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The Last Sandy Beach
Outlaw Race, 1982.
Posted
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Told
by the Kalama Valley Kid.
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Joe Yu aka `da Flea
& Danny Sachs, the Kalama Valley Kid. 22 years later.
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I
wound out first gear as far as it could go before whacking second.
Then I heard him; the Flea was right with me, side by side with my
coupe. I figured it would be now or never to see what would happen
if I hit that NOS button. Click! I hit it! I pressed that button
as hard as I could while banging my shifter into third gear
momentarily pulling away into the lead. With every blast of Nitrous,
my coupe became more and more hard to handle. Sliding to the
right, then kicking out to the left all while trying to keep it
going straight.
Where
was the end? How far do I have to go? There’s no mark on the
highway, how will I know when I reach that quarter-mile
mark?
I
kept holding the gears as long as I could while hitting that NOS
button but the Flea stayed right with me, eye to eye.
Then
it happened. Something I was always afraid of happening during a
street race.
A
passenger car pulled out from Kalama Valley and turned into the
right lane, opposite of the Flea. I tried to slow down to let the
Bug get in front of me, avoiding a head on collision with it but
he was runn'in slicks, rear tires only meant for getting traction
on a straight line and not meant for changing lanes at high
speeds.
Once
he changed lanes and got in front of me, I watched him swerve back
and forth five or six times before completely loosing control and
whipping back over to the left lane. Then rolling over once or
twice before coming to a stop – ending right side up in a
drainage ditch.
People
began to scatter like ants in a rage. I could hear some yell out,
he’s ok he’s ok! I heard others yelling Cops! Cops! I turned
my coupe around to see for myself if the Flea was in fact all
right. He was standing next to his mangled white Bug holding his
arm covered in blood. "Are you ok?" I shouted while
still sitting in my coupe and in the middle of the right lane. He
said, "yeah but we better get outta here quick."
"Hang on," I replied, "I’ll turn my coupe around
then pick you up."
I
had every intention to take him to Castle Memorial emergency once
I turned my coupe around but there were so many cars coming and
going in and out of Sandy’s, I had to turn around a block away
at Blow Hole. When I reached the lookout, I was surrounded by
seven cop cars.
I
recognized one of them; it was Sgt. Peter Carlos who I knew
from hanging out at Chevron. He peered through his driver window
without getting out of his car and frowned while he asked if I had
been racing that night. I gave him honest but short one-syllable
answers. "Was there an accident? "Yeah." Were you
racing? "Yeah." Did any other patrol cars show up
besides us? "Nope." He shook his head in disappointment
then said, "go home. I’m letting you go. No tell anyone
else you were out here tonight."
Wow,
I thought I’d be spending the rest of the night sitting in a
downtown Jail cell. I was still worried about Joe Yu even though
in my heart I knew he’d be ok. I wondered what would happen to
him when the cops finally reach the scene of the accident.
Sgt.
Carlos waved his hand singling me to go first, while all seven of
them followed back towards Sandy’s. They knew where I lived, and
they knew I had to go back that way to enter Kalama Valley.
With
seven cop cars behind, I drove back to the beach. This time Sandy’s
looked empty and strangely deserted. Not a sole around, no cars,
no one in the parking lot, not even a lone fisherman who, rain or
shine would always be at the far right end of the beach. All that
remained was a windswept salt spray coming from Sandy’s pounding
surf.
That
was the last I ever saw of the Flea. Stories lingered for years
though. When I ‘d hear about them, I’d always wonder what
happened to the Flea. No one ever raced at Sandy’s since that
night, at least nothing really worth talking about anyway. Through
the years, the stories became distorted, the truths became faded
even in my own mind. I’ve told this story so many times before
and each time, I loose a little memory of what really happened
that night.
What
exactly happened to the Flea? 22 years later I went to a car show
at the Blaisdell Center, while taking pictures, a guy walked up to
me and said, "Brah, my friend like meet you." "Who’s
your friend?" I replied with a gentle smile. He said come
with me, my friend wants to meet you. It was Joe Yu, the Flea. We
talked and took pictures. Today, he’s around 60 or so, running a
charter fishing company from Hawaii Kai Harbor.
What
ever happened to Guy Swift? I’m not really sure. The last I
heard, he moved to Canada almost 18 Years ago. Before loosing
touch, we’d meet from time to time and swap old racing stories.
Sandy Beach would almost always come up each time. Guy never
looked at me the same way; I wasn’t that rich kid from Hawaii
Kai anymore. I had become his equal. He’d talk about racing with
a smile filled with wisdom and I just knew he’d be thinking
about Sandy’s.
As
for me? I went on to build four more street rods after that
Thanksgiving night. Then six years ago I moved to Oregon where I
watch the rainfall and punch out old racing stories on my computer
for this rag, Honolulu Streets.
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© 2004 Honolulu Streets. All rights reserved.
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