Where There's a Will There's a Way

By Ian McKenzie

This book tells the story of the dedication and drive required to my becoming an Airline Pilot, to designing and building a 13.4 meter yacht, to cruising the Queensland coast, to continue cruising after developing total kidney failure and to holidaying in Europe carrying out dialysis in many countries

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: May 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649697394

Ian McKenzie

Ian McKenzie has spent a major part of his working career in Primary, Secondary, Special and Tertiary sectors of Education. Currently he is semi-retired and working on a part-time basis with International Post-Graduate students helping them come to an understanding of Australian work-place culture and communication.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The sun slowly sank to the horizon and a light breeze ruffled the clear crystal waters of Lady Musgrave Island; some 30 nautical miles north-east of Bundaberg on the Queensland Coast. This coral island would surely be a cruising yachtsman’s dream anchorage. After traversing the narrow entrance, there are miles of clear lagoon, with water so clear that the depth is difficult to determine and every coral outcrop can be seen in fine detail. In the cockpit of our 13.4-meter yacht Amiri II, my wife and I toasted, with glasses of red wine, the setting of the sun on another successful day cruising the Queensland Coast.  As an alternative in this anchorage, you could row ashore to the small island, sit on the sandy beach to watch the sun set over the ocean in the west and, perchance, catch sight of the elusive green flash as the sun disappears below the horizon.   

It felt even more satisfying as we had done this trip in a yacht planned, designed and built by me. I could not help but cast my mind back to the fifteen years of planning, work, and at times frustration, that was involved in the construction of this beautiful craft that had brought us all the way from the Gold Coast.  Looking back now, some sixteen years later, I wonder how I managed to persist over the years and complete the project, particularly as so many BYO yacht projects end in partially completed nightmares.

In yacht building terms they say there are two types:

Yachties, who never quite finish their projects but go off sailing anyway and,

Aspiring yacht builders, who build for the sake of building but never do go sailing in their creation.

I felt I didn’t fall into either of those categories.  Certainly, I was a yachtie; Amiri II was my fourth yacht, and I certainly was a builder, having partially built the previous three yachts as well as three houses. I was, by vocation, an airline pilot, a profession far removed from yacht or house building.

So, was I unique? I didn’t think so, and would hate to think that I may give the impression that I think I am superior or smarter than others.  I always believed that one can achieve anything they want provided they put their mind to it, and I was never afraid to do something new even though that process may have required special skills or knowledge.  Lack of knowledge could be cured by researching, today’s internet is full of advice, and processes that required skills could be mastered by research and practice if necessary.  That was my belief in my early years anyway. 

But now, at the age of 81, I am not so sure anymore. You see things were different 70 or so years ago - times were tough, particularly in a small country town and kids, as a rule, had to make their own fun. That meant building or constructing the things you aspired to, a toy gun, a bow and arrow to play cowboys and Indians, or a billy cart to race down the hill in the back street.  Without realizing, we acquired skills that would be of assistance later in life.

Ordinary billy carts, that every child of that time constructed, were not good enough for me. My constructions had to be truly creative. One was a good miniature copy of a Jaguar XK120, complete with proper steering, and on another I purloined the motor from the motor mower to construct a motorised cart. It worked well, but had the decided disadvantage of forcing me to mow the lawn using the old hand mower from then on.   

With that early experience I thought nothing, when I was a little older, of dismantling my Austin A55 engine to give it a bearing change and valve grind. It was simple - you noted how things came apart so you could put them back together again. A book of instructions would assist the process. But, of course, the cars of today are too complicated to do that and young people have not had the experience and fun of building things as kids - toys are now purchased to entertain.   

So, if you were to ask me what is the most important thing you need to start and complete a project I would say, If you have the will, you will find a way.

Chapter 1

Early years

I am a firm believer that a person’s early years will have a great influence on how they cope or deal with events later in life, and that is why I feel that the experiences of my early years gave me the grounding to achieve the things I wanted to do.

Up until the age of five our family lived in Timaru, in a rented house close to the water, and even at that age I was interested in the water. At the bottom of our yard there was an old laundry tub, and one day big brother Colin and I filled it with water and went sailing in it in an old galvanised clothes tub. Even at 3 years of age I was interested in boats! 

 Colin, who was only a year older than I, was always taller than me, but I looked up to him more than just physically. He was a guiding hand. At 5 years old, he held my hand as we walked the one and a half kilometres to my first day of school and, as our father was absent during the war years, I suppose I relied a great deal on a big brother for guidance. Important areas of guidance like how to cut the tree down next to the garage … or how to look for interesting things in the rock pools close to home. That involved a trip across the railway line that ran next to our house, but it did not seem to worry our mother that 3- and 4-year-olds were wandering about.

We then moved to Geraldine, and life in that small New Zealand country town was very simple in the 1940’s and 1950’s. My family was poor by today’s standards and, of course, the end of the Second World War meant that there were shortages of just about everything. There was rationing of food and other items during the war, and it was not until 1950 that all rationing in New Zealand ceased. This shortage of items made for a very resourceful people and children likewise became resourceful. An early memory of mine is walking down the street and being amazed by the sight of a small girl blowing up a yellow balloon. I had never seen a balloon before, but what was more intriguing was that the balloon had a small black patch on it. No one would patch a balloon today, would they? It typified the shortages of the day.

The earliest memory I have of cars that my father owned were of a Model T Ford. It was painted grey when he bought it, but he painted it green. It must have been his favourite colour, as he later bought a 1935 Morris 12 and he painted that green too. Both Colin and I learned to drive in that car, although I cannot remember either Colin or I having driving lessons! It was parked on a vacant block in a dilapidated shed with the key always in the ignition (this was a country town and nobody locked up their possessions) so Colin, and later I, would simply start the car up, back out of the shed and drive it back in again. Eventually we extended the length of the drives. Our father knew this was happening and, after a while, decided that it was time that he took us for a drive. We then booked a test with the local policeman. It was all very simple and we both passed. We were then able to play out our Stirling Moss fantasies by driving round the hills at the back of Geraldine. The roads were not sealed, so the thrill was to slide round corners throwing shingle everywhere. I don’t think our father would have been pleased with those efforts!

Colin and I decided that the colour of the car, green, did not suit our new image, so we decided to repaint the car. It was, by this time, parked on our front lawn and for some time Colin and I were busy sanding the old paint off with wet and dry sandpaper. To do the whole car was quite an effort for 16- and 15-year-old youths. We then, with great care, painted the car in two tone, maroon and a yellowish gold. We were very proud of our efforts and, as not a word of criticism was heard from our father, we assumed that he was also pleased with our efforts, however we were not happy when he took the car out and left his footprint in the newly painted running board. As we had paid for all the paint and sandpaper, we considered that we had a propriety interest in the car. That car was to keep puttering along, with very little maintenance apart from filling up with oil and water at intervals, until it was sold in 1964. It was then 30 years old and still going well.

Compared with today, when even young children have an iPhone, computer games, Xboxes etc, in my early years we literally made our own fun. 

Maybe I was more adventurous than others, when I think about the creations I made.

Although we were some distance from the ocean, there were several rivers in the area; enough to satisfy the curiosity of young minds wanting to go a-boating. A favourite pastime was to find an old sheet of corrugated iron and bend it to form a rough canoe. Even though the iron had holes from the nail fixing that caused water to spout into the canoe, as there was no great expanse of water around trips were quite short, if a little wet. It was not long before I put my mind to work designing a better and more waterproof canoe. Strips of timber, that I found or acquired, became the frame, and then I pondered what to cover it with. Canvass, as well as being difficult to come by, was out of my price range. I solved this by using an old bed sheet and waterproofing it by coating it with tar. It worked well, and I was the envy of my mates as I paddled about in dry conditions.

I also developed an interest in underwater swimming so, with my penchant for design, I set about constructing my own scuba gear. We used to get a catalogue from a large department store in the UK and in it I saw they had fire extinguishers for sale. This seemed fit for my purpose, so I sent off my hard-earned five pounds and six weeks later I had my extinguisher. It was too buoyant, so up on the roof I went to retrieve some lead flashing from around the chimney - over the years I had made great use of the lead on the roof in my various projects and it was beginning to get a little scarce. A gate valve and tire valve were welded on to complete the tank.

The regulator caused me some concern because of its complexity but, in the end, I went the simple route. To a piece of garden hose, I attached a mouthpiece and a simple valve made from copper pipe and the rubber from a balloon. It was not a demand type of regulator, but at least it would stop water coming up the pipe.

Filling the tank was the next problem - I realised that it could not be filled to 3,000 psi, even if there was a scuba refilling station in the area, as the tank was only certified to 120 psi. I determined to use the local garage compressor, used to fill car tires, and it worked pretty well. Of course, the air quality may not have been the greatest, but at that age you don’t worry about those minor things and that was certainly not enough to dim my enthusiasm. I could only get about 60 or 70 psi to start with, but if I got the compressor to kick in that would allow me to get over 100 psi in the tank. The garage owner was not impressed with me making his compressor run all the time and eventually he told me to piss off.

The big day for a tryout came and off we went to a river with a deep enough waterhole. I must admit to being a little nervous at first but my friends were there so I couldn’t back out. I slung the contraption on my back, adjusted the valve, stuck the mouthpiece in my mouth and jumped into the river. Bubbles went everywhere but wonder of wonders I was breathing underwater, and it was magical, most especially because it actually worked. Only for a short while though as 100 psi doesn’t last all that long and after a few minutes I ran out of air and had to surface. My friends thought I was pretty cool (although that phrase hadn’t been invented then), and I didn’t ever use it again and waited over 40 years before I did a scuba course and, once again, went breathing under water. 

Growing up, another of the obstacles that I had to overcome, was my father. With four other brothers and sisters and little money, my father developed some strong opinions about the family. Probably because money was always tight, he made decisions about who would continue at school beyond 15 years of age, based on two things: if you were a girl you left at 15 and if you were a boy, he would assess your intelligence and, if he thought you were only average or below average, then you left at 15. With limited resources I suppose he felt he could only put the effort and the money into those he felt would succeed. I felt sorry for Colin because he had to leave school at 15, even though he wanted a higher education. In spite of that setback he did succeed, in electronics, eventually managing his own business in a very competitive field.

My father seemed to think that I was more intelligent that the others and was happy for me to continue on at school.

My interest, from an early age was flying. When aged about 10, Colin and I cycled down to the local airfield and with ten shillings in hand, asked for a joy flight. We were both bundled into a Tiger Moth and away we went - Colin firmly strapped in via a 5-point seat belt and me, sitting unrestrained on Colin’s knees. It didn’t occur to me to feel insecure and no slow rolls or loops were carried out. The flight lasted less than 10 minutes but I was hooked. Flying was what I was going to do.

When I turned 16, I applied to the Royal New Zealand Airforce to be a pilot. It was very competitive, only two places and 150 applications. One of the selection processes we underwent was testing our ability to fly in a very basic form of simulator, consisting of a cockpit with a joystick, rudder pedals and a screen in front of you on which there were two sets of parallel lines making a square in the middle. A small light dot was projected on the screen and this was controlled by an instructor on the other side of the screen. He would move the dot around and I was supposed to move my controls to center the dot in the middle. I thought it was quite fun, but at the end of the day they decided that I didn’t have the co-ordination to be a pilot. I, of course, felt that he was mistaken and it did not dissuade me from that path. When I returned home, disappointed, I built my own simulator to practice on, determined to prove the instructor wrong.

However, my father felt that I had had my one chance of a career in aviation. He now saw me as a solicitor and, as such, set up an interview with a local solicitor. That was the last thing I wanted to do, flying was the career I had my sights on, and my apathetic attitude to the job obviously got communicated to the solicitor during the interview. When my father found this out it led to some violent verbal arguments with him, with me insisting I wanted to be a pilot and he, even more vehemently, insisting I was not. By way of appeasing him I agreed, in desperation, to become an engineer because at least I had an interest in that field. That meant university, but first I had to do an extra year at school to do Chemistry and Physics.

I could never understand my father’s attitude regarding my desire fly, when he had showed so very little interest in the career ambitions of Colin. It was only in later life that I got an inkling of his thinking. During the Second World War he was called up into the Air Force as a clerk. He never talked about those experiences after the war, so I assume that it was not a happy time for him. He always seemed to have a chip on his shoulder, probably because he never achieved his ambitions in life, and that may have explained his ambition for great things for me. It was probably more about the standing of a solicitor in the community, a standing he had not achieved and one he wanted for me. Perhaps his violent objections to me flying may have a genesis in his experience during wartime in the Air Force - maybe the low pay and the experience of seeing so many young men killed played on his mind. However, even my pleadings that there was relatively big pay in commercial flying did not shift him, and in the 1950’s flying was nowhere near as safe as today. Top dressing or crop-dusting pilots had a high chance of being killed or injured and even airline flying was not as safe as today. That, however, was not a consideration to a 17-year-old.

I suppose his inferiority complex socially was the reason he caused me embarrassment in another area. I had taught myself to swim a year or two before and was quite competent, if not outstanding, but because I had not entered in races before my father arranged for me to take part in a beginner race (which I won). I did not feel at all happy about it as I thought it was a bit unfair, and in reality, I was not a beginner. My speciality was diving and because I was fairly small my entries into the water usually made very little splash. Surely the indication of a good dive! I was reasonably good, but always came second to Donald, a boy who was quite a few years older than me. At the end of the season when trophies were presented, I was amazed to discover that I was awarded a cup for second place. Trophies had never been awarded for second place in the past, and were not awarded in subsequent years, so I can only assume that my father put some pressure on the judges to award me a trophy.

I started university, and tried to be enthusiastic about it, but I suspect I was under a great deal of stress as I really didn’t want to be there. This was probably communicated to Colin and my father in letters I wrote, as Colin wrote trying to cheer me up and my father made a trip to Christchurch one night to chat with me.

However, fate stepped in - the following night Colin rang to tell me that our father had died. He always suffered from stress and had heart problems, but I have to think that my unhappiness about my future may have caused him extra stress.

When I left Christchurch for home, I knew, deep down, that I was not going to resume a university degree and, because I had worked after school in my father’s office, I used the excuse of tidying up his affairs as a reason for not returning to university that year. I cancelled my bursary, feeling that even though I was unsure of what I wanted to do, I was pretty sure that I was not going to return to university in the immediate future. 

The death of my father left me confused and for a while I seemed to lose my way. A friend was going to Australia on a working holiday and he suggested that I join him. My mother was pregnant with my youngest sister, and perhaps I should have stuck around to help her at this difficult time, but my confusion at where my life was going seemed to overpower me and going to Australia seemed a good way to sort myself out. Colin, as was his way, stepped in and looked after mum at the expense of his own career.

When I look back on that time, I must have had a fair amount of confidence to head off thousands of miles to a different country, at the ripe old age of barely 19, and even though my friend was a little older, he only stayed for 6 months of the 18 months I was away from New Zealand. For 18 months I worked in Melbourne at various jobs and even went on a solo journey to Cairns.

That journey started out with me riding a Vespa motor scooter, but I only got to Sydney before it had a terminal breakdown and I sold it for scrap. From there it was hitch hiking, however, there was more hiking than hitching so I finished the journey by train.

I returned to Melbourne and worked washing used motor cars until the realisation hit me that I needed to return to New Zealand to see if I could pursue my ambition of becoming a pilot. That required some dedication as learning to fly was not cheap, even in the 1960’s. 

For several years I worked in a freezing works, a place I had worked for several months prior to going to university and, as I showed some keenness for overtime at night, I made extra money by cleaning the hooks that the lambs were hung on. A mind-numbing job where the hooks were loaded into an iron barrel and tumbled with leather offcuts to polish them. The noise was horrific, particularly as no one then thought that ear protection was a good idea. However, the money was good and my dedication paid off when the following year I was promoted to a position on the killing chain, where each day 3,000 lambs would pass me by as I directed a hose on them to clean them. This process was at the end of the killing chain, where they started out as woolly lambs and ended up after about 50 different procedures as a lamb carcass ready for export to the UK. The money was good and it allowed me to start flying training. My keenness drove me to join two aero clubs for training - on Saturday afternoons, after