Photo courtesy of the Mariners Museum, Newport News VA

the Wanderling

While still in high school I worked a couple of days a week after school running errands for a house-bound former merchant marine that had been badly burned when the ship he was on was torpedoed by a German submarine. Because of the attack and the resulting injuries he was hooked up to some sort of breathing apparatus attached to an oxygen tank, plus, on-and-off throughout the day he had IVs stuck into his arms and wires attached in various places for monitoring equipment to record his heart rate, blood pressure and other vitals. So said, for the most part, because he was so hooked up to machines and couldn't move he basically just sat there all day long in a den-like room overlooking the street reading books, newspapers and staring out the window.[1]

During World War II the merchant ship he was serving on was queuing up for a convoy and given an early position amongst the other ships in the rear corner on the starboard side that he called "coffin corner," said by experienced hands to be the most easy picking location for submarines in a convoy. Everybody on board was nervous, not only because of the position and the known prowling of German U-boats in the area, but also because previously another crew member, an able-bodied seaman by the name of Olguin (possibly Holguin) had always been with them. Word had it that any time Olguin was part of the crew and the ship was in coffin corner, because of his karma or good luck or whatever they would not be attacked. The legend was alive because not one of the several voyages he had been on and traveling in coffin corner had his ship been hit or even come under attack. On this trip Olguin was either not in the convoy or assigned to another ship. Before the convoy even formed up let alone got underway members of a U-boat wolfpack began striking at the edges of the still loosely associated ships with my friend's ship torpedoed. In order to save himself he had no choice but to jump overboard, landing in an area with with highly flammable naphtha and oil burning along the surface of the water, the fire scorching his skin and heat scorching his lungs as he plunged through and returned for air. He spent months in recovery and rehabilitation.

Some ten years following that torpedo strike, between my sophomore and junior years in high school, the merchant marine, due to long term complications from injuries incurred during the attack, his body basically just shut down and he died. Around that same time the man who would come to be my spiritual guide and Mentor bought and moved into the house next to my grandmother's, who I was living with at the time. I truly missed the camaraderie, friendship and talks with the merchant marine. When my mentor came along, although what he and I discussed seemed on the opposite end of the spectrum, and because neither my father or a father figure was really around much in those days, my mentor filled a huge empty gap in my life. One day, for no real reason I can remember, my experience with Franklin Merrell-Wolff came up after I had been talking about the merchant marine --- like I often did --- but this time how my merchant marine friend had survived being burnt following a torpedo attack and mysteriously found weeks, possibly months later still alive, floating out in the middle of the open ocean strapped to a piece of debris. It was like I had hit my mentor in the head with a hammer. He told me while traveling around the country he met a man either in the Pacific Northwest or from the Pacific Northwest named Richard Rose who was similar to Merrell-Wolff. Oddly enough Richard Roses' brother, whose name was James Rose, happened to be a merchant marine, and, just like my merchant marine friend, was killed off the coast of Florida in May of 1942 when his ship was torpedoed by German submarines.[2]

The shock of his brother's death in war, especially since he was aware of his brother's full-on selfless attitude compared to what he, Richard Rose, deemed to be his own rather shallow ego-based pursuits at the time, is what sent him on his spiritual quest --- basically the exact same thing that happened to MY mentor when he saw his own best friend die in front of his eyes at the hands of the Germans during World War I.[3]

Because of the seemingly incredible coincidence between the two events my mentor continually pressed me on knowing all the information I could muster regarding my merchant marine friend. Over and over I told him what I could remember. In the process of one of our discussions I recalled an article my friend had given me recounting his survival that I was sure I had stuffed away between the pages of the only book he ever gave me, a book about a Navy pilot who I have called here a Shipwrecked Sailor, whose life was saved after coming across a mysterious island that rose up out of the sea called High Barbaree. After searching around a bit I found the article and gave it to my mentor and that seemed to end it.

Months went by. Then one day out of the blue my mentor brought up what he was able to ascertain through the meager research he was able to dig up from what few names and dates were in the article. He told me my merchant marine friend and the brother of the man he met had been attacked at the same time, and, although it wasn't likely they were shipmates, the ships they were on got hit during the same U-boat attack. My mentor told me my merchant marine friend was part of a top secret convoy. The ship the man's brother was on was actually unescorted, and apparently, having spotted the convoy sometime after leaving Baltimore, under the cover of darkness, began tagging along in the shadow of it's wake for protection.

The investigation by my mentor into the attack, as I look back on it, albeit a quasi-heroic attempt considering the availability of information at his disposal in the mid-to-late 1950s, was rudimentary at best. After a constant hounding for clarification from readers of my works, using the much greater research capabilities of the internet some four decades later, although producing a near mirror image reflection of what he said happened, came out with a somewhat different interpretation of the events and how they unfolded. Secret missions are just that, secret. If classified records of the mission are not released or made public in some fashion then, except for bits and pieces here and there from those who may have particpated, then, for the most part that's the end of it. However, just like an observer of the night sky can look up and see a random group of stars and, by connecting them together, see archers, hunters, and serpents, so too can a picture emerge of a "secret mission" IF enough dots are made available.

When I was first informed by my mentor that the convoy my merchant marine friend was on was a top secret mission it meant nothing. It was only several years later when I started putting together bits and pieces that any of it began to take on any sort of significance. In his youth, many, many years before we ever crossed paths, my merchant marine friend had an obsession with Atlantis and the lost continent of Mu. As I recall it now --- stretching back into the dim, foggy reaches of my onetime teenage mind --- I remember my friend telling me about the Azores, a group of islands in the mid-Atlantic well off the coast of Portugal and Africa and how they related to the torpedo attack and Atlantis. Over a period of days during my regular daily visits my merchant marine friend had me get down a bunch of books and maps, spreading the maps all over the desk and all excited, explaining to me the early importance of the Azores in the myth of Atlantis. In several of the books he pointed out how Ignatius Donnelly, author of Atlantis: The Antediluvian World (1882), had first proposed that the Azores were the remnant remains of an Atlantean island continent --- and he told me how he always wanted to go to the islands because of it. He thought the convoy he was on was going to end up there. In those early months of World War II a highly secret plan was being put into place for an invasion of North Africa. How that invasion was going to work, during the time the convoy was being put into place, had not been finalized. One school of thought felt that staging an invasion from the Azores and Canary Islands would be a good idea. The other school of thought felt a direct invasion would be the best as taking over both islands first then building up men and materials would be a dead giveaway of a potential North African invasion. The convoy he was on was doing top secret pre-staging staging of equipment, material, and ships in Puerto Rico for a quick jump either to the Azores and Canaries or directly to North Africa. His ship was sunk before it ever reached Puerto Rico.[4] [5]

As presented previously above, as my mentor told it, my merchant marine friend was part of a top secret convoy. He said my friend and the brother of the man he met had been attacked at the same time, and, although it wasn't likely they were shipmates, the ships they were on got hit during the same U-boat attack. He said, and I repeat here for emphasis, the ship the man's brother was on was unescorted and apparently, having spotted the convoy sometime after leaving Baltimore, under the cover of darkness, began tagging along in the shadow of it's wake for protection.

All of which is fairly close to, but NOT exactly what happened.

According to crew lists of ships hit by U-boats, in May of 1942 James Rose, the brother of the man my mentor met, was onboard the U.S. freighter Delisle, my merchant marine friend on the American steam tanker S.S. Halsey. The Halsey had traversed around the southern tip of Florida from Corpus Christi and New Orleans filled to the gills with highly flammable oil and naphtha, joining a number of other ships forming up into a convoy scheduled to go to Puerto Rico. Rose's ship, the Delisle, had left Baltimore loaded with steel drums of camouflage paint on her deck along with other war-related material under a manifest to travel to Puerto Rico. On Monday afternoon May 4, 1942, around five o'clock Atlantic War Time the Delisle was hit by one torpedo from U-564 about 15 miles north of Jupiter Inlet, Florida and two crew members, of which Rose was one, were killed. Two days later, near midnight Wednesday, May 6, 1942 the Halsey was hit by two torpedoes from U-333 somewhat less than four miles east of Jupiter Inlet. Regarding the attack, in Notes on Loss writes:

"The torpedoes struck close together on the port side at the #2 and #3 main tanks. The explosion ripped a hole in the side 60 feet long. The master stopped the engines and headed toward the shore. No distress signal was sent, because the radio antenna had been destroyed. The entire crew of eight officers and 24 men abandoned ship in two lifeboats 15 minutes after the attack, the other two boats had been destroyed by the explosions. The men were nearly asphyxiated by the naphtha fumes before they could clear the ship. After one hour, the U-boat came alongside the lifeboats and offered assistance, but it was declined." (source)

In order to save himself my merchant marine friend had no choice but to jump overboard, landing in an area with oil and naphtha burning along the surface of the water, the fire scorching his skin as he plunged through and returned for air. In CARLOS CASTANEDA: Before Don Juan, the following on my merchant marine friend is presented:

"(He) was found weeks, possibly months after his ship had been torpedoed somewhere in the Atlantic strapped with heavy ropes to a piece of debris floating all alone in the middle of the ocean, and except for being unconscious and heavily scared from the burn marks, which had seemingly healed, he was in pretty good shape. Everybody said it was a miracle, that his burns must had healed by the salt water. How he had made it in the open ocean without food or water nobody knew. Most people speculated he had been picked up by a U-boat and ejected at a convenient time so he would be found, although no record has ever shown up to substantiate such an event, nor did he recall ever being on a submarine, German or otherwise."(source)

So, how does it all play out? The Halsey had yet to reach what would eventually become coffin corner of the still loose-knit convoy as it was forming up when the Delisle was hit. The Delisle was north of and headed toward the group when struck. Two days later as the Halsey reached and began turning into it's position she was hit with two torpedoes.(see) In a sense the two vessels were part of the same convoy, albeit before the final formulation of the group. As to being hit in the same attack, again, in a sense that was the case if taken in a larger overview that the subs were operating together as a pack in the same area. It is my opinion that the subs prowling up and down off the Florida coast hitting the ships as they came upon them did not realize a much larger picture was in order.


There are two sets of reports on the number of survivors following the attack of the Halsey, the ship my merchant marine friend was on. One says all crew members were saved. Another states 5 killed, 28 saved. The discreprancy most likely is related to initial reports and an eventual final account. After all, my merchant marine friend did survive but was not among the initial survivors, being found at sea months later. Two of the four lifeboats had been destroyed by the explosions and not all of the crew members could actually fit into the two remaining boats. So too, an hour after the attack the U-333 came alongside the lifeboats and offered assistance, but it was declined. It could be during that one hour period of time the U-333 had located and returned members of the crew. My friend was found in the north Atlantic miles from the attack months later, and although he himself said he did not recall ever being on a submarine, German or otherwise, it could possibly be the case that he was, after all he was severely burned. It could be he was attended to on the submarine --- although it must be said, they had limited facilities, and will, to do so for any extended period of time. He, however, held to the belief that other things were in the works and that the story of the shipwrecked sailor as found in Egyptian legend and most notedly the downed Navy pilot as found in High Barbaree more closely reflected what happened.

On the same day my merchant marine friend told me the story about being found floating in the middle of the ocean on a piece of debris he showed me a delicate gold necklace that had what looked like a small Chinese character dangling from it. He said one day in the hospital while being given a sponge bath he was looking in a hand mirror at his burn marks when he noticed he had the necklace around his neck. He never had a gold necklace in his life. When he asked the nurse where it came from she said as far as she knew he came in with it as it was found amongst the few personal effects he had with him. She said typically they would not put any jewelry on a patient but some of the staff thought that since he was so scarred by the burns that he might like a little beauty in his life so someone put it around his neck. He told me he had no clue where it came from or how it came into his possession, but for sure he didn't have it on before he was torpedoed. He said everybody always admired it and it appeared to be very ancient.

Several years after I saw the necklace for the very first time found me in the Cholon district of Saigon gulping down a large amount of a seemingly never ending supply of of alcoholic beverages. From out of the smoky milieu of mostly horny and inebriated GIs, unsolicited, what was affectionately tagged in those days as a Saigon Tea Girl, attempted to sit on my lap and tried to put something around my neck. Pushing back I could see she held what appeared to be a gold necklace stretched between her hands. Hanging midway along the necklace was a small Chinese character. Basically grabbing the necklace from her hands I asked where it came from and how she got it. She turned facing a general group of barely discernible figures sitting and drinking toward the back of the barroom in the shadows along the darkened wall, telling me that one of the men, a burnt man, had paid her to put it on me. When I asked what she meant by a burnt man, using her hands in a swirling motion in front of her face combined with a sneering facial expression to indicate scars while gasping for air as if the man had a tough time breathing, said in broken English, "burnt man, burnt man." In just the few seconds it took me to work my way through the crowd to the back wall pulling the tea girl with me the burnt man, if there ever was a burnt man, was gone. Nor could anybody at any of the tables remember seeing or talking to a heavily scarred man, burnt or otherwise, sitting at any of the tables --- although some of the GIs were fully able to recall the girl.[6]


When it came to the merchant marines, my friend was actually a celebrity or sorts, at least in the loose knit west coast merchant marine community, carrying a certain high level of notoriety and prestige ahead of himself. That notoriety stemmed from the mysterious events surrounding his survival after being lost at sea and found alive out in the middle of the ocean months, and months later strapped to a piece of debris, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from the spot his ship was torpedoed. So said, because of the close proximity of his home with two major world class seaports, Long Beach and Los Angeles, both crawling with merchant marines and other seafaring folk, it wasn't unusual in those days for any number of merchant marines and fellow seamen to drop by his house and pay him homage. Three that I met were notable in their own way. The first two of the three were Guy Hague and Truman Bethurum as found in Footnote [1] below. The third was a man by the name of Bob Kaufman. Although when I met Kaufman he wasn't widely known, he would eventually become a major poet in the the yet to be formed Beat Movement. As it was a whole bunch of poets and authors of the Beat movement were merchant marines, including Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Carl Solomon, Gary Snyder, Herbert Huncke, and the aforementioned Bob Kaufman:

"Bob Kaufman, although no longer in the merchant marines, but with both he and my friend having known each other over a long period of time somehow through their service in the merchant marines, was one of those who stopped by regularly to pay him homage. Kaufman's home, from birth through joining the merchant marines was New Orleans. The same was true of his older brother George, who preceded him into the merchant marines by quite sometime and was instrumental in easing Kaufman's entry into the service. My merchant marine friend's home port was New Orleans as well. Matter of fact the port of disembarkation for ship he was on when it was torpedoed off the coast of Florida was New Orleans. I think the initial connection between Bob Kaufman and my merchant marine friend was through his brother George.

"On at least one of the days that Kaufman visited my friend I was there and met him. As it was, Kaufman himself was a minor celebrity in the merchant marines, having been a major union activist, even kicked out of the merchant marines because of it. Because of that activism being in his blood, he fought endlessly for the funds and health care my friend needed to survive. Although the specifics behind the out-and-out why of Kaufman's personal interest never came up that I recall, maintaining the merchant marine's health was a priority interest of Kaufman's and one of the reasons they stayed so close, especially so many years after they both had served. Kaufman was always getting in trouble with the law it seems, some infractions rather small, some falling into or on the more-or-less large side, a good portion of them as I read his history, perpetrated. It is my belief that my merchant marine friend stepped in one day and helped him out of a major bind of some kind and Kaufman never forgot it."

In those days Kaufman was kind of Itinerant, working in or in the process of getting a job at a major hotel in Los Angeles. The last time I saw him he had come by to tell my merchant marine friend he was planning to move to San Francisco, so he wouldn't be coming around much anymore. He said a couple of other similar poet-types were at the time in the process of heading up from Mexico, or soon would be, and together, they were all going to end up in San Francisco. It was on that day, for the very first time, I heard the name Allen Ginsberg, Kaufman mentioning Ginsberg as one of the "poet-types." Now, if Kaufman knew Ginsberg at the time when he mentioned his name I don't know, only that Ginsberg and others, according to Kaufman, were headed to northern California planning to settle in in the bay area and "practice their craft."













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As to the subject of donations, for those who may be so interested as it applies to the gratefulness of my works, I invariably suggest any funds be directed toward THE WOUNDED WARRIOR PROJECT and/or THE AMERICAN RED CROSS.

Footnote [1]

To my knowledge my merchant marine friend never left his house except for two times during all the time I knew him. The first time was around three months after I started working for him. During that period a continuous series of high-powered winter storms battered the coastline all along Redondo Beach for a good two weeks straight, with giant two-story high waves tearing out a good portion of the beach and destroying houses all along the Strand. The damage received a good amount of national coverage and almost nonstop local coverage. My merchant marine friend, who could barely get between rooms without collapsing, decided he wanted to see the waves and destruction himself in real life. He got a couple of merchant marine buddies along with a couple of ex-navy guys he knew, one of whom was Guy Hague, who became famous in his own right one day, to carry him down to the street along with all of his breathing stuff, put him in the back of a panel truck, and take him down to the Strand.

Several women observing the waves recognized one of the sailors and came over to talk and fuss over the merchant marine who had been carried up on a stretcher. Interestingly enough, and much to the surprise of the men and the merchant marine, a couple of the women recognized me. None of it would had meant one thing one way or the other except that the women worked for Fifie Malouf.

Five years before going with my Merchant Marine friend down to see the waves along the Strand I lived with a foster couple who lived in Hermosa Beach but had a business in Redondo Beach. For whatever reason, not liking my living arrangements, I ran away from home. Without anybody knowing where I was or having anybody's consent I ended up staying with an only just recently released World War II ex-Marine taxi driver that had fought his way up through all the islands in all the major battles in the Pacific from Guadalcanal northward. The taxi driver and I would have breakfast several days a week at Malouf's Happy Hour Cafe and sometimes I would hang out in the cafe in the afternoons or evenings while the ex-marine "visited a friend" in one of the apartments attached to the cafe. As a young boy basically unattended in the cafe it wasn't long before some of the women --- who worked for Fifie and knew what was going on --- befriended me. It was a couple of those same women who recognized me that day I was with my merchant marine friend.

The second time my merchant marine friend ever left his house was about six months before he died. I started to work for him just as I began the 9th grade. Two years later, during the summer between my junior and senior year, apparently because of all the trauma and stress he had endured over the years from the severe burns, his body just gave out and he died. Even though he had severe burns and scaring from the torpedo attack and was housebound to boot with a tough time talking, he still had all kinds of people that used to stop by and see him and get into big long discussions on all sorts of topics. But, for all the knowledge and topics he could talk about what he was really known for was Atlantis and Mu --- both of which he not only studied indepth and had book after book on, but he also had spent a good part of his life out in the field physically searching for clues to their existence. In the end, as a one time true believer, he became convinced neither existed and would argue vehemently with a huge arsenal of information and facts at his fingertips against either of the lost continents.

In those days both the merchant marine and I lived in homes on the 200 block south in Redondo Beach. Just a few short blocks away, with an address in the 500 north Gertruda section lived a man by the name of Truman Bethurum. Bethurum would come by the merchant marine's house on occasion and the two of them would get into heated discussions. Several times he was there I was there. The last time I remember seeing him at the merchant marine's house was in February 1954. Bethurum told him that in a couple of days, on Friday evening February 19th, at the Neptunian Womens Club clubhouse in Manhattan Beach (a few miles north of Redondo) he was going to give an hour-long talk begining at 8 p.m. and hoped he could be there. With much struggle and pain, with the help of several of his merchant marine friends, for whatever reason, he made it and I tagged along.

Unknown to me at the time, all the while Bethurum had been coming by to visit my merchant marine friend he was rising up the ranks just to the cusp of being famous --- famous for what was was being called a "contactee." I was told a contactee was a person who had been contacted by aliens from another world. At his talk that night, in so many words, Bethurum said his experience began after his shift working as a maintenance mechanic for the Wells Cargo Construction Company, an asphalt mixing plant in Nevada. Tired, he took a little time to take a snooze at a nearby place called Morman Mesa where he had been hunting for ancient seashells. In the process he encountered a UFO and its occupants including the ships captain, a female named Aura Rhanes. According to what Rhanes told him she came from a planet called Clarion, which was not known to earth-based astronomers because its orbital path kept it permanently hidden from the earth behind the moon. Bethurum claimed his first contact took place on July 7, 1952 (later corrected to Saturday or Sunday of July 26 or 27) and since then to have had several similar encounters and at the time of his presentation continued to look forward to the time when he could travel to Rhanes' home planet Clarion.

I sent a letter to my uncle outlining Bethurum's story. He wrote back saying to take the guy for what he is worth, but he sounded like a nut case. My uncle said he had three personal experiences with flying objects of an unknown origin, the San Antonio crash (1945), the Roswell crash (1947) and the Kingman UFO (1953), and, at least up until the time we were writing out letters, not once, under any circumstances involving the objects, had he run into any sort of alien life forms, dead or alive. My uncle's advice, possibly tinged with a tiny bit of jealousy, asked what I thought my dad would think if he found out I was listening to Bethurum. After all, he said, my dad had told him (my uncle) when he asked me join him in Kingman that he "was filling my mind with all kinds of 'weird and useless shit' and to and keep his 'cock-and-bull stories' to himself."

Bethurum died in 1969 after reaching his pinnacle some years before. When his narrative about Clarion being in an orbit kept out of sight by the moon was proven to be scientifically infeasible he said he was mistaken and that the planet was really in the exact orbital path of the earth only directly opposite of the earth on the other side of the sun. When that was discredited he moved the planet to another solar system.

Some people have questioned how I can be so sure so many years after the fact that February 19th was the specific date for Bethurums talk at the Neptunian Club. If you remember from the above, with the passing of my mother I was sent to live with a foster couple that owned a flower shop and of whom, almost immediately, I ran away from and ended up staying with an ex-Marine who had fought his way through all of the major Pacific battles. He was a tough, rough sort of guy and could back it up if necessary. One day I found him sitting bent over with his head in his hands looking all the same as though he was crying. After composing himself and shaking it off as though nothing had happened he told me that it was his birthday and that he and his very best buddy in the military shared the exact same birthdate. They went everywhere together and did everything together. The two of them had fought their way up through all the islands side by side from Guadalcanal northward.

He said barely a year and a half ago, on February 19, 1945, the two of them had just landed on Iwo Jima and no sooner had he come ashore than his best buddy was blown to bits right in front of his eyes and what was left of him wouldn't even fill a dog food can.

Footnote [2]

My mentor gave me the above information near the end of, or just following the completion of my high school years. I have strewn the names of both Richard Rose and James Rose liberally throughout the article as if he spoke of them by using their names at the time. However, during the actual time the conversations were unfolding IF the names Richard Rose or James Rose were ever mentioned specifically I do not recall. I am almost certain I learned about the two of them from my mentor without knowing their names. It has only been after the fact that I have been able to put names to the people my mentor was speaking of.

Footnote [3]

The seemingly incredible coincidences between the two events, that is, my mentor, in his travels, meeting a man "not unlike Franklin Merrell-Wolff" who, because of his brother's death in the war, went on a spritual quest that ended in his ultimate Attainment --- which almost exactly paralelled my mentor's life in reaching his Attaiment, was of great interest to my mentor. When he discovered the interelationship between my merchant marine friend and the death of the brother of the man he met, the two of them being on board ships struck by German U-boats during the same attack, it was almost too much to comprehend.

The man killed in the U-boat attack was named James Rose. The man my mentor met was Richard Rose and, not unlike my mentor said, "like" Franklin Merrell-Wolff, a man of deep spiritual Attainment. The interesting part is a connection of sorts regarding Richard Rose and one Alfred Robert Pulyan. Alfred Pulyan was a man of truly great spiritual prowess, an "American Zen Master" without the Zen nor the Buddhism, yet Enlightened in the Finality of the Absolute in the same tradition as in the spiritual Awakenings attributed to the ancient classical masters. Richard Rose would eventually become one of Pulyan's foremost and strongest advocates. Although my mentor had met Richard Rose it was Pulyan that he was the most impressed with, as the following will attest:

"After a two year stint in the military along with doing months of hard time in a Zen monastery (see), I sought out my mentor once again with the intention of at least a semi-return to practice. What he saw he didn't like, saying the military brought out a beast in me, plus all I really wanted to do was use my college time to party and chase girls. He agreed that my unsuccessful foray under Yasutani should have ended somewhat differently and was unsure why it didn't. By spring he had pretty much mellowed and so had I. Thinking I needed something in between Yasutani and his own teaching he arranged for me to go to Connecticut and visit a nearly invisible man of great spiritual prowess by the name of Alfred Pulyan. Just as spring was reaching its final count down I showed up at Pulyan's wooded rural compound and began a most unsual almost non-study study --- the visit growing through to well past the middle of summer because, I'm sure, of my mentor as well as Pulyan's own graciousness. He inturn introduced me to his teacher, a woman of extreme attainment who lived close by. Before I could return the following year Pulyan died." (source)

I do not know for sure if my mentor and Pulyan knew each other in the classical sense or if the two just "knew OF each other," say through a letter of introduction or word of mouth of a mutual friend. It is my belief that Pulyan's teacher was the actual person my mentor knew and it was through HER my mentor "knew" Pulyan. If Pulyan's teacher had been a student of my mentor or they just happened to travel in the same circles at one and the same time is not known. As I look back it seems I spent nearly as much time in the company of Pulyan's teacher as I did with Pulyan.

Pulyan always receives the lion's share of interest when it comes to his Awakening and being an Enlightened Being, and, it must be said, well deserved at that. However, in the end, it must also be said that it was HIS teacher that was actually responsible for his transformation. She gets no applause or recognition, BUT she does inspire a great deal of interest as well as an unending liturgy of curiosity for many because of her role in his Awakening and the fact that to this day Pulyan's Teacher, a female Ramana without a mountain or a following, remains facetiously unknown.

Not to play down or denigrate Richard Rose in any way, it must be said my primary emphasis here is not directed toward Rose himself or who he was --- or any level or quality of his Attainment or abilities --- BUT the coincidence of the torpedo attack surrounding my merchant marine friend and the death of Rose's brother in potentially the same attack, and how, in a manner similar to that of my mentor, Rose was then driven to go on his spiritual quest. In ZEN ENLIGHTENMENT: The Path Unfolds I present the following about my mentor:

"During World War I, at age sixteen, he (the Wanderling's mentor at the original source) joined the Canadian army, became a pilot, and fought in Europe. He was aware that many thousands of young men were dying on the ground beneath him, plummeted to death by artillery shells, gassed, and rotting to death in the trenches, but it wasn't until his own best friend died in front of his own eyes that he was shaken to his spine with remorse and repugnance. Driven by an unquenchable desire to find the accountability of life and not knowing what to look for, he embarked on a ten year journey that took him through Europe, China, Burma, and India in search of an answer." (see)

The following, about Richard Rose, who died in 2005 and his brother James, who died at the hands of the Germans during that U-boat attack circa 1942, speaks for itself. It comes from a biographical sketch on Rose and presented here without comment:

"What probably ended the period of bliss was the death of his older brother James who was serving in the Merchant Marine on a vessel that was torpedoed by a German submarine. Rose had a strong bond with this older brother who was generous and fatalistic. He'd taken the most dangerous job on the ship, working in the boiler room on the night shift -- typical of his lifelong concern and sacrifice for others. His death shocked Rose to the core, seeing in comparison the gigantic egotism of his own spiritual quest." (see)

In the continuing theme of incredible coincidences, if you want to see another incredible coincidence regarding my mentor and the merchant marine take a few minutes to read Guy Hague, the person thought by many to have been the role model for the main character in the novel The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham.

Speaking of incredible coincidences, of some interest to those of you have read this far may be the paragraphs below as found in La Palma Secert Base:

Over and over people want to know why this almost borderline psychological addiction with all this submarine stuff? After all, they ask, are you not a known Zen man of some accomplishment --- why page after page of submarines, why not more on Enlightenment or help for those seeking along the path?

Good question. Even though the submarine pages are each stand alone pages unto themselves, they are still interwoven into the fabric of my own journey along the path, thus inturn it is hoped, casting light however meager, for guidence along your own.

The answer starts well over a half century ago, on the morning of Friday March 10, 1944. On that date I was a young boy traveling in India under the auspices of a foster couple and staying at the ashram of the venerated Indian holy man the Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi. Totally unrelated and unbeknownst to me or anybody involved with me or the parties I was with, on that same date as well, the British motor merchant MV Tulagi, loaded with a cargo of flour and 380 bags of mail sailed from Australia for Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) under control and orders of the British Admiralty. Proceeding down the New South Wales Coast, and, via the Bass Strait she rounded Cape Leuwin and on into the Indian Ocean. Seventeen days later, on March 27, 1944, with a full complement of 54 on board she was torpedoed by the German Submarine U-532 of the First Monsun Group operating out of Penang, Malaysia. She sank in 20 seconds. Of the 54 crew members only 15 survived, taking to two lifeboats. Following the torpedo attack and after 58 days adrift the seven members of ONE of the rafts finally came across a group of small islands. Just before midnight they landed on Bijoutier, a tiny island of the Alphonse Group belonging to the Outer Islands of the Seychelles. The eight members of the second raft, separated halfway into their drift from the first, basically disappeared and have never been officially accounted for. Some time after the sinking of the MV Tulgai found me in the Indian Ocean as a passenger on a lone, unescorted ship in those very same submarine infested waters on a return trip bound for England and then the U.S. During the months I was gone the woman of the couple I was with had written three letters to my father which years later eventually fell into my hands, of which the following quote refers to her comments found in her last letter:

"The Liverpool letter, except for several long incoherent paragraphs about picking up a live survivor or two or none at all amongst several dead in a life raft sometime before arriving or after leaving Cape Town, South Africa, circulated mostly around the logistics of bringing me home."

SRI RAMANA MAHARSHI: And The Last American Darshan

The letter so mentioned in the quote was written by the woman of a couple that took me, as a young boy, to India. In the letter she indicated that a liferaft was encountered in some fashion by the ship we were on during our return trip to England. How she worded it wasn't totally clear and could be deciphered, at least in how I read it, in a number of ways. It was clear in what she said that there was a liferaft, but IF the liferaft was encountered before or after Cape Town or IF there were or were not survivors was muddled. She didn't elaborate one way or the other or attempt to clarify the event because anything regarding the liferaft had nothing at all to do to do with the point she was trying to get across in the letter. I do not remember anything about a voyage home or anything to do with any liferafts. However, backtracking through all the events, in all my research, taking into consideration time, place, ships attacked and sunk, survivors and non survivors, etc., only one ship fits the bill, the aforementioned British motor merchant MV Tulagi. Now, I have no idea how many times the ship I was on came into the periscope crosshairs of German U-boats, if any. However, the whole route of travel from India, around Africa and into the Atlantic on to England was crawling with submarines, every one seeking an easy, vunerable target. Looking back it must have been pure luck, fate or karma, but in any case throughout the years I have come to appreciate the results and established in me a strong interest in how the actions and selected non-interaction of submarines and their operations, Japanese or German thereof, have impacted the outcome of my life.


After successfully consolidating their wartime efforts in Burma, the Japanese, in April of 1944, launched a major ground invasion into India. Although I was born and raised in a southern California beach community, like I have related above, as a very young boy, at the exact same time as the Japanese invasion I was traveling in India with a couple I had been fostered out to. Like thousands of refugees that fled ahead of the Nazi onslaught in Europe, if the Japanese invasion attempts into India has not been slowed and eventually stopped by the likes of U.S. Army General Joseph W. Stilwell on the ground and members of the American Volunteer Group, the A.V.G., known as the Flying Tigers, in the air under the command of Claire L. Chennault, I too may have been a refugee caught up in events much larger than myself, trying to escape the onslaught of the Japanese. See:


Footnote [4]

My Merchant Marine Friend and me:

"Each time we talked he would have me get down several books related to the place and we would look at pictures and go over the differences and the similarities of what different authors had written compared to what he had seen and experienced. He had lots and lots of books on Atlantis by Edgar Cayce, Ignatius Donnelly, and L. Sprague de Camp as well as a complete set of the Lost Continent of Mu books by James Churchwood. He told me when he was around my age he had become driven, actually obsessed with Atlantis and Mu. He began traveling the world to find or substantiate both places. But, the more and more ancient places he visited and more and more educated he became the more and more he became convinced neither place ever existed. In his quest, both pro and con, besides all the Atlantis and Mu books in his library, he had collected reams and reams of books, material, research and explanations that debunked nearly every single aspect of either continent or their civilizations that anybody could ever pose."(source)

In connection with the above more general quote written by me but found elsewhere (i.e., at the source so cited), the quote below is from this page and deals with similar or like incidents with my merchant marine friend and myself, but more specifically the Azores:

"Over a period of days during my regular daily visits my merchant marine friend had me get down a bunch of books and maps, spreading the maps all over the desk and all excited, explaining to me the early importance of the Azores in the myth of Atlantis. In several of the books he pointed out how Ignatius Donnelly, author of Atlantis: The Antediluvian World (1882), had first proposed that the Azores were the remnant remains of an Atlantean island continent --- and he told me how he always wanted to go to the islands because of it."

Again and again I am asked where is it in Ignatius Donnelly's book does he make reference to the Azores as being "remnant remains of Atlantis," a reference of which in turn drove the merchant marine to go there? The quote and map below are from Donnelly's book Atlantis: The Antediluvian World, more specifically PART I, THE HISTORY OF ATLANTIS CHAPTER V: The Testimony of the Sea:

"Here, then, we have the backbone of the ancient continent which once occupied the whole of the Atlantic Ocean, and from whose washings Europe and America were constructed; the deepest parts of the ocean, 3500 fathoms deep, represent those portions which sunk first, to wit, the plains to the east and west of the central mountain range; some of the loftiest peaks of this range--the Azores, St. Paul's, Ascension, Tristan d'Acunba--are still above the ocean level; while the great body of Atlantis lies a few hundred fathoms beneath the sea. In these 'connecting ridges' we see the pathway which once extended between the New World and the Old, and by means of which the plants and animals of one continent travelled to the other; and by the same avenues black men found their way, as we will show hereafter, from Africa to America, and red men from America to Africa."

When I was in the fifth grade or so I was living on a ranch owned by my Stepmother in the Mojave Desert. Down the road on the next closest ranch lived a much older boy than me that collected every cowboy western comic book he could get his hands on. He had hundreds of them neatly stacked in brand new turned-up orange crates made into shelves in his room, each book in pristine condition and always kept in order by title and chronological by month, date, and number. I used to go to his place whenever I got a chance sitting around all day hanging out and reading them.

During that period, one of the comic books he collected centered around a female western hero who, according to the storyline, had been found near death and saved by Native Americans. She was then adopted into the Dakota Tribe who gave her the name Firehair because of her red hair. Both my mother and her sister had beautiful long red hair. In that they were so close together age-wise and looked so much alike almost everybody mistook them for twins. Although I do not remember much about my mother I remember my aunt very well, and because of their look alikeness I always felt I had a good idea of what my mother looked like. As a young boy I always held a certain affinity towards the Firehair character because I liked to believe my mother, with her red hair and all, would have been like her, maybe even, since I never went to her funeral, found by Indians and saved.

A couple of years later I was living in the home of a foster couple that I ended up running away from on more than one occasion. One day I traded two or three comics for a copy of Rangers Comics #63 dated February 1952, a comic I wanted for two reasons. One, the lead off story was about Firehair, who I had not seen anything on since leaving the ranch. And secondly, it had a section on Billy the Kid whose gravesite I had gone to with my uncle on one of our travels. As I was reading the comic for the 100th time the woman of the foster couple, seeing the story I was reading was about a redheaded woman, grabbed it out of my hands and threw it across the room yelling at me to get over it, my mother was dead and long gone, and she was my mother now. It couldn't have hurt more if someone had jammed an icepick into the base of my skull. It was at that moment I decided, as soon as I could put it together, I was going to run away.

I had ended up at the foster couple in the first place because my dad and stepmother had gone to South America for a couple of years for as she called it, business reasons. My stepmother, always thinking of me in a good light, and the best for me as she viewed it, wrote a letter that ended up being responsible for me landing a fairly good part-time after school and weekend job. It was money from that job that helped finance my bus ticket to run away that summer.

The letter was addressed to a man named Russ Miller, the owner of the Normandie Club, one of six legal poker casinos in the city where I was living at the time, with those six being practically the only legal poker clubs in the whole state. After giving the letter to Miller I told him I was looking for some kind of regular after school or weekend work. He asked what grade I was in and stretching the truth a bit I told him I went to Gardena High. He said come back in a couple of days and ask for Rick. I went to work that week.

A couple of years later my stepmother and dad returned from South America with my dad eventually showing up to see my brother and me. After I inquired about my stepmother he told me my stepmother, or ex-stepmother as the case may be because by the time my dad had showed up they had divorced, was in the process of buying a new ranch in the high desert near and old friend of hers, the famed aviatrix Pancho Barnes.

Not long after school was out for the summer I had easily accumulated enough money for a Greyhound ticket to the then little desert town of Palmdale which I knew wasn't far from Pancho's. Using the cover story of going to a friend's house for the day, without anybody's knowledge or approval I gathered up a few things to be gone longer, especially so my Sgt. Preston Prospector's Camp Outfit which included a small camping tent and a camp stove that only through pure luck came in the mail just a day or two before and basically what I had been waiting for. Once what I needed was put together, I left.(see)


I ended up at my now ex-stepmother's for a second time, then with my Uncle for the rest of the summer before going to my grandmother's and starting high school in the fall. It was shortly after moving to my grandmother's that I met my merchant marine friend and it was he who brought up the lost continent of Atlantis. Interestingly enough, the very same copy of Rangers Comics #63 that I had been hauling around with me since running away from the foster couple had one of the first stories on Atlantis I recall, The Quest for Lost Atlantis, the pages of which are shown below. As the young boy that I was at the time I had no reason to discount the accuracy of the story.

During those high school years at my grandmother's my dad and I began making more-and-more contact. In those days, as he had in the past, he was always reading pulp western and science fiction magazines. In the process of doing so, one day he came across a story saying that way out in the middle of the desert wasteland near Lovelock, Nevada, there existed an ancient cave that had at onetime within it's cavern depths the skeletal remains of giant humans, red haired humans of a huge size, eight or ten foot tall or more. He said the women would have been twice as tall as my mother at 4 foot 11 inches who also had red hair. Me, the near to graduating and deeply educated super-bright intellectual powerhouse high school senior that I was, after hearing the story, like someone driven to see the world's largest ball of yarn, decided I couldn't live quietly the rest of my life if I didn't go see the caves and its contents for myself. So, with no real clue as to what I was doing, off I went.


If you remember from the quote at the top of this footnote my merchant marine friend, who became a merchant marine in the first place so he could travel the world and research both Mu and Atlantis himself --- which he did --- expressed himself longingly with the following view:

"(T)he more and more ancient places he visited and more and more educated he became the more and more he became convinced neither place ever existed."

Such was his expressed feelings --- except up to a point, because as I interpreted his feeling on Atlantis there was sort of caveat or loophole as found in:




What happened to me immediately after I ran away from the foster couple is pretty much summed up in the paragraph in quotes below from the source so cited. Basically, without anyone's knowledge, I took a Greyhound bus north to the Mojave Desert searching down and eventually locating my then just divorced-from-my-father stepmother, or ex-stepmother as the case may have been, at her newly acquired ranch in the Mojave following her return from a two year sojourn to Mexico and South America:

"Although impressed that I ran away just to be with her she thought it best to get in touch with my dad and see what she should do next. Unwilling to talk with my grandmother she called the woman of the foster couple I ran away from, who she knew and was friends with, hoping to find out if I should be returned to them or to locate my father, telling the woman that I was in good care and everything was OK. The woman of the couple, Aunt Pauline, told my stepmother to 'keep the fucking little asshole, I don't give a shit what happens to him.' Then she added, 'Don't forget his prick of a little brother, either.' My stepmother, taking into consideration there were no subtle or hidden messages in her response, being quite clear as well as taking her at her word, contacted my uncle to see if he had any idea where my dad was. He didn't, but told my stepmother if she could find no other solution and she could get me to Santa Fe he would deal with situation until everything could be hammered out. With that, having no success locating my dad for whatever reason, rather than sticking me on some grungy multi-day cross desert bus ride to my uncle's and not knowing for sure if I wouldn't just get off somewhere on the way, she arranged for the same former World War II P-47 pilot that flew my uncle and me to Sacramento a few years before to fly me to Santa Fe, ensuring, she hoped, I would be less likely to get out mid-trip."(source)

The pilot flew into a close-by one-time, albeit long abandoned military airfield called Victory Field to pick me up. The plane was a two seat North American AT-6 with the flight being the first time I had ever been off the ground and into the air in any kind of a World War II aircraft --- so for me the trip to my uncle's was not only highly memorable, it was as well white-knuckle exciting.

As for the former World War II P-47 pilot that flew my uncle and me to Sacramento and later just me to Santa Fe, he basically came into the picture when my just into his teens older brother and cousin hopped a freight train on the Southern Pacific mainline near our ranch and didn't get off until reaching the Sacramento yards some 500 miles north and getting caught in the grasp of a railroad bull that was going to beat them with a club. The pilot flew us to Sacramento for my uncle to pay off the bull and get my brother and cousin back. On our return trip we flew over the Sierras to an abandoned, remote rock strewn airstrip south of Reno in the middle of the night to pick up a mysterious no questions to be asked woman covered head to toe wearing dark glasses and fly her to Las Vegas --- a woman that turned out to be an incognito movie star. The whole story can be found in:



Footnote [5]

The "secret mission" was Operation Torch. Operation Torch was the over-arcing name designation for the entire invasion campaign of Vichy French North Africa in November, 1942. The convoy forming up that my merchant marine friend was on was in support of that operation and of which at the time was under a tight security umbrella.

Imbedded within the main operation were a number of smaller operations of which one, Operation Villain, I write about elsewhere, mainly in connection with a fully gassed and ready to go C-47 found in 1945 stashed away on a remote, abandoned airstrip out in the middle of the Nevada desert filled with flight instructions all written in German. The C-47 was one of 39 that was originally used in Operation Villain. How it ended up in Nevada, nobody seems to know.(see)

Of the C-47s I offer the following:

The plan for Operation Villain was to use paratroopers of the 2nd Battalion 509th Parachute Infantry Regiment to seize Tafaraoui and La Senia airfields in Algeria.

A full compliment of 2/509 PIR paratroopers left England aboard 39 C-47's with the intention of flying over Spain into North Africa. No sooner had the formation left England than it was scattered due to unforecasted bad weather and after that, never able to reform. One plane landed at Gibraltar, four were interned in Spanish Morocco, two landed at Fez in French Morocco and three were reported as flying over Le Senia and being driven off by anti-aircraft fire.

Over a dozen C-47's were clustered together after landing on the western edge of the Sebkra d'Oran' dry lake without air dropping their troops. Ten other C-47s dropped their parachutists in the same area then landed at the eastern edge of the Sebkra and inturn, taken prisoner. Some of the paratroopers under command of Major William P. Yarborough attempted to march around the Sebkra and seize Tafaraoui airfield, a distance of over 20 miles. After covering roughly ten miles, and basically stranded because the terrain was so difficult to traverse, they radioed for help. Three C-47s, after siphoning fuel from sister ships, took off to retrieve them. No sooner had they picked up the troopers than six French Dewoitine fighter planes strafed the fuselages. The pilots turned the planes around making it toward the Sebkra crash landing at 130 miles per hour. The French fighters made three more strafing runs on the grounded aircraft, killing five and wounding fifteen. In the end just 14 planes of the original 39 planes were operational enough to fly right away, with a number missing or unaccounted for. So too, only 15 paratroopers out of the whole band that filled the 39 planes were judged fit enough to return to combat on an immediate basis. An accurate count on the dead, wounded and missing unclear.

Operation Villain was a complete fiasco, for the most part a total flop from one end to the other. Its over-arcing operation, Operation Torch initially wasn't far behind although eventually through the hard work, dedication and pure perseverance, in less than six months in North Africa the tide had turned in the Allies favor with the Germans fully on the run. Re the following regarding 100 German troop transports loaded to the gills with soldiers being secretly ferried out of Africa and caught by a group of P-40 Warhawks in what has become known as the "Goose Shoot":

"On Sunday, April 18, 1943 the U.S. Army Air Force's 57th Fighter Group stationed at El Djem, Tunisia in North Africa, on a routine mission over Cape Bon had 46 P-40 Warhawks in the air along with 18 British Spitfires flying top cover. Low on fuel and basically returning to base they came across a 100 plane flotilla of German JU-52 German troop transport planes flying just above sea level over the Mediterranean, escorted by 50 Messerschmitt fighters. Catching the Germans completely off guard, while the Spitfires drew off the Messerschmitts and kept them busy, the P-40s split into pairs diving on the enemy planes tearing the transports to shreds, with an overall kill count of 77 enemy aircraft destroyed."



Below you will find a link called Curtiss P-40 that relates back specifically to the fact that the P-40, for the most part, was the major allied plane of choice in the comic strip series Terry and the Pirates by Milton Caniff. In the strip Caniff created a fighter pilot he called Flip Corkin. Corkin was based on a real life fighter pilot of then Major Philip G. Cochran. Most of the Corkin character's adventures in the strip circulated around the use of P-40s in the China-Burma-India theater during World War II with the planes so illustrated carrying all the markings of the Flying Tigers. The real life pilot, Philip G. Cochran, however, before any CBI affiliation, earned his reputation as the squadron commander of "J" Squadron flying P-40s in North Africa as part of the 33rd Fighter Group.

Hardly anyone ever puts P-40s and aircraft carriers together. However, Cochran's P-40 equipped "J" Squadron, arrived off the coast of North Africa with several others, flying from the deck of a flattop, with his squadron being the first to catapult P-40 Warhawks from the deck of a aircraft carrier and recover them in Casablanca. Re the following from the source so cited:

"While the idea of catapulting the P-40s may have been a cutting edge idea, the actual execution of the plan would prove to be less than simple. Although the ship was equipped to accommodate aircraft operations, the P-40s were not able to operate off a ship because they were too heavy. After stripping the Warhawks of ammunition, navigation equipment, and excess fuel, Major Cochran (squadron commander) and his deputy flight lead were catapulted from the ship, breaking both the catapults in the process, thus leaving 34 pilots to determine how they were going to launch. Throughout the remainder of the day, all but three aircraft were able to make it to Casablanca; two aircraft went down where the pilots were recovered and one went down without the pilot being recovered.

"The invasion was in its early stages, and organization systems were fragile if not nonexistent. Finding no assignments and no place to go, Cochran decided to keep the group together and headed off in the general direction of the war. By inquiring locally as they flew short hops, they eventually found an Army infantry unit at a flat spot in the desert who were more than happy to have their own air cover.

"Cochran immediately set up a training schedule for his recruits, commandeered infantry trucks to find supplies, fuel, and ammunition from wherever they could be borrowed or pilfered, and in a few weeks had a cohesive fighting squadron. Being formed outside of Air Force jurisdiction and having no official number, they dubbed themselves the 'Joker Squadron,' and adopted bright red scarves are their symbol."(source)


(please click)


Footnote [6]

The necklace, which I still have and continue to wear to this day, from what I could remember, looked exactly like the one my merchant marine friend showed me and said to be mysteriously wearing out of nowhere the day he was found floating in the sea after his ship was torpedoed. The only problem is, by the time the incident in the Saigon bar occurred my friend had already been dead some ten years, having passed away during the summer between my sophomore and junior years in high school. At his memorial service I was told by family members, following a death bed request on his part, that in an effort to rejoin his fellow seamen he wanted to be cremated and his ashes tossed at sea near where his ship was torpedoed and, along with the ashes, the necklace returned to the sea as well. As far as I know those wishes had been complied with.

The necklace, which seems to manifest an almost mystical aura about it, saved my life more than once, most notably as found in the following at the source so cited:

"Within the members of the relatively small search team, Chinese all, was a Buddhist or Zen Buddhist. When they came across me, not knowing if I was the one they were searching for or not, the Buddhist amongst them noticed the small Chinese symbol hanging around my neck. The team was just going to abandon me, but the Buddhist, after seeing what I had around my neck told them I was under protection of the Lord Buddha and to leave me in such a state and in such surroundings would be bad Karma --- that nothing but bad fortune and and bad luck would follow them if they did not take me with them." (source)

During roughly that same period of time throughout the same region I ran into like and similar attitudes as the above up and down the scale. Although you wouldn't know it from what has been put forth on them, three of the highest profile believers were in leadership positions over hundreds, possibly thousands in their roles of being warlords. The following is the take from the former Vietnamese Air Vice Marshall Nguyen Cao Ky:

"Many times death has taken those closest to me, but I was spared. No matter how great the peril I have encountered , I have emerged without harm. I am Buddha's child, and until my purpose in this life is fulfilled, Buddha will protect me."

His counterpart in Laos, the warlord Vang Pao is on record regarding the following:

"Their conversation turned to Buddha amulets of the kind Thong had worn. Joining in, Vang Pao explained that one kind of Buddha amulet protects from all bullets, and another attracts all bullets but causes them to ricochet."

Both of the above quotes and their sources as well as the view of the third of the three warlords, the Shan state drug warlord Khun Sa can be found at:


As to the necklace itself and where it came from, the merchant marine told me when he was around my age he had become driven, actually obsessed with the lost continents of Atlantis and Mu. As found in the quote at the top of Footnote [4] he began traveling the world to find or substantiate both places. But, the more and more ancient places he visited and more and more educated he became the more and more he became convinced neither place ever existed. In his quest, both pro and con, besides all the Atlantis and Mu books in his library, he had collected reams and reams of books, material, research and explanations that debunked nearly every single aspect of either continent or their civilizations that anybody could ever pose. Even though he said he had long since lost faith in the existence of either of the lost continents, through inference he often related the origin of the necklace back to one or the other or both. However, the grounding source for the origin of the necklace usually falls back to Gyanganj, AKA Shambhala or Shangri-La. How the necklace eventually fell into his hands is still not known to this day. Although there are those who seemed to think he got it after being picked up by a U-boat, he attributes it more to what is found in the story High Barbaree and the Shipwrecked Sailor. If you haven't done so yet, please go to:


According to diver Joe Roberts as found in FLORIDA: East Coast Shipwrecks, the S.S. Halsey sits on a sand bottom in 65 feet of water, approximately three miles apart and 13 miles from Fort Pierce Inlet. The wreck is broken into three sections. The bow and stern are upright while the mid section is upside down. The site is also known as Two Freighters and Southeast Wreck.