32 SA Flyer MagazineSWELLENDAM
My little flying school was expanding
its territory, not because it had so much
business, but rather because it had so little.
Also, I had no idea about the
economics of running a flight school.
Fuel was dirt-cheap, and maintenance
was minimal because my Cherokee was
brand-new. Concepts such as putting an
allowance aside for engine overhauls didn’t
enter my mind. Have a look at this bit of
idiocy.
My logbook tells me that on 15
February 1966, I flew west for an hour and
a quarter to get to the pretty little town of
Swellendam. This was so that I could do
two hours of instruction in Tiger Moth
ZS-DND, and one hour in a delightful
little Piper Cruiser, ZS-BHZ.
Total income for the venture was
R12. And my expenses were two and a
half hours of Cherokee flying and two
days of my time. Okay in those days the
Rand was slightly stronger than the US
Dollar – but it didn’t take much business
sense to realise that I was going
backwards.
Both the Tiger and the Cruiser had
interesting lessons for me.
I was flying the Tiger in order to
do some aerobatic training for Edwin
Sands, one of the ‘main manne’ of the
friendly little Swellendam Gliding Club.
As soon as we got off the ground,
I became suspicious of the aircraft. All
Tigers rattle and shake, but this one hadtaken the vibrations to a new level. It was
as if there was a guy under the cowl beating
the engine with an anvil.
I told Eddie to do a tight circuit and put
us back on the ground before something
broke. “Don’t worry,” Eddie shouted into the
Gosport, “It’s always like this.”
“Not while I’m in it – it isn’t,” I bellowed.
So we shuddered round the field,
plopped down on the stony uphill runway
and taxied back to the hangar, while Eddie
complained about people who imagined
noises in perfectly airworthy aeroplanes.
Of course the clattering stopped when
the engine did.
This left us in a rather silly position. We
opened the cowlings and peered at Mr de
Havilland’s black, oily lump of pig-iron, but
of course there was no clue as to where the
clatter had come from.
A couple of other club members
wandered over and formed a small
Afrikaans focus group, with each member
trying to simulate the noise by rattling
their tongues or gurgling the backs of their
throats. Reading between the lumps of
gob, they seemed to conclude that I, ‘die
Engelsman’, was a bit of a coward.
This led to a sort of stalemate. They
said it was fine, and I said it wasn’t. So westood around in a semi-circle staring at
the offending engine. Of course it wouldn’t
make a noise while it was stationary, and it
left no visible trace of what was causing the
problem.
Eventually we decided to run it with the
cowls open. Now, this is a dodgy thing to
do. The cowlings hinge upwards, and the
front is very close to the whirling prop. They
are kept open by an oily rod, which can
easily jump out of its catch. No matter what
happens, everyone must think carefully and
move slowly.
So, after sticking the chocks in front of
the wheels, and dumping a ‘stick holder-
backer’ in the rear cockpit to keep the tail
down, we swung her into life.
The engine jumped around like a
dervish at a rave, and it wasn’t difficult to
see why. The bolt that was meant to secure
the right-hand bottom engine-mount was
mostly undone. The engine was about to
depart the airframe.
On closer inspection, I could
understand why it had probably never
been tightened in the first place – it’s a
bastard to get at. A smallish contortionist
who is possessed of considerable spanner
wielding ability, and much perseverance,
must slime, upside-down and head-first,a pile of logbooks
Jim Davis
The cockpit of a Tiger is a
wonderful place to be... except
when the engine tries to depart.GAINING EXPERIENCE