In Hawaii I used to drive older cars, perhaps as a sign of coolness. My 1960 Volkswagen beetle was the ideal beach car, worn and weather-beaten to the point where driving it was challenge thrown into the face of Harold, God Of Foolish Risks. I mean this car was so old that it didn’t have a gas gauge; just a lever down by your feet which, when thrown, would give you one more gallon accompanied by the urgent need to find a gas station pronto. You could see the road whizzing by below you through the rust holes in the floor boards.
Nothing could damage this car as it had already taken the worse the world could throw at it and just kept on limping along. Nothing that is until Thanksgiving Day, 1971.
I had left UH Manoa pretty late that night, on my way home to Kahaluu on the windward side. There were ominous clouds over the Pali meaning that heavy rain was likely falling in the mountains (mauka). As I approached the turnoff to Kahaluu I noticed that the canal on my right was nearly full, belying the lack of local precipitation. I was about to learn firsthand about the concept of ‘runoff’, foreshadowing my future life with the Corps of Engineers. As I began to cross the narrow bridge, the stream beneath suddenly surged up and over the roadway, carrying the bridge, me and my bug off the road, down the river and ultimately out to sea.
Most Bugs will float — this one no exception — and I think I would have stayed aboard had it not been for those pesky rust holes in the floorboards. A mini Titanic in the making, I instantly knew that James Cameron himself couldn’t save this puppy. Screaming, “I’m Pawn Of The World!” I crawled out the window and swam for shore, previously known as The Road.
I dragged myself out of the raging torrent, thankful on Thanksgiving Day to be alive, only to discover that I escaped to the wrong side of the river, and would now have to re-cross in order to get home. Charon was nowhere to be seen, but I did have my constant companions, Youth and Stupidity, standing by ready to assist. To this day I’m not sure how I made it back across that flood, and it would have been fitting if somehow the Volkswagen, hung up on some branches, had suddenly released and come crashing over me in the ultimate revenge of Machine over Dumb Guy. But no, I arrived at my door late that night, caked in mud from head to toe. My brother said that I was laughing hysterically, and although I cannot independently verify that, it has a certain ring of truth, and lends a touch of pathos to this otherwise ridiculous stumble-bum story.
I did find the car the next day, upside down in someone’s outhouse, or more accurately where the outhouse used to be. The bug was filled with, er, mud, and I was captured on film by the local TV News crew as I bent to pull long strands of fibrous material from the prostrate form of my beloved Beetle. I peered hopelessly unto the dim, mud-filled interior, trying to see if anything could be salvaged. The TV guy attempted to interview me but by the time they had edited out all the “um’s”, “ya know’s” and “uh’s”, they barely had enough footage for a single frame, which zoomed past the 11 O’clock news audience in 1/16th of a second, a time precisely equal to my moment of fame.
A week or so passed and I began the process of buying another car; yes, another Beetle, as penance to automotive karma. As I bargained with the seller, he stared at me and asked, “Aren’t you the guy I saw on TV after the flood?”
Yes, I say, I am he from the television.
Timothy Leary would be proud.
whoisfenton 