1668-41 Economics, Development, & Real Estate 1927-1945 4/3/93
HOWARD KLEINBERG
MIAMI HERALD
MIAMI ,FL.
SIR,
I write as a long time fan of your historical writings.
They are a great bit of work and much enjoyed .
As I was born in the Alamo in 1927 and thankfully was
lucky enough to live my entire life in Dade, I have many
great memories of this area. My parents came here in 1923
from New Jersey after a near fatal bout with the Flu. After
spending time in a Boulevard boarding house, they moved to
Ocean Drive and 4 th Street. The following year my Grandfather
and Uncle joined Dad and went into Real Estate sales, as did
so many others . The family moved into a duplex on Lenox and
10th. Therefore, I was raised there.
One thing you wrote of recently was oos . ou may not know
but there was one on the Beach in the early 30s . My Dad ofter
drove my brothers and me there on Sunday afternoons to see
and feed the animals. It was on the South bank of Collins
Canal between Meridian and Washington, then the lower half
of the golf course. Dad told me the Carl Fisher started it
/7
and that sounds likely. There were Deer, Alligators, Racoons,
Possomand numerous water fowl that went in and out of the
canal . It was nothing special but free and the deer would
feed from your hand through the fence, neat for a wide eyed
kid like me.
As for animals on the Beach, I well remember Rosie, the
elephant .They had Sunday afternoon rides in her cart in front
of the Flamingo Hotel . Naturally kids were in their Sunday
best and she loved to fill her trunk with water and hose down
those of us in the cart, she got me good, I remember that
clearly.
I am enclosing an article I wrote for our antique auto
club publication. You might enjoy reading about a day that
was very exciting to me in the early days .
Sincerely,
AL POWELL
5825 SW 27 ST.
MIAMI ,FL. 33155
SHADE TREE MECHANIC:
AL POWELL:
THERE SHE GOES, MISS AMERICA
That phrase was made famous in a song by Bert Parks . He made a
living singing it and I still think the show lacks something since he
left. Last month I told you. I would describe the first time I saw her,
so lets get going.
It was in 1934 on Miami Beach. My parents moved there in 1923 and
we were living at 1015 Lenox in '34 . Miss America was often seen there
in those days. Carl Fisher did anything to promote his island city and
she always was good for newspaper coverage throughout the country. When
she was scheduled to appear, crowds gathered early, not wanting to miss
a bit of the action.
I was 7 years old, had just gotten my first 2-wheeler bike an American
Flyer, blue with wood rims and high pressure tires . These had no tube and
flats were fixed by injecting a wad of rubber bands coated in rubber
cement into the puncture or screwing in a brass plug. Both worked OK but
I liked the brass plug because it went clack-clack against the sidewalk
on every revolution. However, when it let go, it blew out with a bang,
leaving beh:.nd a large hole . This required a new tire which had to be
glued in place with heavy shellac, this had to set overnight before it
could be ridden.
The bike fits this story because my friend' s older brother, Bob Crock-
ette had to:_d us that Miss America would be strutting her stuff up on
Indian Cree:c the next Saturday. He knew the way and was riding up with
his older friends (Bob was nearly 10 ! ) but agreed to let me and his kid
brother, Jack tag along. When you are 7 and riding your first 2 wheeled
bike you are. not allowed far from home and this trip was a good 3-4 miles
one way. I knew I would be in trouble from my folks, but I had to go !
An opportun:.ty like this doesn' t happen very often, so we started making
plans . I 'd tell my folks Jack and I were going to Flamingo Park to play,
Jack would do the same . We rode to the park early that day as promised
but there we met with the older guys and soon were on our way. Up Meri-
dian to Dade Boulevard then follow the trolley tracks to 41 Street. Once
there, we quickly covered the two blocks to the waterway. In the middle ,
we stopped and looked North for signs- of her Royal Highness . She was
there, beautiful beyond my wildest dreams, my heart pounded with excite-
ment. One of the older guys screamed with glee , jumped on his bike and
raced off tine bridge toward her, the rest of us quickly followed.
In those days there were few buildings up that way. The Firestone
estate was the biggest, hidden behind a high spiked metal fence and thick
shrubs, it covered the property that the Eden Roc and Fountainbleu hotels
now sit upon. Miss America and her entourage were there at 44th. She
waited as attendants saw to her every need, I watched in boyhood awe,
struck by her beauty. Then, I saw him, white hair fluttering in the
breeze. Even as a kid, I recognized him immediately, anyone of that era
would. His picture was often in the newspaper, I had seen him in the
newsreels at the Community Theater on Lincoln Road, I told my buddy, Jack,
"There he is, Gar Wood ! "
Miss America was his, he was her master. She was the fastest, most
powerful racing boat in the world. With her, he had broken the world 's
record for speed on water many times and had won and held against all
comers, the Harmsworth Trophy, powerboats America' s Cup. She was long
and slim, beautifully varnished with her name in bright, bold letters
down each side . There had been a series of them, each faster than her
predecessor and this one, Miss America X was to be the fastest of all .
I set my bike down and edged along the seawall to get a closer look.
SHADE TREE MECHANIC:
AL POWELL:
THE SILVER FOX AND THE MAHOGANY BEAUTY:
It must be that a deep love of engines, power and speed is in-born.
I was just a little kid but well remember the excitement that ran through
my body as I gazed at the huge, power packed racer. In show form she may
have had classy, varnished engine hatches to snap in place over the mon-
sterous Packard V-12 engines but this day they were off, exposing the 4
brutish powerplants . Nestled below the deck line , they filled the engine
area completely. Mounted end to end in pairs, they drove twin propellers
at the stern. The sight, still vivid in my mind, is highlighted by the
black exhaust stacks that rose vertically from each engine. Not single
stacks but two in one which formed a rectangle with rounded ends. There
were four rows of them jutting some two feet above the deck line .
The boat was tied across the end of a short dock, headed North toward
Gar Woods home . His home was built on the east bank of the waterway
approximately one mile north. I remember it well, large, two story, topped
by his own telescope observatory, round roof with viewing slot, all move-
able . It was from that point that he realized Indian Creek was a perfect
strip upon which to go after his own water speed record. Long, wide,
straight and sheltered, it was perfect and used many times by other dare-
devils over the years .
It was not long before the mechanics began to pick up their tools and
move off the boat. I could hear those around me commenting, "It won ' t be
long now" . . "He 's about ready. " I could hardly wait.
There was not much technology tied to speed on water in those days .
Aerodynamics was little understood, the three point hydroplane was yet to
come . Hulls were simple with wetted surface cut by the use of bottom
steps, one , two and sometimes three . Speed was accomplished in most part
by brute horsepower, big engines, placed far to the rear with the driving
cockpit right at the stern. Miss America was no different, Gar Wood drove
her from his rear cockpit, right side position with his throttleman be-
side him. I watched as they both got aboard, the mechanic, I can not re-
call
e-call his name anymore, sat down and began his pre-start check, Gar Wood
however, remained standing for a bit, leaning forward, looking over his
engines. The two were conversing but_ I could not hear what was said, then
the mechanic nodded his head affirmatively and Wood sat down, holding the
thick rimmed wheel firmly. My skin prickled as I waited, the crowd grew
silent and I could hear the starting motors begin to turn. I watched the
stacks and waited; a puff of black smoke , another, a cough, a bark then
another and another. She began to move as each stack belched with black
exhaust, intersperced by orange flame as the rich fuel mixture began to
ignite . Unlike the modern boat racer who floor boards his throttle to
break his hull free of the water, Gar's throttleman eased the power on,
gradually increasing speed until the hull dropped her nose and leveled out.
He held that way until she was out of sight, under the 63rd Street bridge
east of St. Francis Hospital . Gar took her into the open area North of
Allison Island and with engines now warmed up, turned and started his
first Southbound pass. Now, for the first time, I heard the full enormity
of sound created by her great engines as the throttles were pushed for-
ward. We all heard her before she burst into view, beautiful engine
sounds announcing her arrival . At first sight, she was a mile or so away,
trailing a cloud of spray, her shiny hull riding steady. In seconds, she
was upon us and passed in a blast of thunder and wake . The crowd was
awestruck as Wood, the master, took her under the low, wooden bridge at
full speed. As he headed South, the boat was slowed and using the full
width of Lake Pancoast, turned around.
She motored slowly back to her dock, engines stumbling and grumbling
at the slow pace they disliked so. With ignition cut, she glided in to a
stop. The throttleman was chief mechanic and at his direction adjustments
were made, fluid levels checked and soon she was ready for a second run.
I knew where I wanted to be and left those at dockside to pedal my
bike as fast as possible back to the 41st Street bridge . I wanted to lay
on my stomach at mid-stream and watch Miss America roar toward me at two
miles a minute. I would lean far out and pray that some of her spray would
hit my face .
As I got to the bridge, Wood fired the engines and headed North. I
stood watching her go. She left my line of vision, made her turn and
started back. The rising engine sounds once again excited my young body
and the sight of her hull hurtling toward me was one of the most stimula-
ting visual events of my lifetime . I flopped on my belly and streched out
directly in line with her course . I held my breath and waited. Transfixed,
I focused my eyes on the approaching craft, in seconds she was there, a
blast of hot exhaust hit my face and she was gone . Unlike modern, prop
riding hydroplanes with their roostertail of spray behind them, Miss
America threw more of a flat wake, no spray hit my face. However, that
exhaust and the smell of burned fuel remains with me today.
Gar Wood made numerous runs that day and I lay over the edge each
time to catch that exhaust blast. Finally, my buddy Jack suggested we ride
tc a midpoint on the course for a different view. A vacant lot on the
west side looked good so off we went. We spent the rest of the day there,
under a pine tree, watching that great racer. Miss America X set a record
of a bit over 125 mph which stood for many years . They say that early
events in life can shape a persons path. I truly feel that day ignited a
flame in me toward a love of speed and open exhaust racing engines. In
liter years, I built and raced hydroplanes and racing cars. I thank Gar
Wcod and his best girl, Miss America for their direction, it was great.
What happened when I got home from this adventure? I was met by a
worried and angry Mom, ready to thrash my tail, but my Dad, though mad,
understood. As a young lad he had ridden the trolley far out on Long
Island to see the early Vanderbilt Cup races. He took me in his arms,
hugged me that I was safe and made me promise never to do such a thing
again. We then went out on the back steps where I told him of my exciting
day.
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