraft when it
flew to its next destination of Haast. At that time there was no road to Haast,
and as I had been working on possible routes for a road through the dense bush,
I welcomed the opportunity to see the land I had surveyed from the comfort of an
aircraft.
A condition of my free
flight was that if the patient the doctor was treating needed to be flown to
hospital, I would have to find my own way home by the regular air service. That
was something that I couldn't afford - but it was going to be worth the risk.
How relieved I was when the doctor returned to the airport with just his black
bag and no patient! On the flight back to Hokitika the doctor was dropped off at
the small town where he lived, and then it was 'up up and away'. The pilot, who
was the Hokitika Aero Club instructor, gave me the controls. I was ecstatic with
excitement and savoured every minute of that flight - so much so that I booked a
lesson with him for the following day.
Riding my bike up the steep hill to the airport was effortless, as I was about to do one of the most exciting things in my life! Suited up with helmet and goggles, I soon had the rickety Tiger Moth airborne, and my first pilot's logbook proudly shows its opening entry for 10 April 1961. Type of aircraft: Tiger Moth (DH82). Exercise carried out: learning to fly straight and level. Time flown: forty-five minutes.
When I left Qantas, which was several logbooks later, my total flying time was over 13,000 hours, with some of the flights being over ten hours duration.
Flying in an open
cockpit aircraft is the most amazing sensation as you look down at the ground
slowly disappearing, and feel the freeness of three dimensions and the wind
fluttering your Biggles scarf. I was hooked and returned for more
lessons, but on my fourth lesson the instructor conveyed the devastating news
that he was taking up a position with another aero club. What could I do? Learning to fly seemed to be in my
blood. Maybe it was a compulsion!
There was an eight-hour
railcar link with the city of Christchurch, and my life revolved around catching
it after work on Friday nights and returning on Sunday nights, arriving back in
Hokitika in time to start work on Monday morning. I was required to have a total
of forty hours flying time before I could sit for my private pilot's licence and
it was a slow process, as I would only fly thirty to forty-five minutes on a
Saturday and a similar number on a Sunday.
After my lessons on
normal circuit flying, stalling the aircraft, and practising engine failure, I
was ecstatic one day when the instructor alighted from the small Piper Cub and
sent me on my way for my first solo flight. I had only flown a total of six
hours, and here was my big moment! My shirt was soaked with sweat, and I'm sure
I was shaking as I carried out the circuit. Even though I had a rhyme to help me
remember the cockpit checks, I still missed one very important check.
On
approach, with the engine idling, carburettor heat must be put on to stop the
engine icing up, and I
forgot to do that. It was a very important drill and after that day I am sure I
have never missed it. From then on
I always used my rhyme, 'Tiger Moth For Fun In Hokitika'. T for trim, M for mixture, F for flaps,
F for fuel, I for ignition, and H for harness.
Thoughts of flying
would spill over to my land travel, as sometimes I would be jerked from my
thoughts of aircraft as I was driving home from the airport. As I was turning a
corner the engine would suddenly 'rev' up and the car would slow down. I had
unconsciously put my left foot on the rudder pedal for the turn, but in this
case it was the clutch pedal!
During my Saturday
night stays in Christchurch I would go to the dance run by the family
friends. I would stand like a
wallflower, not wanting to be asked to dance, but waiting for the supper
interval when the girl of my first obsession would have time for a break. Once again, if I was quick enough, I
would manage to be first to ask her for a dance. Oh how magnificently she
danced; the only things missing were her 'glass shoes'.
Elated by this short
period of togetherness I would go home, with my mother chastising me for being
so early. 'You should be out having fun,' she would always say. I did have fun,
but maybe not as much as I would have liked.
It was after many long
railcar trips that I eventually tested for, and passed, my flight check for my
private pilot's licence. At last I could show off and take my friends anywhere,
as long as they were paying for the aircraft. I'm sure, in hindsight, that in
many cases they are lucky to still be alive, as when you are young and new at
flying the risks don't seem bother you.
Flying into bad weather
is one of the main reasons why young inexperienced pilots get into strife.
Pilots either become disorientated when they inherently drift into cloud, or
stall in their turn to escape the frightening blackness in front of them. A
quote from a 1961 Civil Aviation booklet, which I still have, states, 'There are
old pilots and bold pilots, but no old bold pilots.'
There was an aero club
twenty miles away from Hokitika at Greymouth, and after gaining an endorsement
on their Auster I would use it at every
opportunity. On one particular flight the instructor had filled the Auster to
the brim with fuel. I imagined that the flight from Greymouth back to Hokitika
to pick up the passengers would use up enough fuel to make the flight load okay,
but after the three beefy passengers and their luggage were loaded it was lucky
that Hokitika had an extremely long runway!
It was a very slow
climb to the mountain pass where we had to cross over the Southern Alps, and a
friend who was flying a Cessna alongside during our departure found it difficult
to fly slowly enough to stay in formation. On reaching the pass I had to circle
several times to reach enough height, but I really became concerned when we had
eventually made it over, as I couldn't keep any altitude at all and I was forced
to fly down the river canyons until we reached the Canterbury
Plains.
The Auster had no
radio, so an overflight of the airport at 1500 feet was required. Once again, it
was a slow climb before I could position myself in the traffic pattern in
preparation to land on the grass area. On my final landing approach, I waited in
anticipation for the green light to land from the control tower, which took away
my focus on the landing. Very soon, I thought, I was going to find out the hard
way the perils of landing when overloaded and out of trim. As I flared for the
touch down, because of the excess weight in the rear of the Auster, the tail
wheel touched first, causing a violent change in altitude, and as the main wheels slammed onto
the ground we abruptly bounced back into the air. It was like the plane was playing leap-frog and, not
having been in this situation before, I elected to apply full power and do
another circuit - unfortunately with the same results.
On my third attempt to
land I kept some power on and flew the main wheels onto the grass, only then
cutting the power and letting the heavy tail fall to the ground with a thud. My
passengers cheered, but really had no reason to as they didn't realise how close
to a disaster we had come.
After a period of time
I was able to borrow an Auster from the Canterbury Aero Club at a very cheap
mid-week rate, and I flew it back to Hokitika, keeping it there for the
weekdays. Oh how proud I was as I raced to the airport on my motorcycle during
my lunch hour for a couple of quick circuits. Many days I would take off, in
seemingly my Auster, and put on a small aerial
show for the town.
As I now needed more
money to pay for my flying, some friends and I decided to shoot opossums for the
bounty offered by the Forestry Department. Spotlighting was the best way to find
them so, equipped with great lights and our .22 rifles, we headed to the bush.
All went well for a few weeks until one particular night when we had just shot
an opossum. The Department required proof of the kill, and the standard method
was to take off the opossum's ears and hand them in to a ranger. After finishing
this bloody task we were ready to move on and find another target, but as one of
my friends bent down to pick up his loaded rifle his finger touched the trigger,
and before I knew what had happened I was lying on the ground.
It all happened so
quickly that I don't even remember any gunshot sound as the bullet luckily
headed for my mid-leg and not a vital organ. When I tried to get up the
excruciating pain in my leg told me that I had been shot, and now every time I
see a cowboy shot in the leg in a movie and then hobble away I think to myself,
'It's not like that.' It really
hurts!
In absolute panic, my other friend went to bring my car over to me (not my Delage), but in his haste to turn it around he backed into a ditch, and that's where it stayed. They carried me over to my car and made me as comfortable as possible, while the ex-driver now set out on foot to run the eight miles through the pitch black forest to the nearest house.
I was told that the
only time he stopped was to be sick with exhaustion. In the meantime, the
perpetrator of my injury was suffering the deepest remorse, and must have been
worried about whether I was going to live or not, because he begged me to join
in his prayers. Apart from passing the painful time away, the prayers must have
done some good, as I survived.
The 'Olympic' runner
eventually found help at a small power-house, but unfortunately the only vehicle
available was a hoodless 1920s tourer full of firewood. When it eventually
arrived at my immobilised car, I had to be loaded on top of the wood -
there being no time to unload it - and I suffered the long bumpy and painful
ride to the power-house. While waiting for the ambulance I unfortunately asked
for a cup of tea, which then made it impossible for me to be
operated on when I reached the hospital.
The night had now
drifted into morning and I lay drugged, waiting for the pain to be taken away in
the operating theatre. I still remember waking after my surgery to see a great
cover over my legs. What had they done to me? A nurse saw me waken and lifted
the cover, revealing my leg plastered from toe to groin. It was sore and heavy.
Evidently the bullet had hit my tibia and shattered into hundreds of pieces. My
x-ray looked as though an ink pen had been flicked onto some paper, the
splatters representing the many tiny pieces of lead and bone. As most of the
remains of the hollow-nose lead bullet were too small to remove and, being
sterile with heat when they entered my leg, most of the remains of the bullet
had been left. A week later the doctor must have re-examined my x-rays and
realised that I was slightly bandy in my good leg. As she had moulded my injured
leg straight, she now had to cut a wedge out of the plaster and bend my leg to
match the other.
I spent several months
in hospital, but made use of my sign-writing skills when I was given a small
ward to set up as my studio. Gradually, from my wheelchair, I replaced all their
signs and had free run of the hospital.
I had earlier left to
go home to my humble grotto at the rear of my sign-writing shop, but I found
caring for myself too difficult to manage in that environment so, with the
benefit of the great hospital service in New Zealand, I was readmitted. It was a very friendly hospital
and I knew most of the nurses from the Saturday night dances, so it wasn't long
after being released from hospital that I was dancing again, complete with
plaster - but the time to come was not going to be all pain-free.
I had my first taste of
legal action when my mother convinced me to sue my ex- friend. While I was in
hospital he ran wild with my car, with the result that the engine had to be
overhauled. It was a short legal battle, as I'm sure both of our solicitors were
friends. My compensation was minor and I used it to buy my mother a television,
but the worst aspect of the legal action was that the town shunned me, as I had
sued one of their famous families.
When I eventually
returned to surveying I found the mountainous terrain on the West Coast too
demanding on my leg, and climbing the mountains wearing my pack of surveying
equipment was excruciating and dangerous, so I made a decision. There was an
easier way to climb to altitude, and that was in an aeroplane! I was able to
leave my survey cadetship on medical grounds, and on borrowed money I headed for
a commercial pilot school in Auckland.