
Yesterday, I went to the front door and looked outside.
Suddenly I heard the sound of a helicopter overhead. I looked up and saw a large NSRI rescue craft in Fish Hoek Bay. There was also a small NSRI inflatable rushing across the water. Then the helicopter came down, and there was a swirling, brushing movement across the surface of the sea. There was a big buoy in the water.
I wondered whether this was a real-life rescue or a practice run.
Later, I found out it was a practice exercise.
But it got me thinking.
Here in the Cape, particularly in summer, there are often helicopters coming through the valley. They always look beautiful against the mountains and the sky.
At one time there was a Huey helicopter, the same type used in the Vietnam War. I was always tempted to take a ride in one, but I wasn’t living here at the time and never got the chance to arrange it.
When it came through the valley, you could hear the familiar whop-whop-whop of the Huey helicopter.
I don’t like war, but there was something tremendously exciting about that sound.
And then helicopters got me thinking about other helicopters.
I remember Brian Gilbertson, the Genmin executive, in Johannesburg. In the late 1980s he became chairman of Genmin, the mining arm formed under Gencor. He was a well-known figure in Johannesburg’s corporate circles and commuted to work in his twin-engine Messerschmitt helicopter, landing directly on the helipad on top of the Gencor headquarters in central Johannesburg.
His grand chopper arrivals became so familiar that staff used to joke that “the ego has landed” when he touched down.
I was working in Johannesburg at the time, and it was an everyday occurrence.
And we took it for granted.
Johannesburg was like the New York of South Africa in those days. It was exciting. Somebody arriving at work by helicopter seemed perfectly natural. Why not?
Then there was Paul Beresford from Radio 702, “your eye in the sky”, reporting on Johannesburg traffic from the 702 helicopter in the early 1980s.
Those were wonderful days. He did it with such aplomb. Someone else took over the job later, but somehow it wasn’t quite the same.
Helicopters were part of the Johannesburg landscape.
Before I left Johannesburg about four years ago, I remember that there weren’t nearly as many helicopters in the sky. But now, strangely enough, they seem to be back.
Yesterday I heard that around the Randburg and Kensington B areas there are helicopters flying at night, apparently doing surveillance or surveys or something else. Nobody seems quite sure what they are doing. Perhaps they are police helicopters. Perhaps they are doing surveys.
Who knows?
And staying with Johannesburg, I remember taking my two children for a helicopter ride at the Rand Easter Show. Not at the old agricultural showgrounds near Empire Road, but at the new showgrounds out at Nasrec.
It was an extraordinary experience.
We were able to see the city from above, but we also experienced something of the extraordinary difficulty of controlling a helicopter. It looks effortless from the ground. It isn’t.
But the remarkable thing was the view.
That high view.
And perhaps that is what has stayed with me.
How often do we take a helicopter view of our lives?
When you look down from a helicopter, everything changes.
The roads become lines. The houses become tiny boxes. People disappear almost completely. The landscape becomes one enormous thing rather than a collection of thousands of separate things.
I remember once seeing my house from an aeroplane.
It looked tiny.
The people looked tiny.
And then you think: that’s us down there.
These tiny little living beings, moving around, going to work, buying things, worrying about things, arguing about things, accumulating things, falling in love, falling out of love, making money, losing money, getting sick, getting better.
And yet, from above, it all looks completely different.
Perhaps that is what philosophy is for.
I remember growing up and reading those wonderful philosophical books. If you mentioned philosophy to your friends, or even to some of your elders, they would laugh at you.
People scoffed at philosophers.
Philosophy wasn’t in vogue.
It was probably best to keep quiet and find a kindred spirit — of which there were very few — with whom you could discuss philosophy, spirituality, morality and the great questions of life.
That was the way it was.
But something has changed.
Philosophy, in its many forms, Western and Eastern, has penetrated all sorts of everyday practices. Sports. Fitness. Well-being. Meditation. Mindfulness.
You see people walking around with yoga mats rolled up under their arms. People are communing with nature. People are looking for their atman, their inner being, trying to understand what is happening inside themselves.
Perhaps we have finally realised that there is more to life than simply being busy.
A helicopter gives you a spectacular view.
But perhaps the helicopter view is only half the story.
Because there is another way of seeing.
Not Charon, the ancient Greek ferryman who carries the dead across the river to their final destination.
A different ferryman.
The ferryman Siddhartha meets.
He doesn’t take you away from life.
He takes you into it.
Into the river.
Into that smiling, laughing river that is always moving and yet always present.
And perhaps that is what philosophy really does.
The helicopter gives you the view from above.
The ferryman gives you the view from within.
One shows you the landscape.
The other teaches you to listen to the river.
That, perhaps, is the real purpose of philosophy.
Not to provide answers to every question. Not to make you clever. Not to give you something impressive to say at dinner.
But to change the way you see.
Whether you are rich or poor, powerful or powerless, successful or unsuccessful, you are still a human being.
And without some kind of philosophy, some kind of understanding of what it means to be alive, it is very easy to become trapped in desire.
More money.
More possessions.
More status.
More pleasure.
More certainty.
And, underneath it all, worry.
Worry about what has happened.
Worry about what is happening.
Worry about what might happen.
Even worry about your final destination.
The helicopter view can interrupt all of that.
It lifts you above the immediate.
It lets you see where you have come from and where you are.
And perhaps, if you are quiet enough, it allows that small, vital voice inside you to speak.
To show you the way forward.
Sometimes you need a helicopter view of things.
And sometimes you need to get out of the helicopter and sit beside the river.









