THE TWO-RIDE, 1,100-MILE CHRISTMAS MIRACLE OF '73

By Juan Montoya

It was nearing the Christmas season in 1973 and I was stationed in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina,  headquarters of the Second Fleet Marine Force and looking forward to drive home to Brownsville for Christmas leave.

As I contemplated driving home for the holidays in my Chevy Chevelle, it occurred to me that the tired 350 cubic-inch engine in my car would not do for the long drive home to South Texas. With the help of a fellow gyrene whose dad owned a junkyard back in his home somewhere in Tennessee, we found a 396 cubic-inch engine at a local junk yard and over a weekend installed the new motor and worked out the kinks. It gave the car a noticeable boost in power and before leaving, I checked all the fluids, changed the oil, and threw on some new tires.

Although I had never met any other marines from Brownsville, once word got around the base that someone was driving there for Christmas, a marine showed up at my bunk and told me he lived near 30th Street along Southmost, across the road from Cromack Elementary. 

I told him (I don't remember his name after all this time) we could take off that Friday afternoon and we agreed to share the costs for gas and we'd each pay our own meals. We were due back 10 days later.

And so it was that we took off Friday and headed south for home. I bought an eight-track player from the PX at the base, and along with the car's speakers, put out some sounds as we barreled along toward Texas. Deep Purple and Black Oak Arkansas blared from the speakers. We were bookin'.

It must have been just before dawn that we were on Interstate 20 emerging on the west side of Atlanta, Georgia, after driving all night when – with the eight-track blaring – I felt like we were just gliding down the highway. I stomped on the gas, without any effect. The motor had stopped. The lights were on, but the motor gone. We got out and looked under the hood, but apart from confirming that the engine had seized, could find nothing wrong with it. Then I checked the oil. Not a drop registered on the dipstick.

I took a flashlight and looked under the car. In those day, the oil filters came with a round rubber gasket that you had to make sure was snug when you tightened it. If you pinched it or tightened it and it wasn't well placed, you'd leak oil. Unbeknownst to us, that is exactly what had happened when I changed the oil. Over time, a slight leak had developed that didn't immediately register on the dashboard gauge. We had burned the motor.

So there we were, 1,100 miles or so from home, on the side of the interstate, with a broken-down car. We waited for dawn and decided to hitchhike to the nearest city west of Atlanta – maybe Birmingham – and jump on a bus to get home. I tore off the eight-track player and threw it in my suitcase and left the keys on the front seat. We took off walking on the Interstate and started hitchhiking west. From the west looking east, Atlanta looks as if it's in a huge bowl, or depression.

Not more than half an hour passed when a car with some local Georgians stopped and took us some five miles down the road to their exit ramp and said goodbye and good luck. The next car that stopped – our second ride – was a white Ford Fairlane with two longhair kids who stopped to give us a lift.

We told them we were stationed in the Marine Corps base in North Click and our sad tale and they asked us if our car was the blue Chevelle some eight or 10 miles back. We said it was. We explained that it had leaked oil and burned the engine and they commiserated with us. They asked us where we were headed and when we told them Brownsville they asked where that was.

"If you drive across Texas and head south, before you fall into the Rio Grande at its southern tip, there you are," I said. 

Of course, they had never been here and we asked them where they were heading. 

"Nowhere special," said one. "We're from Florida and going as far as we can until we run out of gas because we don't have no money."

"Florida? How did you put gas in the car before?," I asked.

"We were driving in a county road to bypass downtown Atlanta and come out on the west side and we stopped in this little country gas station that was run by an old lady who just happened to be blind," one said sheepishly looking at the other. "Then, after we gassed up, we just took off without paying."

It became apparent to us that perhaps the two had stolen the car and were on the run. But as we spoke to them it was clear to us that that they were not violent criminals, just two kids out for a wild ride. We invited them to have breakfast in a diner along the interstate and made them a proposition.

"Since you have no firm plans to go anywhere, what do you say if we asked you to drive us to Brownsville and we pay all expenses and when we get there we give you a few bucks – say about $100 – for you guys to get back to Houston or wherever and you take it from there?" 

They thought about it for a few minutes and agreed. 

"Let's go to Brownsville," one said.

Less then 24 hours later we unloaded the other marine at his house behind the gas station on 30th Street on the north side of Southmost and then drove to my parents' home on Weslaco Road off FM 802. Back in 1973, Weslaco was a caliche road and 802 was a rural-grade two-lane road. 

I grabbed my suitcase, thanked the two guys, gave them my $50 share of the promised payoff and walked into my house to the surprise of my family. 

The last I saw of them was the rear of the white Fairlane turning left on 802 from Weslaco Road headed toward U.S. 77-83.

Two rides, 1,100 miles. Christmas miracles do happen.