Chapter 18

Teewaterskloof Dam and Villiersdorp offer a captivating blend of natural beauty and agricultural prowess. The High Noon farm exemplified the region’s dedication to producing high-quality apples and pears for the global market. The synergy between the lush landscapes, advanced farming techniques, and the serene atmosphere made this area a unique and valuable part of the Western Cape.

The region’s landscape is dominated by verdant orchards, vineyards, and fields of crops, all thriving under the watchful eye of the surrounding mountains. The natural environment is enhanced by the changing seasons, with spring bringing blossoms to the orchards and autumn turning the vineyards into a tapestry of reds and golds.

To Melanie, the cultivating processes of the fruit at High Noon was a fascinating learning curve, and she absorbed the farm employees’ actions and explanations as if she had been born there. High Noon, like many other farms in the region, focused on cultivating apples and pears primarily for the export market. The highly sophisticated cultivation process involved modern agricultural practices to meet the stringent standards required by international markets.

The farm grew several varieties of apples and pears, chosen for their flavour, texture, and market demand. Popular apple varieties included Granny Smith, Royal Gala, and Pink Lady, while pear varieties often feature Packham’s Triumph and Forell.

The trees were planted in rich, well-drained soil, and benefited from the region’s favourable climate, which includes cool winters and warm summers. The farm’s advanced irrigation systems ensured a consistent water supply, crucial for optimal fruit growth.

The huge storage structures that looked like aircraft hangars took Melanie’s breath away. The handling facilities and the fleet of different agricultural vehicles reinforced the idea that this was a commercial farm and not just a “Little-House-On-The-Prairie” establishment.

Her interest was piqued by the Integrated Pest Management (IPM) practices that were used to minimize the use of chemicals, and to produce healthier and more environmentally friendly fruit. Regular monitoring and biological controls helped keep pest populations under control.

The harvesting process was carefully timed to ensure the fruit is picked at its peak of ripeness. Workers hand-pick the apples and pears to avoid bruising, placing them in padded bins for transport to the packing facilities.

Once harvested, the fruit undergoes a thorough cleaning and sorting process and is then packed in specialized packaging to maintain freshness during transport. High Noon collaborates with export companies to distribute their produce to international markets, including Europe, Asia, and the Middle East.

What caused a giggle by Melanie was that rows of olive trees were planted as firebreaks between the different blocks of orchards. The olive trees bear fruit as well but are harvested at a secondary level and not used to be part of the main business of High Noon.

“Mister Tyron Van Aswegen! Do you have any clue as to how much money you are throwing down the drain? Those olives are worth a lot!” She admonished.

“Yes, I do know, but in my defence, ye ‘onner, the olive trees are only for protection against fire for the real money-making business. Besides, I don’t have time to pump resources into cultivating the olives to any useable fruit for marketing, both local or international,” I responded, struggling to create a defence of my use of those trees.

“Harrumph!” She snorted. “And I thought you were an opportunity-seeking farmer!”

“Well, Porcupine, I do allow the workers to harvest the olives, and what they do with them is their bonus gain.”

“Now, I’m a porcupine again.”

“When you use your quills to sting, yes!”

“Doofus!”

“Hedgehog!”

“OOo!”

“What? Ran out of descriptive words for me, Pumpkin?”

Before she could respond with a wisecrack, her cell phone rang:

“Hi. Hello, Olivia. What’s up?” Pause. “Oh, okay, I’ll tear myself away from this farm tour and be with you in ten minutes.” Pause. “I’ll tell His Lordship. Bye.” And she disconnected.

“Olivia is waiting for me to go for my certification flight. She said you must be ready around two or three hours from now.”

“Okay. I’ll go with you down to the boat pier.”

And so, we walked off. First to the house to fetch her flight bag, and then off to the boat pier. I chuckled softly to myself. Melanie had managed to remember to grab her flight bag back at iSigodi before we came to High Noon.

Three and a half hours later.

Melanie and Olivia returned two hours after they left and when they disembarked the Otter, Melanie was smiling from ear to ear.

“Okay! She’s current on turboprops and competent in flying the Otter,” Olivia informed me. “She just has to do a check ride on the King Air to certify she forgot nothing.”

“Congratulations, Mel! Another turboprop under your belt!” I congratulated as I squeezed her.

“Thanks, Ty, but I don’t think I sweated as much now with the Otter, as I did when did my check ride in the King Air...” she replied shyly, then giggled, “There’s other stuff to check too. Stuff one just finds on a boat!”

“Time for you to go show me what you learned the last couple of days,” Leah cut in, and added. “But first let the bird cool down a bit.”

We waited a half hour and then the fun started. Using a small pontoon boat, often referred to as a “rubber duck” in South African slang, I conducted my preflight inspection of the Otter under the watchful eye of Leah. On land, we call it a “walk-around.” Here on the water, I suppose you could call it a “swim-around”, or a “splash-around!”

Part of the outside inspection involved checking that the anchor is on board and properly stowed, mooring lines are in good condition and the cleats are good. Those are things someone would not associate with an aircraft, but hey, this was a boat when it wasn’t busy being an aircraft. Thus, no-one would suspect that while you need a pilots’ licence to fly this bird; while operating it on water one needs a skipper license as well! Therefore, one has to ensure that all required emergency equipment, such as life vests, signal devices, (signal flares) inflatable dinghies, and first aid kits, are on board and in good condition.

With all the outside work completed it was time to mount up, change my mind set to internal, and aviate!

With the cockpit and system check completed, Leah handed me the flight plan. I looked it over, tracing the route with my finger.

“You will take off into the wind, climb and maintain 8000 feet. Turn heading 303 degrees magnetic and head for FASH, Stellenbosch,” she instructed. I glanced at her, surprised by her next words. “You’re on your own, Ty. Pretend I’m not here. You have to prove to me that you are competent in handling this bird solo.”

“Okay. Let me get this flight plan into the GPS,” and I started to program the GPS. The Otter didn’t have a flight computer for uploading a flight plan, but the avionics in the cockpit were sufficient to execute it with the help of the autopilot.

“You will overfly Stellenbosch; no landing there. After Stellenbosch, turn left heading 082 degrees magnetic towards Worcester. Overfly the Wemershoek Dam en-route to Worcester and do a full stop, hard surface landing there. Taxi back to the runway holding point and request take-off, left departure, 027 degrees magnetic, and then route to VOR CSV on 114.20 megahertz. CSV is located on the peak of Waboomberg. I will advise you further en route to Waboomberg. Clear?”

“Roger, Captain,” I responded, completing the programming of the GPS.

Seven minutes later, we unstuck from the water, and I retracted the water rudders. I climbed out at 85 KIAS towards Stellenbosch, then turned to avoid the higher peaks of the Hottentots Holland Mountains. The Otter felt smooth and responsive, a joy to handle.

There was no need to leave the altitude of 8000 feet, as Stellenbosch was just a turning waypoint. Waboomberg loomed ahead, and per the flight plan I made a right turn to 170 degrees magnetic towards Robertson (FARS), another turning waypoint. The clear blue sky and the steady hum of the engines created a serene atmosphere in the cockpit.

At Robertson, I turned to 239 degrees towards reporting point OKTED. From there, I altered course to 353 degrees magnetic and reached my TOD (Top of Descent) towards Theewaterskloof Dam. It was a navigational course of 173 nautical miles, clocking in at just under one hour of flying time.

“Set up for water landing and shoot three touch and goes,” Leah instructed, speaking for the first time in forty minutes. I glanced across the cockpit to the right seat and saw that she was relaxed. I’d done harder type rating conversions than this before and felt comfortable. The Otter performed admirably.

I executed the required three touch and goes on the dam, remembering to drop the water rudder, and I felt the Otter dance with me for each one. Each landing was smooth, the Otter just kissing the water and sticking. Full throttle, ten degrees flaps, and off we went again. The sun glinted off the water, and I felt a sense of satisfaction with each flawless landing.

As I approached the water surface for the fourth time, she spoke up:

“Full stop landing and taxi to the shore on the left of the pier. At five knots, retract the water rudder, drop the landing gear and taxi her out of the water onto the dry land. I want to see that you can do it.”

At just over two hours and seventeen minutes, I shut down the Otter and turned to Leah.

“So?” I asked, only needing one word.

“Get your logbook, so I can sign you off!”

“Thanks, Leah. Between you and Olivia, I think both Melanie and I learned a lot about the Otter. She’s a beauty to fly.”

“I wish you both, Melanie and you, many happy hours in this duck.” Chuckle. Then she added, “Don wanted to upgrade the road to iSigodi, but the Otter was cheaper!”

I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking about all the adventures Melanie and I would have in this incredible aircraft.

Melanie and I were finally signed off on the Otter. She logged a respectable seventeen hours and twenty minutes. I, on the other hand, clocked in twenty-three hours. Flying amphibians isn’t exactly my daily bread and butter, especially since my last stint in Canada and Alaska, so I required more practice.

The days that followed were a leisurely drift around the farm. Melanie’s curiosity veered towards the fruit-growing operations but couldn’t help but be drawn to the farm’s unofficial security team – the dogs and cats. It’s true what they say, once a vet, always a vet.

“These cats are your unpaid employees, you know?” she chided, hands on hips, glaring at me with the intensity of a laser pointer. “They keep mice and rats out of your feed store, and the dogs? Well, they’re your early warning system for any shady characters sneaking around.”

“And where exactly is this conversation heading?” I asked, sensing an ambush.

“You could at least sponsor some better nutrition for them!” she shot back, giving me the evil eye. “A few bags of vet-grade dog and cat food each month won’t bankrupt you.”

“Payment for catching mice, rats, snakes, and warding off intruders?” I queried.

“Exactly!” she affirmed.

“But they’re not on the payroll. How am I supposed to account for that?”

“Simple, give them staff numbers,” she said, exasperation creeping into her voice.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Number C02345#7, Chief Mouse Catcher. Race: Cat. Issued one bag of cat pellets at two hundred rand per bag. Performance report: Nearly caught a mouse. Hours of duty: twenty hours sleeping on the windowsill in the sun.”

“How do you account for the power feed for the milk cows?” she asked, her tone now a mix of stern teacher and patient saint.

“It’s logged as feed for the milk cow stock,” I replied, knowing where this was heading.

“So, just include dog and cat food under the heading: Expenses for Biological Extermination and Environmental Security!”

“Alright, alright! You win!” I conceded, throwing my hands up in defeat. “From now on, the felines and canines are officially part of the staff.”

“And if they’re younger than five years, you can even get them health insurance,” she added triumphantly.

“Oh brother! Medical aid for animals?” I groaned.

“Yes! With full dental coverage for the dogs and wellness checks for the cats!” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Next thing you know, they’ll be demanding vacation days and a pension plan,” I muttered.

“Well, if you keep them happy and healthy, they might just settle for a cozy bed and the occasional treat,” she said with a grin.

And so it was, the farm’s four-legged and furry employees were officially put on the books, with their own line item in the budget. Melanie looked quite pleased with herself as she walked away, leaving me to ponder the latest addition to our ever-expanding operation, while admiring the way she made that blue jeans talk.

Some neighbours had heard I was back on the farm, so the usual round of telephone calls to catch up on the communal gossip had been ongoing since two days after we arrived. Our next-door neighbour invited us over for a true South African barbecue, or as we say in the local tongue, a “braai.”

This took place on the last Friday evening before we were scheduled to fly back to iSigodi.

That Friday afternoon, Melanie and I drove over to Anton De Waal’s farm, Overkruin, in my trusty old Toyota Land Cruiser. That Cruiser stays at High Noon as my mode of transport whenever I’m on the farm.

Anton’s farm was nestled in the valley towards Jonkershoek and Stellenbosch. When we arrived, I introduced Melanie to the De Waals of Overkruin.

“Good to see you, you old rambling rover!” Anton greeted me.

“Anton, it wasn’t that long ago. I was here, what, seven months back?”

“More like a YEAR and seven months back!” Chuckle.

“Anton, Suzette, please meet Kristýna Nováková, but just call her Melanie,” I introduced Melanie, and handshakes ensued. Suzette, Anton’s wife, seemed to recognize Melanie.

“Melanie, sorry for asking, but haven’t we met before?”

“It’s possible,” Melanie replied. “I meet a lot of people every day, and you do look vaguely familiar.”

“Do you work around here?” Suzette asked.

“No,” Melanie laughed, “but I do try to make ends meet out in Northern Natal at Lake St Lucia.”

“That’s it!” Suzette exclaimed. “There’s a resort out on Lake St Lucia, right inside the iSimagaliso Reserve where I attended a conference about two years back. The owner of the resort was a Melanie Ková, and she looked just like you. Your sister, perhaps?”

“No, that’s me. I own iSigodi Resort and go by the name Melanie Ková. It’s easier for the locals there to pronounce.”

“Small world!” Suzette observed. “Who could have predicted that one day I would host you here on Overkruin ... It’s so good to see you again.”

“Likewise! I could remember you now. You were in a group of fifteen.”

The two women hit it off immediately and disappeared into the house, chatting away a mile a minute. I remembered that Suzette, an attorney by trade and specialising in Commercial Law, had attended a conference somewhere in KwaZulu-Natal a while back, but didn’t realise that it was at iSigodi. It’s really a small world, as Suzette said.

“Nice girl,” Anton said. “How did the two of you meet?”

“Long story,” I replied.

“And? Is she the one?”

“It looks that way...”

“Good! It’s time you get someone in your life, Ty. We’ll hear that story later. But for now, you’re dry. Let’s get something to wash the dust out of our throats,” he suggested and led me to the patio. “The fire will be going in a few minutes, and I’ve got some lamb ribs and a snoek as well.”

A true South African braai is a feast for the senses. Later after the catch-up between Anton and me, the air became thick with the aroma of wood smoke, and the sizzle of meat on the grill was music to my ears. Anton had set up a massive grill on the patio, overlooking rows of apple and pear trees, with grapevines stretching out in the distance.

Now, you must understand that out in Gauteng and the northern parts of South Africa, the choice meat is beef. In the Western Cape, the preferred meat is lamb. The reason for this is that the Western Cape and Northern Cape are sheep country, while the northern parts of South Africa are cattle country. The prices reflect this too. I always say that in Gauteng, Limpopo, and Mpumalanga, they kill you with the price of lamb and throw beef at you, while in the Western Cape, it’s the opposite—they screw you on the price of beef but practically pay you to take the lamb!