the Wanderling

"Me being a regular at the marina came about because of the woodie wagon I spent so much time re-doing. The wood on the wagon was in such an immaculate state of restoration, having arrived at such a state only after hours and hours my own personal painstaking endeavors, that it attracted attention whenever I drove it. One of the persons it attracted was the skipper of a yacht come marlin boat moored in the Marina Del Rey harbor owned by the grown son and heir of a major multimillionaire oil man. The skipper was so taken by my talents working the wood he hired me to do the brightwork on the boat he skippered."(source)

The above quote and ones of a similar nature written by me and found scattered throughout the net on a variety of pages are often viewed with a certain amount of skepticism primarily because of the anonymous nature of, for example, both the boat and it's owner. Being unnamed begs the question if either of them are actually real. If such was the case, that is, that they are not, then of course anything written thereafter on the same topic would be also of a suspect nature.

Like everything I write I have my reasons. Sometimes the knowledge of same just isn't relevant to what is being presented. Other times too much information opens up access to paths that are not in need of investigation, at least relative to what is being presented. Usually enough information is provided to make what is being said credible as well as enough for the serious researcher to confirm what is being presented is factual. However, in the case of the yacht owner, because of facts leading up to the unusual nature of the relationship between the two of us, I have below widened the flow from the anonymous to the more openly known.

The yacht come marlin boat left unnamed in the above quote, as well as throughout the rest of my works, was the Twin Dolphin. The owner and son of the multimillionaire oil man was David J. Halliburton Sr. (1926-1997). The skipper? Well, he just happened to have the same last name as another filthy rich oil man and Halliburton used to joke that his skipper was richer than he was.


Early one morning, like I often did in those days given the chance and weather permitting, I drove down to a small beachside restaurant for breakfast, leaving my immaculately restored 1940s Ford Woodie Wagon parked close by. No sooner had I gone in, sat down, ordered my meal and began drinking coffee than some guy came running in yelling at the top of his lungs like a wild man asking if anybody in the restaurant owned the wooden station wagon out front. Instantly seeing in my mind's eye tiny little bits and pieces of wood flying into the air and scattered all over the parking lot thinking he or somebody else had crashed into it and smashed it to smithereens, I jumped from my seat, brushing the man aside, and ran out the door.

The woodie was not touched. Matter of fact it was just as I left it.

The man doing all the yelling identified himself as the skipper of the Twin Dolphin, moored in Marina Del Rey. He wanted to know who owned the wagon and who was responsible for maintaining the wood. Showing a huge sigh of relief that the car was not demolished beyond repair in some fashion I told him I was both owner and the person responsible for keeping the wood in such great shape. Seemingly impressed that I was self-taught to such a high degree of wood restoration the skipper asked if I would be interested in doing, as he called it, the brightwork on his boat --- meaning, basically, sand, scrape, and spar varnish all the natural-color wood on the boat over and over for the rest of my life, ad infinitum. Although sanding wood into infinity had a certain draw to it, it must be said that I never thought of my woodworking ability rising to the level of being commercially viable, so initially I begged off. The thing is, for some unknown reason, perhaps the overwhelming look of disappointment that seemed to flush across his face by me simply rejecting his request, did lead me to go to where the boat was moored and look it over.

On the day I was there, a woman was walking along the dock with several small children in tow, all of them carrying bags, teddy bears, or pulling little suit cases behind them when one of the kids, a very little girl who I guess could not swim, missed her footing somehow and slipped off the edge of the dock into the water. For all practical purposes she was drowning. The mother started yelling like crazy and since I was probably the only person really within earshot close enough to respond, I leaped off the boat onto the dock and into the water. While still in the water I handed the little girl up to the skipper, who had been running all the way along the dock only a few steps behind me. In the process, due to all the commotion, a small crowd gathered.

Amongst the crowd on the dock that day was a woman that recognized me, a former Rose Marie Reid swim suit model that I knew as Sullivan, but since married to the son of a renowned ocean explorer. They had a boat in the harbor and since we had not seen each other in years, after everybody was sure the girl was OK, she asked me to join her for drinks on her yacht, get into some dry clothes and get caught up. After that I was basically in and hired by the skipper to start as soon as I could. Little did I know at the time that anything related to what was going on would eventually involve the woman on the dock, a crash of a PBY, and the prophecy of an ancient tribal elder as found in the Navajo Code Talkers.

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I was there about a week when Halliburton showed up for the first time. Word had got back to him that one of his "crew" had saved a young girl from drowning, and thinking it was the skipper --- because typically while the boat was in the marina he had no crew --- he came by to see what the story was all about. It was then I was introduced. Much to my amazement I recognized him immediately, and, although the recognition was not even vaguely reciprocal, I knew we had met before.

When I was around eight to ten years old I was living in the West Adams district of Los Angeles under the auspices of my Stepmother, who, although nobody knew the actual source of her income, was at the time, quite wealthy. Except as impacted by the loss of production of new cars during the war years, she bought a brand new Cadillac, Packard, or Lincoln annually, had her own driver, and vacationed in Hawaii, Mexico, and Alaska, rotating one of each every third year. She owned or least maintained several houses within a few blocks of each other in the West Adams area, of which the main one, hers, was behind the high fences of an up-scale gated community called Berkeley Square, number 10 to be exact. At the same time Halliburton's family, headed by his father Erle P. Halliburton, who founded what eventually became Halliburton Oil, owned two houses in Berkeley Square, living in one on the across the street side from number 10 at number 19.(see)

I didn't live with my stepmother at number 10 per se', but at another house she owned a few blocks away everybody called 'the compound.' The compound is where my two brothers and I lived and where the art studio of my Uncle was located. It was also just across the street from the two-story launch site of my infamous Da Vinci like manned flight wherein I jumped off the roof with a winged glider that I had designed and built myself with some assist from my uncle. The results of that flight, described below, are from the source so cited:

"Initially the flight played out fairly well, picking up wind under the wings and maintaining the same two-story height advantage for some distance. Halfway across busy Arlington Street though, the craft began slowing and losing forward momentum. It began dropping altitude rapidly, eventually crashing into the porch and partway through the front windows of the house across the way. Other than a few bruises and a wrecked machine, nothing was broken, although as it turned out, my dad wasn't nearly as proud of me as intended. I never forgot the thrill of that flight and carried that thrill and Leonardo's dreams into my adulthood."(source)

Even though I actually lived at the compound with my uncle and brothers I was still over at number 10 on-and-off on occasion. In those days, school-wise, I was somewhere around the fourth grade and attended 24th Street Elementary School a few blocks from the compound. The physical location of the 24th Street Elementary School itself actually bordered right up against Berkeley Square although you couldn't just 'cut through' because of all of the walls and gates. Sometimes my best friend Martin Petrosky, who lived three or four houses down the street from the compound, and I, disobeying strict orders from my uncle to come straight back after school, would circle around to see if my stepmother was home. In the process I was there enough to get to know the goings on in the Square and some of the people who lived there.

David Halliburton was basically born at Berkeley Square, the family having moved in just weeks if not days before his birth. When I first met him I was around maybe eight or nine years old, he being at least twelve years older, making him at the time around 20 --- and no doubt the reason he didn't recognize me the day we met on his marlin boat --- him being a "man" and all and me just being a kid.

Halliburton and I meeting at Berkeley Square came about because of a boss looking niece my stepmother had who she called a 'namesake niece,' although for the life of me I still don't know how she fit into the mix, that is, any real relationship she may have had or didn't have with my stepmother, blood or otherwise. She visited my stepmother for several weeks one summer staying at number 10. Because my stepmother insisted on her own personal privacy almost at all costs, plus she didn't want her niece around all of us hooligans and the shenanigans at the compound, she set her up in the fully equipped, albeit basically unused old servants quarters attached to the garage.

My stepmother's niece was around 16 maybe 17 years old, looked much older, very busty and quite beautiful. My stepmother put her in charge of watching over my younger brother and myself a few times which put me in and out of Berkeley Square more often than I otherwise would have. In any case, somewhere in there David Halliburton took notice of my stepmother's niece and started hanging around now and then. I don't know what happened if anything, but it wasn't long after he showed up that my brother and I was shoved out of the picture. It was even less time than that my stepmother had her niece return to wherever she came from and as far as I know that was the end of it. Years later, in my role in the scheme of things, a mere sander of wood, I never mentioned the connection to the skipper and only to Halliburton in later years.

One Thanksgiving weekend the skipper complained of not feeling well and at first blamed it on too much celebratory food. After several days of a quite can't put your finger on it general malaise he was finally talked into going to see a doctor. What followed was a series of tests over a period of weeks ending out of nowhere in a diagnoses of cancer, cancer that had reached such a point that the doctors predicted he had less that two years to live. Eighteen months later, after being sent home because the hospital could no longer do anything for him and administrating his own dihydromorphine he was dead. During that 18 months I went to see him regularly but lost track of Halliburton. I do know that ALL expenses right down to the very last cent incurred covering the skipper's illness and hospitalization from start to finish, clear up to and including funeral expenses, were picked up by Halliburton with no questions asked.

When I first started working for the skipper the Twin Dolphin spent part of the year in Mexican waters operating out of the Cabo San Lucas area located at the end of the Baja California peninsula.[1] Halliburton sent his boat down there so he and his cronies, business partners, and or customers could hang out under the guise of marlin fishing.

Towards the end of the year 1962, thanks to Ye Olde Friendlie Selective Service System, Uncle Sam came looking for me and not long after that I was in the Army. The summer prior to that, in one of those magic, happen-so-rarely sequences men dream of, that for some unknown, mysterious reason, a coming together of time, place, and universe just happens, I met someone who up to that time was the most beautiful woman I had ever personally seen in my life. When my draft notice showed up several months before I was to go in, I showed it to her and that was the end of it. Re the following from the source so cited:

"Truth be told, it was quite clear I wasn't going anywhere and she was, if she hadn't already. Because of her out of nowhere unexplained rebuff, i.e., if not being dumped, at least being forgotten to death, I instead spent the summer of 1962 by first throwing myself into a week long intense Zen meditation session that nearly broke me mentally and almost killed me physically. Secondly, I went crawling back on the marlin boat owned by David J. Halliburton to recoup. I spent the rest of the summer forgetting by hooking up with old friends in Cabo, many whom, at least the female variety, worked the hotels at night and sunbathed on the yacht during the day. In the meantime I played the bereaved lover, licked my wounds and wondered why the sunbathing women always seemed to be able to find the bottoms of their bathing suits but never the tops."(source)

Halliburton had long loved the Cabo area after having first come into contact with it when he was around 11 years old. His father was bringing their yacht to California from Texas when on the west coast of Mexico they got stranded in Cabo for some sort of out in the middle of nowhere time consuming repairs. David loved it so much he didn't want to leave. Nearly forty years later, in 1977, about 10 years after the skipper of the Twin Dolphin died, David Sr built one of the first major hotel resorts constructed there, naming it after his yacht the Twin Dolphin. Below is a panoramic view of the Hotel Twin Dolphin as it looked circa 1993.

Several months prior to the skipper's death he had moved back to his onetime childhood home in Wilmington, California, still owned by his mother, to finish up his life.[2] On one of the days I was there he pointed out a fairly good sized cardboard box across the room he had been filling up telling me inside was a bunch of handwritten notebooks, logs, photographs and personal items related to his years being a skipper for Halliburton. He told me when he was done he would send the box to me and for me to hand deliver it to Halliburton when I got the chance. Whoever was supposed to send the box must have mislocated it or something as it took forever to catch up with me. One thing led to the next and by the time the box showed up it got lost in the shuffle and I genuinely forgot about it.

Not many months after Halliburton broke ground for the first time to build his Hotel Twin Dolphin Resort in Cabo, unrelated in any fashion, I was heading off to the Caribbean, eventually staying in Jamaica several years.(see) After my return I was going through some of my junk that I had put into storage before I left and came across the box the skipper sent me years before intended for Halliburton. This time, with box in hand I made the trip to Cabo, caught up with Halliburton at the Hotel Twin Dolphin and handed it over. He asked me to stay a few days and as I was leaving he made me promise I would return. After that first trip, keeping my promise, I went down several more times, each time Halliburton making sure my rooms were comped as well as all expenses incurred while there covered.

Of course when I first came to Halliburton and introduced myself, I was no more than a former crew member on his boat and a carrier of a box, practically next to nothing. However, he still comped me rooms, but in a multi-millionaire's eyes I was still a onetime hireling. Later, when I brought it to his attention that long before my summer job on his boat he had a crush on my cousin when he was about 20 or so he was a little befuddled. Stretching the truth a bit by calling my stepmother mother and her niece my cousin as well as saying I lived at my mother's place across the street from his family home in Berkeley Square when I actually lived at the artist-studio compound of my uncle a couple of blocks away, he practically shit. Remembering the cousin fondly and my stepmother's status as she was, rich, powerfully influential in certain circles on both sides of the law and at the top of her game in those days, I was suddenly escalated to that of a peer and taken into his inner circle, especially since now he thought of me no longer as a crew member, but working as a teenager during the summer, a highly admirable thing, telling me his father made him do it too. When Halliburton died in 1997 the resort eventually became a former shell of itself and closed around July 2007. It has long since been demolished.(see)

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Capsulizing the contents in the paragraphs above, David Sheff, in a New York Times article titled Halliburton-by-the-Sea, Sheff, cutting to the quick much easier than I can by restating it in some fashion, writes:

"Erle was a passionate yachtsman and angler who, in 1938, took his son along on the maiden voyage of the Vida, a 160-foot yacht, en route from Corpus Christi, Tex., to Los Angeles. It broke down rounding the tip of Baja, near Cabo San Lucas. Waiting for it to be repaired, David spent most of his time swimming in the Sea of Cortez.

"'The kid's a twin of a dolphin,' Erle is said to have observed. The crew began calling David the Twin Dolphin.

"As an adult, David Halliburton Sr. frequently returned to Baja to fish with friends including Baron Hilton, Dean Martin and John Wayne. Partly so their wives would make the trip, instead of complaining about the men's frequent Mexican fishing excursions, David Sr. built the peninsula's first upscale resort, the Twin Dolphin, in 1977."

Although I met David Halliburton when he was in his early 20s and we re-met again when he was in his late 30s early 40s, I would be hard pressed to say I knew the man. As a basically unnoticed but trusted semi crew member (i.e., employee, not friend) I passed freely in and out and about various yacht related functions, often privy to parts of conversations, events, and actions that would otherwise not go public. However, it was not like I wasn't casually investigated or vetted by the skipper. Always looking out for the best interest of his boss, in general small talk the skipper learned we had mutual acquaintances he had respect for and questioned them as to how they felt about me. At the top of his list, after jokingly bypassing the infamous south bay personality Fifie Malouf, was the owner-manager of the Portofino Inn, Mary Davis, located at King Harbor marina in Redondo Beach who he knew through consultation with her regarding construction and completion of the marina (started 1960, opened 1965). She was also a rabid sports car enthusiast and race driver. Davis maintained a close relationship with a couple of fellow race car drivers, Bob Drake, of whom she was married at one time and Eric Hauser, both often seen wheeling about the Max Balchowsky #70 Old Yeller' V-8 powered Buick special affectionately called The Junkyard Dog, in local sports car races. Her primary contractor for the Portofino Inn was Frank Arciero, a major race car team owner. I knew Davis peripherally as well having known one of her top "girls" Bonnie J since she was an infant in the crib. Taken together they all knew Joe Landaker the number one Ferrari and Maserati mechanic for Tony Parravano's and John Edgar's race teams. Since Landaker had known me since I was a young teenage boy in high school he personally vouched for me at least that far back, telling them I had even gone to the races in Nassau the Bahamas with him one time, basically traveling together over a two week period. Since his word was gold as they saw it, I was in.


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The quote above the previous paragraph makes mention of Dean Martin. During one of my visits to the Twin Dolphin Martin was there accompanied by a movie and TV actress of true natural talent, the fabulously beautiful Phyllis Davis, who, after a formal meeting several years later, would not only make a major impact in my life but hers as well. Although she and I didn't meet during our stay at the Twin Dolphin nor were we introduced she and I had been in the same general mix of people over a span of several days in and around the resort. One morning for Sunday Brunch, under invitation, we sat at the same table at the same time, of which at first she apparently didn't remember. With Martin a no show for breakfast, which was not unusual for him I was told, Phyllis showed and like me sat at the same table together with several other people as a personal guest of Halliburton

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Joining me at the table for breakfast that morning was the woman I was traveling with, herself being of some notoriety. Even though fabulously stunning she was traveling incognito and anonymously. In that Dean or Phyllis never really got out of their shell very far and with no one else being worthy to be brought into their shell, even if they did take notice, neither would probably ever have put together who she was.

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It is difficult for me to fully address David Halliburton at length about his roundness as a husband, father, or businessman from the limited perspective of me coming in contact with him on his yacht. He had his small close circle of friends and when with that circle he was able to be himself. In those surroundings, at least in my dealings with him I found him to be self-effacing and having a good sense of humor, which faded quickly if he was the brunt of a joke from others. He was especially good, however, about poking fun at himself. For example, I heard him say several times he was a self made man. He was worth over a $150 million and he only inherited $50 million from his dad.

One time during one of the regular on-and-off get together poker games he had on the Twin Dolphin he and three of his friends got to arguing who was the richest. Of the four, one of his buddies was worth only $10 million, so the other three, including Halliburton were making fun of him. The thing is, his $10 million was in cash and the rest of them, including Halliburton laughing, had to give in when it was decided he could put his hands on ten times more actual real money at any given time than any of them could.

When Halliburton's son David Jr. was seven or eight years old or so, for his birthday, as a surprise and unbeknownst to Halliburton Sr, the skipper had a beautiful deeply stained and spar varnished all natural wood sabot sail boat specially made as a present, so David Jr could learn to sail on his own in his own boat. The sabot was as beautiful and as well made as any Chris Craft wooden speed boat. At the time, and I am not sure of the price, but it must have cost close to a thousand bucks. When Halliburton Sr. saw the gift for his son from the skipper his eyes filled with tears. He was not used to people doing anything except for knowing he was rich and they could get something back if they did something for him. The skipper had done it out of pure love and Halliburton knew it.

A lifelong smoker like his father, David Sr. died of emphysema in 1994, after years of being hooked up to an oxygen tank.


Although no one would probably put it together let alone even imagine it, Halliburton was directly responsible for me having an almost exclusive private face-to-face arm length away first time for me viewing of Leonardo Da Vinci's masterpiece the Mona Lisa when it was on special exhibit at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. The painting was put on exhibit to the public in a specially built clear plastic bullet proof humidified controlled viewing case and said to be guarded 24 hours a day by U.S. Marine guards and Secret Service, as well as plain clothes detectives circulating among the crowd. Basically thanks to David Haliburton I was able to avoid the crowds and get right next to her.[3]


Their Life and Times Together


Fundamentally, our experience as experienced is not different from the Zen master's. Where
we differ is that we place a fog, a particular kind of conceptual overlay onto that experience
and then make an emotional investment in that overlay, taking it to be "real" in and of itself.





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As to the subject of donations, for those of you who may be interested in doing so 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]

When it came to his boat Halliburton was a 'top dollar' guy, sparing no expenses when it came to ensuring he got the best. The Twin Dolphin had the best and most up to date radar and sonar equipment and anything else it needed including a full galley and fully equipped bar. He made sure the skipper had everything he could imagine to keep her running and operating efficiently. One day as we were pulling out heading south he had two dirt bikes put on board so the skipper and I could get around Cabo as well as giving us both zero degree down jackets so we wouldn't get cold on the trip back and forth to the U.S. (people have no idea how cold it can get half way or so up the peninsula). All these years later I still have the jacket and even use it from time to time --- although the one I have has the skipper's name in it, so somewhere along the way we must have mixed them up.

The trip along the peninsula took forever with the boat running 24 hours a day usually on auto-pilot. Although sanding wood into infinity truly had its merits, there is very little like being 20 or 30 miles off Baja on a calm sea in the middle of the night sitting on the fore-deck meditating with nothing but the clear night sky filled with stars and the Milky way above your head and nothing else for miles around except the sound of the slapping water and the constant muffled hum of the engine.

While in Cabo, although the Twin Dolphin was outfitted as a marlin boat it was just as much a yacht as well, with the boat and crew, that is the skipper and I, being at the discretion and whim of Halliburton, and thus then by inference, through requests, his cronies. When one of his non-fishing high-ranking cronies came down on some anthropological mission and wanted to go to a speck of land sticking up out of the Sea of Cortez somewhat north of the city of La Paz called Isla Espiritu Santo along with a few other places, we were tapped to take him. In the process, once moored, being thus then recruited from a sander of wood to an equipment bearer, I in turn was able to visit a number of sites and observe first hand in a controlled fashion in prehistoric settings, the Caucasoid-like elongated skulls and red ochre painted bones of the original inhabitants of the Baja Peninsula, the Pericues.(see)


On the Pacific side of the Baja peninsula about halfway between the southern U.S. border near San Diego and the tip of Baja is a huge natural harbor that abuts up close to the town of Guerrero Negro. Although the harbor has a Spanish name that translates into something like eye of the jackrabbit for ages it has typically been called Scammon's Lagoon.

During our trip back from Cabo, under my request, the skipper made arrangements to hole up a day in Scammon's Lagoon because there was a man who lived in the area I wanted to see. We stopped at some island off the coast and got all the paperwork required by the Mexican government to do so, which was just a matter of routine because powers that be had great respect for Halliburton, although the fact that he was a multi-quadzillionaire and a few bucks on the side may have played a role in it.

Access in and out of the mouth of the lagoon is a tricky proposition because of how narrow it is compared to how wide the lagoon is, causing some horrendous currents with the open sea. Using charts and once inside the skipper moored her for the night in a secure spot. Early the next morning we put the skiff into the water loaded with our two dirt bikes and headed toward shore. We found the house where the man I was looking for lived, it was just that other than the housekeeper no one was there. After an all day trip we got back just in time to get the Twin Dolphin out of the lagoon safely in the daylight and relative to the tides. Plus, even if we didn't leave the harbor we had to return because the skipper wasn't about to leave her unattended overnight, so for the skipper, waiting to see somebody wasn't an option.

The man I hoped to visit lived in a small community called El Arco on Highway 18 not far from Guerrero Negro. The man was Colonel Harvey Greenlaw, the onetime second in command of the infamous Flying Tigers of World War II fame. I had read his wife's book Lady and the Tigers (1943) as a young boy and when I heard somewhere along the way that Greenlaw lived there, visited him two summers before while on a road trip down Baja.(see)

When I told the skipper of my meeting with Colonel Greenlaw the summer or so before he expressed a real interest in crossing paths with him too. Seems the skipper had worked at onetime in sea-freight cargo transportation. When he heard about the air-freight cargo airline formed by former A.V.G. pilots called Flying Tiger Airlines, thinking air cargo was a wave of the future, leaving his sea life, went to work for them. In the process he met and interacted with any number of original Flying Tiger pilots and ground crew. Although he eventually went back to the sea, he loved that portion of his life and wanted to talk to Greenlaw about some of the pilots he knew.




When I was eight or nine years old I went on an almost all summer long excursion throughout the desert southwest visiting a variety of major and minor historical sites as well as fossil and archaeological sites all across Arizona and New Mexico with my uncle. One of the places we visited in New Mexico was Fort Sumner, stopping there specifically for me to see the gravesite of the infamous western outlaw and bad guy Billy the Kid.

Because of a few highly memorable adventures and people I met during that excursion I created a couple of web pages devoted to it. One of the pages revolves around a post high school teenager I met named Tommy Tyree. Tyree worked on a ranch for a man whose dad's brother, in 1908, shot and killed Sheriff Pat Garrett, the man who in turn had shot Billy Kid in 1881. Because of such Tyree was a minor historian of Billy the Kid. However, his major claim to fame is his stature as a witness to the events surrounding the alleged crash of an object of an unknown nature that came out of the night sky during the summer of 1947 related to what has come to be known as the Roswell UFO. The other page, because of my visit to Billy the Kid's gravesite, I have dedicated it to Billy the Kid. On that page I use a graphic of a fairly famous oil painting done in 1937 of the Kid by a fellow desert southwest artist and friend of my uncle named John W. Hilton, of whom, through my uncle, as a kid I both met and as well, saw the original painting.


In an article on the net about Col. Harvey Greenlaw said to have appeared in Cabo Life Magazine, reportedly states that the same artist, John W. Hilton, painted a mural on Greenlaw's wall a year or two before I visited him --- during the same period Hilton was gathering material for a book he was writing titled "Hardly Any Fences," a book that dealt with his various travels in Baja California from 1933 to 1959. In a chapter or section of that book, published in 1977, titled "South to El Arco," in his own hand, Hilton presents a slightly different version of any attempt at what could possibly be misconstrued as him having painted a full wall mural:

"I took a liking to Harvey Greenlaw at once. His house had a dirt floor but there were murals on all of the walls painted and drawn by artists and would-be artists who had stopped by to visit him. I added some cereus and cactus plants on each side of a painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe. This gave her a local touch, we thought."

As you can tell from this page and several others referenced herein I have page after page related in some fashion to the World War II fighter plane the Curtis-Wright P-40 Warhawk, also known as the Tomahawk, and the Kittyhawk depending on who flew them, their area of operation, and when they were made. Although I hold no distaste toward other aircraft, and I mention many throughout my works, relative to the P-40, most do have a tendency to take a backseat. Such is the case with the truly most formidable F6F Hellcat. I bring up the Hellcat, more specifically the F6F below because of Baja California and the potential possibility of one of it's kind coming in contact with another strong interest of mine, submarines --- especially so World War II Japanese and German rogue or ghost submarines. See:


Footnote [2]

Because of the skipper's long time Wilmington connection and me crewing on Halliburton's boat I was put into a position where I learned first hand about a little known Japanese attempt during World War II, or at least a plan, involving one of their two-man midget submarines and nuking the city of Los Angeles big time with an atomic bomb. Re the following:

Even though the Twin Dolphin was moored in Marina Del Rey, initially she had been moored in a boat harbor in the San Pedro, Wilmington area. In that the skipper had life-long deep connections with the Wilmington area and knew the ins-and-outs of the harbor and shipyards intimately, when parts were needed such as bilge pumps and such things he used to send me down into the bowels of the L.A. Harbor/Wilmington area to backstreet boat and ship repair shops to retrieve them. Often times the two of us would go together, and when we did it seems we always ended up in some dive of a dump and/or hanging out after hours in some scroungy closed up for the day boat repair shop drinking beer and bullshitting late into the night.

There was a lot of give and take about the skipper and me and the boat repair guys view of us being sort of "up there Marina Del Rey guys." One night in conversation an old salt interjected he remembered when Marina Del Rey was nothing but a swamp. It was during the early part of the war and he was helping to build Howard Hughes' off limits if not secret airport and aircraft facility in Culver City located along the Pacific Ocean wedged between Ballona Creek on the north and some bluffs on the south --- Ballona Creek being the southern edge of the swamp that was to eventually become Marina Del Rey.

"The old salt said to make extra money a lot of the time he and some of his buddies would join the regular security to help patrol the buildings, grounds and outer edges of the nearly 400 acre facility at night. One night, not thinking anything would ever happen, they came across an unconscious badly beaten man laying face down on the airstrip carrying an ID badge identifying him as a Hughes employee. Nearby they found tire tracks leading off the airstrip toward the channel. Within a few minutes one of the men in the group came back saying he spotted a Hughes company flatbed truck with it's lights off across the field halfway down the airstrip between the edge of the airstirp and Ballona Creek. Together the group only had a couple of small flashlights, no walkie-talkies between them, the real security guard being the only one with one, plus the only one with a gun. Before they were able to get close to the truck and with no clue what they were getting into someone shot at them. They all scattered trying to find as much protection as they could out in the middle of a bush-free flat field.

"Dropping to the ground the armed guard fired a number of shots toward the far side of the creek opposite the truck where the gunfire seemed to come from. In doing so the old salt telling the story and those with him were able to scoot toward the driver's side of the truck behind the rear wheels and at least be afforded some protection. After a reasonable amount of time with no sounds or signs of movement one of the men in the group pulled open the driver's side door and flipped on the headlights. Just as he did, although it was some distance, in the glare of he headlights westward toward the end of the creek where the exit of the channel was edged on either side by rock-lined jetties that formed the outlet to the sea, they were able to get a clear view of what was later identified as being a two-man midget submarine just about to leave the creek into the open ocean."



Footnote [3]



During the early part of the year 1963 I had moved from Basic Training at Fort Ord, California to being fully ensconced in training and the goings on of the Southeast Signal Corps School in Fort Gordon, Georgia. However, even though I had only just earned my Private First Class stripes from the slick sleeve I was, because of my ability with Morse code, a near savant as my civilian instructors continued to tell my chain of command officers, before completion of Signal School I was sent on my second TDY military experience, the first being the Cuban Missile Crisis while I was still in basic.

My TDY destination from Fort Gordon was the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. I was sent to be part of a several week observed study control group training and working with initially ten, dropped to five or six, specially selected cadets supposedly versed in the intricacies of Morse code. The idea was to find out what I had that they didn't and once found could it be learned, taught, or replicated.

The father of one of the cadets in the group owned a yacht that one weekend he sailed up the Hudson River from New York, hoping to spend some time with his son. The son invited several cadet friends and me to hang out with him on the boat, which, being a few notches better than nothing, I did. As what would eventually become usual for me nothing identified me as to my rank or status, so nobody really knew if I was an officer, an enlisted man, or maybe even a civilian. Often, for people who own yachts sometimes things like that matter. For example, the cadet's sister. If she had known I was a lowly private and not one of the group at large she probably wouldn't have even talked to me. Same with the dad. It came out between the father and I that we both knew David J. Halliburton Sr. and both had been on his yacht the Twin Dolphin, both several times. I told the father I knew Halliburton because as a young man he had a serious crush on my stepmother's niece, which is true. Halliburton's family lived right across the street from my stepmother and during the summer her niece would babysit me. In reality though I knew Halliburton later in life because I was a crew member on his yacht, a mere sander of wood. Of course I didn't tell the dad that and he automatically put me higher up on the scale of things. Years later Halliburton did so as well after the connection with my stepmother's niece became clear.

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In any case, as it turned out, from February 4, 1963 to March 4, 1963, after having been on exhibit in Washington D.C., but before returning to the Louvre in Paris, and for the only time ever, Leonardo Da Vinci's painting the Mona Lisa was in the U.S. and on exhibit at the The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, a period of time that overlapped the exact same time I was at West Point. More than that, it just so happened the father of the cadet had long time philanthropic ties in support the museum and had at his beckon call special VIP passes to see the exhibit. When we got to talking and he thought I was right up there with Halliburton in the scheme of things and I expressed an overwhelming desire to see the Mona Lisa, as soon as he could arrange it and his soon and his son and I could get time off he sent a car up to West Point to pick us. We were whisked into the museum ahead of the hours long crowds and as others were being ushered through after viewing the painting, our neck lanyard identification allowed to stay as long as we wanted.


"Thousands of visitors waited in line for the doors to open when on February 7, 1963, the Mona Lisa went on view to the public at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. More than one million New Yorkers went to see the painting during the month-long exhibition, enduring winter cold and rain, as 'Mona Mania' swept the nation."

Da Vinci's Masterpiece Captivated a Nation




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Over and over I am being contacted about what I know about the status of the Hotel Twin Dolphin and what happened to it. At this point, the following is a much as I can pass along:

The entire stretch of beach and enjoining coastal land that at one time composed the 135 acres of David J. Halliburton Sr.'s Hotel Twin Dolphin Resort in Cabo has turned into the most part a stalled project that at one time was stated to be for the Montage. The Montage holding company purchased the land in 2005 and shortly afterward demolished the Hotel Twin Dolphin. When the markets crashed, so did the project. Basically nothing but vacant desert land the project has been stagnant for years and likely to remain that way. There was also some litigation involving the sale afterwards as found in the Scott vs Scott link below:




(translated into English from Spanish. With photos)


Some of you who are familiar with my works may recall my visit to the so-called Ice Man site as found in Footnote [3] of the Maya Shaman and Chicxulub or me going to see the 3.2 million year old skeletal remains of the Australopithecus afarensis, Lucy as found in Critical Concerns With Awakening 101. The same impetus for the above was in place in accepting and going when offered the chance to observe in an undisturbed prehistoric setting the Caucasoid-like elongated skulls and red ochre painted bones of the original inhabitants of the Baja Peninsula the Pericues while working on the marlin boat.

"For nearly a century, the prevailing wisdom among academics has been that Native Americans aren't really native. They came from what is now Russia, China, and Mongolia, and traversed a land bridge across the Bering Strait during the tail end of the last ice age --- some 10,000 years ago --- before subsequently dispersing throughout the Americas. This is known as the Beringian Migration theory.

"The genetic differences found in some human remains, however, suggest that there may have been separate, perhaps earlier migrations. There is evidence that just doesn't fit the standard narrative, in other words. This is certainly true of the Pericues, who were taller and had significantly longer, narrower skulls (the scientific word for this is hyperdolichocephalic) than their Baja California peninsula brethren.

"Thus an alternative theory developed that the first Americans were originally from the South Pacific Rim and arrived in the Americas on some sort of floating water craft, perhaps as early as 25 to 35,000 years ago. This theory is supported by recent DNA tests, which suggest the Pericues shared the same genetic lineage as Australian aborigines. It also explains why their language was distinct from that of their northern neighbors on the Baja California peninsula."

Mystery of the Pericues

In a similar vein, sometime in 1997 I was given the chance to slip in on the sly and observe the 9000 year old remains of the Kennewick Man. So said, considering the still in place and same strong impetus, there is no way I would pass up such an opportunity once offered. However, there is more to the Kennewick man for me personally than might otherwise meet the eye. Although not directly related specifically, the existence of the Kennewick Man and those similar such as the Penon Woman and possibly even in a remote way to the Pericues, leans heavily toward the quote below from the rather unusual source so cited at the end of the last paragraph, the Cerutti Mastodon Site, that delves into evidence of early man being in North America 130,000 years ago, thousands of years before Homo sapiens even arose:

"(I)n a remote section of the desert southwest, bordering along the upper reaches of the northern mountains, an artifact of deep concern and value to certain segments of the long established indigenous population had been stumbled upon by a ragtag group of grave-robbers and, inturn, stolen from a heretofore unknown to outsiders sacred site. The artifact, although nondescript under almost any layperson's observation, was said to be a potential mind-changer in Native American lore if it surfaced among the general public."

Without the knowledge of the object having any major significance, it, along with most of the other spoils it was intermingled with, passed quickly from the hands of the looters into the hands of a more professional retailer of stolen relics. Shortly thereafter, interested parties, hearing some of the loot surfaced and wanting the return of the specific object without creating undue attention or raising suspicion as to the relic's value, sent a person posing as a spokesperson for a collector to negotiate with the retailer for possible purchase. A bottom-line figure was agreed upon. When the spokesperson for the collector returned with the money the retailer said he had since received offers from two other interested parties and the price was now doubled.

A month later the retailer was found rotting at the bottom of a deep ravine with his eyes poked out with sticks. The missing object was said to have been returned to it's original resting place without the needed exchange of any money, only to be sealed to the outside world forever. It is not clear if any members of the ragtag group of grave-robbers ever made it to the point they would be able to collect social security.(source)

For those who may be so interested, the previously mentioned archeological dig of some significance located in San Diego, California called the Cerutti Mastodon Site and linked below, is directly related to the artifact said to have such deep concern and value to certain segments of the long established indigenous population.

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Sometime in or around the year 1959 or so I walked into Max Balchowsky's shop Hollywood Motors with a letter of introduction from his friend Eric Houser arranged for me by our friend Mary Davis, which read in part, "Give the kid what he wants, he's OK." What I wanted was to upgrade the power plant in my Ford woody after all these years by having a Chevy Corvette V-8 and automatic transmission installed, and had gone to Hollywood Motors to see if Balchowsky would do it. After reading the note and breaking his stare from a certain admiration aimed at the woody he turned to me. As if hit by a hammer or seen a ghost, uncharacteristically he suddenly and out of nowhere appeared woozy, semi-collapsing, his knees buckling under as fellow shop employees and others close by rushed to block a potential fall, sitting him down and giving him water.

At first I think they thought I stabbed or shot him or something. But that wasn't what happened. The what happened was Balchowsky needed no letter of introduction. He had seen me years before In Burma.

With the end of World War II Balchowsky moved to Southern California almost as quick as the military handed him his discharge. Just as quick, like thousands of others, he jumped feet first into on the growing automotive and hot rod culture that began dominating the California scene. The two things that set him aside from the rest of the pack was his knack for smoothly installing big bore powerful American V-8's into smaller underpowered cars and doing so successfully along with transferring his hot rod skills in the 1950's-1960's into the sports car field by building and racing his own cars. He was known for his bright yellow series of "Old Yeller Junkyard Dog Specials" and their ability to beat the best Europe had to offer. Ferraris, Maseratis, Aston Martins, and Porsche, at one time or the other they all coward under his skills, and if not, gave them a run for their money. In the hands of an extraordinarily skilled driver his V-8 Buick powered specials were a force to be reckoned with.

During World War II Balchowsky was a belly gunner in the turret of a B-24 Liberator. On a mission over Europe his bomber was .hit so hard by fighters and flack the crew had to abandon her. Making it as far back as France Balchowsky, wounded, was forced with the rest of the crew to bail out, France being friendly territory, thus avoiding possible capture by the enemy. Following a short recuperation period he was sent to the China-Burma-India theater, more specifically Burma, where he finished out the war

He asked if I had ever been to Burma. I told him about 15 years before, in 1944 as a young boy around six years old, I had been taken to India for several months by a foster couple, but was unable to remember a whole lot about it. If Burma had been on my travel agenda I wasn't able to remember it either. He told me in 1944 at age 20 he was in the Army in Burma counting down the days until the end of the war when he went on R&R in Calcutta India. There he met the person he thought was me, and for sure the me he met wasn't six years old, but more like 25, and, although in civilian clothes, claiming to be in the Army and hanging out with other G.I.s.

Of course Balchowsky was right. I wouldn't be age 25 for several more years, sometime around 1964 or so. When I went to to see about a possible engine swap for the woody it was approximately five years before 1964. Which is to say neithr 1964 nor me being 25 hadn't happened yet. And that's the crux of the matter. If it hadn't happend yet how could I have remembered it?

If any of you have read "The Code Maker, The Zen Maker," especially Part V Of Minds and Landscapes: Into Their Interior (see), you would have learned that in 1964 I ended up in a Zen Monastery high in the Himalayas and an ashram of a venerated Indian holy man in India. It was after the ashram, as found in Return to the Monastery, that I ended up in Burma and then Calcutta. Of course, again, in Calcutta, I was around 25 years old. When I was in Balchowsky's shop seeing about the woody it was 1959, four or five years earlier. I was only 21 and 1964 hadn't happened yet, so there was no way I could remember any meeting with Balchowsky in Burma or Calcutta because, as for me, it was yet to come.