Homecoming and the Aftermath

It’s taken me two months to write this. Coming back to “normal life” after a trip like this isn’t easy. In describing the reasons behind exploration, Shackleton said:

Men go out into the void spaces of the world for various reasons. Some are actuated simply by a love of adventure, some have the keen thirst for scientific knowledge, and others again are drawn away from the trodden paths by the ‘lure of little voices,’ the mysterious fascination of the unknown. I think that in my case it was a combination of these factors that determined me to try my fortune once again in the frozen south…

For me, it wasn’t just about the flying or the destinations. It was the internal journey—what you find out there when you’re alone, thousands of miles from any civilization and beyond the reach of any rescue attempt. That’s what pulled me. But it’s hard to find the words to write about it.

15 September 2024: Final leg to Monmouth Executive Airport, Belmar, New Jersey

Montreal was my final stop. I stayed in my usual spot in Old Montreal, had a rooftop old-fashioned, and reflected on how far I’d come. The next morning, I flew to Burlington, Vermont, to clear customs and then took off for the last leg. Two hours later, I was five minutes from Monmouth Executive Airport. I passed over the field, turned onto the downwind leg, and landed—no different from hundreds of other landings I’d had at my home airport.

It was exactly as I’d imagined all those months ago when I prepped the plane—except now, I’d been around the world.

As I taxied in, I could feel it catching up to me. The GoPro caught my voice: “Don’t frikken cry now, you idiot.”

I had thought about quietly landing, putting the plane in the hangar, and heading home like it was just another flight. But that felt wrong. So I told a few friends. They told a few others. Thankfully, a small crowd had gathered on the apron—friends, my family on FaceTime, and even a photographer thanks to my Explorers Club buddy Paul.

Roelof flew in from Texas with a bottle of champagne. The FBO let everyone gather airside.

I shut down, climbed out, and was met with applause—probably the only time in my life I’ll be sprayed with French champagne in true Formula 1 style. After 55 days, 167 hours of flying, 24 overnight stops, 14 countries, and 19,870 nautical miles, I was home. I’d also become the first South African in history to complete a solo circumnavigation by air. The plane had some duct tape in places, and the belly was full of oil, but it had done its job. So had I.

One of the most memorable moments was when my hangar neighbor, Bob, came over. Dressed in his Marine Corps Veteran shirt and cap, Col. Robert Beavis USMC, DFC (Ret.), had flown F8 Crusaders in Vietnam and been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. After decades as an airline captain, Bob shook my hand and said: “You’ve got balls, man.”

That one stayed with me.

We drove home, Roelof and I had dinner and a couple of Old Fashioneds at the place next door and I went to bed. And that was it. The next morning at 9 am I was back online doing work Zoom calls. That turned out to be the start of quite a void – a feeling that would last several weeks.

The first Friday after I returned, I went to the Explorers Club for our regular Friday night “frolic,” a members’ evening at the club bar.

The Explorers Club is a place where impostor syndrome comes easily. Over the years, I’ve met Apollo-era astronauts and legends in exploration.

It was surreal to answer, “Just flew around the world solo,” when someone asked what I’d done that summer.

My decompression had started. I found myself in good company—surrounded by people who understood this post-expedition malaise. I spent over an hour talking to JR Harris, famous for his unsupported solo hikes in some of the most extreme parts of the world, including the Arctic.

JR’s advice stuck with me: “Give it a bit of time. Then, before too long, start to write it down before you lose the details.”

Centennial of First World Flight

The first aerial circumnavigation of the globe was achieved in 1924 by the U.S. Army Air Service. Four Douglas World Cruiser biplanes—Seattle, Chicago, Boston, and New Orleans—set out from Seattle, Washington, on April 6, with crews rotating as pilots and mechanics. Only Chicago and New Orleans completed the 175-day journey, covering 26,345 miles. Facing treacherous weather, mechanical failures, and diplomatic hurdles, the mission was a triumph of early aviation. It proved the airplane’s potential for long-distance travel and marked a milestone in exploration, linking the world through flight for the first time.

Spencer Lane’s book, First World Flight, vividly recounts this venture. If you’ll indulge me in a little side story—what some might call a “weave”—Lane shares the tale of Linton Wells, a spirited young Associated Press journalist who, much loved by the crew, followed their story for several months. Relying on ships, trains, and other means of transportation, Wells even stowed away on one of the aircraft at one point. Discovered upon landing in India, his bold move cost him his AP position.

In a serendipitous twist, at this year’s Explorers Club Annual Dinner in April, I found myself seated next to a lovely couple. As is my way, I didn’t quite catch their names at first, but we chatted extensively. I mentioned my upcoming circumnavigation (at the time) and the centennial of the first world flight. The gentleman smiled kindly as I spoke. Once I finished, he said, “Do I have a story for you!”

It turned out he was Linton Wells II, son of the AP journalist! His anecdotes added incredible depth to the history. The book, I must say, is a delightful read and highly recommended.

The original Chicago and New Orleans completed their journey on September 28, 1924, in Seattle. A little over a week after landing from my circumnavigation, I flew to Seattle to attend the centennial celebrations at Boeing Field. Many Earthrounders had gathered, displaying their aircraft and participating in a fly-past. While the organizers invited me to join, I felt I had logged enough flight hours for a while and opted not to make another cross-country trip just yet.

We all got together at an Earthrounders barbeque on the Friday night and I met for the first time many of the folks whom I’d followed and read about. As the latest member of this exclusive club, I received a warm welcome. Every attendee had flown a small aircraft around the world—some more than once, and one even over the poles. The conversation quickly turned to how I was feeling post-circumnavigation. I told Robert DeLaurentis that the story from his book Zen Pilot really stuck with me about the famous ferry pilot Fred Sorenson, who admitted to vomiting before every ocean crossing. It had haunted me during my journey. I also described the void I was now feeling, only to see everyone nod in immediate recognition.

Steve, a veteran Earthrounder, said it took him a year to return to “normal.” He explained that while people might relate to crossing the U.S. or the Atlantic, the sheer scope of a solo circumnavigation in a small plane is so far beyond most imaginations that conversations often pivot to “a friend’s uncle who owned a Cessna” or the inevitable, “How did you pee?”

(As I mentioned in a previous post 6664 individuals have summited Everest (as of Jan 2024) and 644 have been to space. Fewer than 100 have done a solo circumnavigation and only about two dozen, including myself, did it “the wrong way round” with a westerly route.)

The weekend was wonderful. At Boeing Field, I co-piloted in Carol Foy’s Mooney during the fly-past of all circumnavigators. I met fascinating people and shared countless stories. Among them was Bob, a cigar chain-smoker who built and donated a flying replica of the Douglas World Cruiser Seattle to the Boeing Museum of Flight. AOPA recently released a short video about Bob and his work, which includes original footage from the 1924 flight.

Media and Talks

I’ve been grateful and surprised by the genuine interest folks have shown in my trip. Whereas it’s been fairly common to get lots of sponsors and a PR firm for coverage for trips like this – I did none of that. I was completely self-sponsored which also meant no obligations to anyone. That freedom allowed me to focus solely on the journey. But given that previous trips by others inspired me, I did feel I owe at least some reporting to folks.

Shortly after I got back a reporter got in touch and I ended up on the cover of South Africa’s largest magazine. She did a fantastic job, even including my jest that my only preparation for the trip was “drinking a few whiskeys with friends.”

Bob later invited me to speak to a select group of military and airline pilots, graciously providing dinner and even a cake. Their feedback and genuine interest meant a great deal to me, as has his subsequent sponsorship of my membership in an elite aviation society.

What’s next and final thoughts

Individualism and self-reliance are very much the core aspirational attributes of the American male psyche. To the extent that Ralph Waldo Emerson writes an entire profound essay on “Self Reliance” where he advocates for trusting one’s intuition and inner voice, rejecting societal conformity, and embracing individualism as a path to authenticity and greatness. In my view a solo circumnavigation or a solo ascent are some of the few acts that truly embody this sentiment – and also why I’ve always been drawn to stories of such feats.

Now more than two months later it’s sort of becoming back to normal. Tomorrow night I’m having a business dinner with a Saudi government official and I look forward to sharing how I was surprised by the cumulus weather just south of Al Ula and how vast the unpopulated desert is northeast of Riyadh. Last week I was chatting with a ferry pilot and commiserating on the terrible landings in Reykjavik because of the wind there. For the rest of my life, I’ll have the luxury of opining on the weather in the Bay of Bengal, how interesting the approach into Seletar in Singapore is, or knowing what the contested Spratley Islands in the in the South China Seas look like from above. Although my words don’t string together as well as Ernest Gann’s I can still say I experienced flying through the Aleutians: “Wind is master here. Clouds and fog mere underlings. Storms parade unannounced, over and over the same tracks as though some demonic hand set them free to roam.”

These stories mostly only come with a lifetime of flying. The intensity of compressing that much living into eight weeks of flying is partly the high that I’ve been struggling to come down from. And let’s not forget that I left a copy of my testament on my living room table as there was a real possibility of not coming back. I was superstitious enough about this that I was extremely uncomfortable even talking much about my trip beforehand. I left mission patches with my brother to give to my nephew and niece – but with instructions only to do so once, I’ve made it across the Pacific.

Sir Edmund Hillary said, “I have discovered that even the mediocre can have adventures and even the fearful can achieve.” That sentiment resonates as I reflect on taking off from Adak for a 14.5-hour flight over 1,900 nautical miles of frozen ocean, knowing rescue was impossible if something went wrong. I may have had some communications with San Francisco radio and with my buddy Jon over Iridium – but they might have well been on another planet (and the comms quality was probably similar). The isolation is complete.

I’m profoundly grateful for having had the chance to test myself to that limit. Few men ever get that opportunity. As Henry David Thoreau wrote, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” It’s tough to confront the reality that for the next number of years, I’m probably condemned to be right back into the workaday world where I have to do my job, ride the subway to work, and roll up my sleeves with the hoi polloi. The aspiration is that I get to hold onto that mental clarity of being in the present and living life with the volume knob set to eleven.

To close with one final Shackleton quote:

The stark polar lands grip the hearts of the men who have lived on them in a manner that can hardly be understood by the people who have never got outside the pale of civilisation.

Outside the pale of civilization – that has always stuck with me. I get it now. I’ve touched that edge, even if only briefly. It’s the deep ocean, the desert, the cold void of space. It’s a solo circumnavigation flight. That world leaves a mark. And now, in small ways, I see it in the eyes of pilots, veterans, explorers. A nod, a wordless understanding. I’ve gone a little beyond the pale myself. The words may lack, but the experience lives on inside.