Here’s the third part of the Bermuda time travel story.

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I thought it somewhat surprising that, even though John and Barbara began exchanging letters in late 1964, John didn’t immediately tell Barbara that he went back to the  village and it was gone. I know if it was me, I wouldn’t be able to withhold that information. So, of course, I asked him why he decided to keep that astonishing fact secret. Here’s what he said.

“I only wrote to her between December ‘64 and April ‘65. During that period I still didn’t know anything about the village or it’s destruction by the hurricane. I didn’t want her to think I was some kind of a nut by telling her the place was gone or it had been an illusion until I had some explanation.

“During the last two months when we were writing back and forth, I was in Oceanography School in Groton, Connecticut. I wrote her some love poems during that time. One of the final weeks of the class involved a week-long training cruise aboard a cutter bound for Bermuda. When we arrived, we were given liberty and I was able to meet with the old sea Captain and learned all about the village and his ancestors who lived there. Two days later we were back at the campus in Connecticut and I couldn’t wait to tell Barbara what I’d learned.

“Unfortunately when I returned there was a ‘Dear John’ letter waiting for me, asking me not to write to her any more as she wanted to work on her relationship with her fiancé. I think that was the first time I ever went out and got rip roaring drunk. Talk about bad timing…..”

Years later, he began searching for Barbara. The Internet of course is a great tool for finding lost acquaintances from the past. While hunting for any traces of Barbara, he found her engagement announcement in a Wisconsin newspaper. It was dated April 14, 1965. “If they’d only waited another couple of weeks before going ahead with the engagement, I’d have been back from Bermuda with all the info from Captain Sam about the village and our ‘alter egos’ from the 1700s . Who knows what might have happened under those circumstances. It might have made a difference in both of our current lives.”

As the years went by, John continued to be haunted by this incident. “In 2008, I happened to see a TV program about Bermuda which led me to begin searching for the lovely nurse I’d met in 1964.” His search took several months because he didn’t know Barbara’s last name, or even the correct spelling of her maiden name, or where she lived. He followed a trail from her high school yearbook to a nursing pamphlet to a nursing registry and finally found her. He was nervous when he called her, not knowing if she would remember him or that night so long ago in Bermuda. He left a message and anxiously awaited a return call. Finally, hours later, she called. When she confirmed her memories of the village, John was relieved to know that he wasn’t delusional. She remembered the village. He finally told her what happened when he went back and the history of the village.

Of course, I was also interested in talking to Barbara. What did she remember? Did she believe that she’d lived in that village in a past life? Fortunately, she kindly agreed to talk to me. I e-mailed her and she replied the next day.

The gist of it is that Barbara definitely recalls the village and sitting on the graveyard wall. There are details in John’s story that she doesn’t remember, including the clock. While she felt attracted to the village, she didn’t think in terms of it being a past-life residence. I’ll let her explain it.

“Fifty-two years ago, I was 19-years old and had no awareness of ‘past lives.’ When I met John, he was respectful, comforting and safe to be with so it felt okay to go off alone with him and away from the group. It actually felt like I had known him before.

“When we arrived at the village, I remember that it felt familiar and inviting, but I have no recollection or sense of having lived there. It may have been different 52 years ago, but now I have no recollection. What I remember about the village was the church and very vividly a stone wall that we sat on as we talked and rested and walked. It was indeed a memorable 24 hours.”

“I never have returned to Bermuda so I was unaware that this village did not exist in this time period. However, when John contacted me 8 years ago and shared his findings, I could relate fully to this since I have been interested in past, present, and future lives through most of my life, which was contrary to my family upbringing as a Christian. Recently I have been studying the Buddhist perspective on past lives. It confirms my beliefs. The fact that there are many others who have also had experiences of past lives is also very affirming. Direct experience has a lot to say about reality/realities.”

When I later asked her if she thought it was odd that John didn’t immediately write to her that the village had disappeared, she had this to say: “John was afraid he would be seen as crazy or weird. At such a young age, our image seems to be so important to us. Over a period of fifty years of people laughing or ridiculing or thinking us weird because of our beliefs or ideas or even our direct experiences,  no long matters. We align ourselves with our ‘selves’ or sense of knowing what is important to our journey.”

Upon reflection, Barbara says that some of the events of her life now seem more understandable considering what John learned about the woman she might’ve been in the 1700s.

“I have had many dreams throughout my life about being married in a small church. I never was married in a small church in this lifetime. I also have been inexplicably fearful and sometime in panic when swimming in deep water. I have always been a good swimmer in this life and would swim laps daily in three feet of water. If I would go to the deep end of a pool or lake, I would start feeling very anxious.

“Yet I have always been drawn to the ocean and the waves and have found the rolling waves particularly calming. However, I would never get onto a cruise ship, even if it offered the world to me. I like having the earth under my feet. Yet I will be the first to go to the ocean and sit for hours listening to the ocean waves. So when John said I drowned during a hurricane in Bermuda, it resonated with my attraction as well as my panic.”

John and Barbara were both involved in relationships when they met and both relationships led to short-lived marriages. Both are now married again. They have stayed in touch over the past eight years, but have never met face-to-face since Thanksgiving Day, 1964. John has made several trips to Bermuda. Barbara has never gone back. They both wonder what would happen if they ventured again together to the village site.

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This is the second part of a compelling time travel story published on August 1.

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Several days passed before John was able to go ashore and return to the village. He wanted to see if he would feel the same sense of eeriness that he’d felt there with Barbara. But he also wanted to recapture that sense of being with her and the feeling that they had lived in the village as husband and wife.

When he reached to top of the rise, he paused and was dumbfounded by what he saw. There was no sign of a village, just open undeveloped land. I asked John in an e-mail if he had any inklings that he would find no trace of the village.

“I fully expected it to be there. In addition to wanting to see it in the daytime, I was going to find a place to sit and write a letter to Barbara I was totally surprised and found it hard to believe when it wasn’t there.”

Where the village was

He later added: “I don’t know if it’s important but thought you might want to know that we were able to touch and feel the houses and the church and both of us sat on the graveyard wall. These were solid objects and not projections or holographic images. Also, when we tried to see if the church was open, the doors wouldn’t open, but they definitely made noise when I pulled/pushed on the door handle. So there were definitely sounds.”

After making sure he was in the right place, he gave up and started back to the ship. But first he stopped at a pub for a couple of drinks to settle his nerves.

An elderly man was tending bar and he asked him if he knew anything about an old neighboring village. The bartender said he’d heard of a hamlet in the direction that John had pointed. I had existed in the 1700s, but was wiped out by a massive hurricane in the late 18th century. He suggested John talk to an even older man, a retired British sea captain whose relatives had lived in the lost village, which was called St. Catherine. He easily found the man’s house, but he was told that the man was in England and wouldn’t be back for several weeks. He returned his ship disappointed, but vowed to try again to find the man.

Finally, in April of 1965 when he returned to Bermuda on the cutter Cook Inlet, John found the captain at home and told him he was researching the lost village of St. Catherine. The old man welcomed John and showed him an old painting of his great great grandparents. It was their betrothal portrait, supposedly painted by a renowned English artist. He said they’d married in 1764 and died in 1780 in the hurricane that destroyed the hamlet.

John was startled by the picture because of the likeness of Barbara to the bride in the painting. The man somewhat resembled John, but the young woman looked like the nurse’s twin. But what really took him aback was when the captain told him their names…Lady Barbara and Sir John. Definitely a synchronicity. And a clue.

The captain had done quite a bit of family research and knew the young woman was of noble birth, while her husband was the naval attaché to the governor of the British colony.

The captain went on to say that Barbara was in the final weeks of pregnancy when the deadly hurricane struck Bermuda. She was found the next morning when the water receded and a midwife cut her open and removed the baby who amazing was alive. The baby survived and ultimately became the mother of the captain’s maternal grandfather.
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I found this story fascinating. Did John really find his own great-great-grandson from another life that he and Barbara lived? John believes so. Was that why he and Barbara were able to pass through the veil of time and enter St. Catherine, a hamlet that no longer existed? But why didn’t they see any people while they were there?

Of course, I also wondered what happened afterwards. As I said, John and Barbara were both involved with other people back in the States. Did they abandon those relationships, find true love together and return to Bermuda? Did they ever slip back into St. Catherine? Are they still together? Are they even in contact with one another?

I’ll tell the remainder of the saga in the next post. But until then, I’ll give you a hint. I’ve been exchanging e-mails with both of them.

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In 2005, I co-authored THE FOG, with Bruce Gernon, a book about the Bermuda Triangle. Since then, Bruce has received dozens of e-mails from people who tell their own stories involving strange fog, time travel or teleportation. Some of those stories take place within the so-called boundaries of the Bermuda Triangle and others are well outside of it.

Bruce and I are now working on a follow up book called: Beyond the Bermuda Triangle:  Encounters with Electronic Fog, Time Travel, and Teleportation. One story we received is particularly striking. Here’s a summary of it.

In 1964, John Murphy was stationed aboard a US Coast Guard cutter that on Thanksgiving day was docked at Pennos Wharf near St. George. He went ashore in the afternoon after a Thanksgiving dinner with three of his friends and the four men happened to meet four student nurses in the US Navy Nurse Corps. A nice coincidence that would become a very meaningful one for John Murphy. The nursing students had caught a ‘hop’ on an Air Force cargo flight from Wisconsin and were staying in a hotel in St. George.

John had a nearly instantaneous attraction to one of the young women and she seemed equally interested in him. After taking the nurses on a tour of the ship, they debarked as four couples. John and his new friend, Barbara, went off on their own to Fort St. Catherine’s beach where both confessed that they had an overwhelming and uncanny sense that they already knew each other. Yet, both were engaged to someone back in the States and neither were looking to have an affair.

As the sun sank toward the sea, they abandoned the beach and felt drawn toward a narrow lane heading away from the fort. It was barely light when they came upon a small rise in the road and found themselves captured by a sense of eeriness again. They each seemed to know what was on the other side of the hill, even though neither had ever come this way. John said they would see a small 18^th century British village with a church dominating the village square. Barbara had a similar reaction and added that they would see a clock on the steeple of the church. It was broken and displayed 12:30.

When they reached the crest of the hill, they were amazed and startled to see everything as they’d envisioned it, including the clock stuck at 12:30. As they walked downhill toward the village, they both felt a sense of familiarity. They didn’t see any people, but most of the structures were illuminated by lanterns visible inside their windows.

As they walked past the church, they felt drawn to large graveyard beside it. Holding each other’s hands with only a flashlight for illumination, they walked through the cemetery and then sat down on a low stone wall separating the two major sections of the graveyard—one side for whites, the other for blacks. They somehow knew the graveyard’s segregated layout.

Nothing about that evening seemed normal. Both of them had the strong sense not only of having been in the village before, but that it had been their home in the past. As they talked, they recalled their lives as a married couple with children, and that they’d somehow met their deaths together very nearby. They felt a chill at the thought of our deaths and knew there had been something unusual about how they had died.

Barbara spread out a blanket she had in her bag from when she and her friends had gone to the beach earlier in the day. They laid down and John felt an overwhelming sense of love and passion. They held each other close and then, rather than engaging in furtive graveyard sex, something unexpected happened. John recalls: “I closed my eyes and leaned forward to kiss her, but before our lips came together, everything around us grew dark and it felt as if we were tumbling together into a bottomless abyss. The sensation of falling finally ended and then, without any warning…both of us passed out.”

They awakened a couple of hours later, feeling confused, and quickly left the village. They returned to the hotel in St. George where Barbara was staying. They said their goodbyes, exchanged addresses, and awkwardly went their separate ways. She would fly back to the States the next day and he would remain in Bermuda for about ten more days.

John had a vivid dream about the village that night and when he woke up, he knew he had to go back and find out more about its history.

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Stay tuned for part 2 of this strange and compelling story.

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Now I know synchros can happen anywhere, anytime, even when you least suspect them. Once a week, I play in a disc golf league, and on one particular Saturday, it seems the trickster made an appearance. Here’s what happened.

My friend Ernie and I were warming up, tossing a disc back and forth. These disks are not like Frisbees, because the drivers (for long shots) have a sharp edge. We usually warm up with a mid-range, which aren’t as sharp-edged, but still not so easy to catch. So we usually just knock them down when we’re warming up. It’s about accuracy, not catching. In fact, there’s no catching in disc golf.

As we were tossing the disc back and forth, two other players walked by on the dirt road behind Ernie. I recognized both. On the left was Dave, who is a professional level player, has a sponsor and plays in national tournaments. Dan, the other guy, is also very good. He’s got a terrific sense of humor and likes to point out the irony in whatever he might be talking about. They were talking, but I was too far away to hear what they were saying.

My next throw got away from me and was headed toward Dave and Dan. I yelled heads up, but neither reacted in time. My throw struck Dave in the back of his head. Dan turned around and said, “You’re not going to believe this. Dave was just now telling me how he’d gotten hit in the head by a disc the other day and how much it hurt. Then you hit him again!”

Synchronicity, I thought. The trickster at play.

Meanwhile, Dave never looked back. He just kept walking and rubbing his head. That was kind of odd. There was probably a message there for him. To be hit in the head by a disc while describing an earlier identical incident is pretty strange. maybe it was a wake-up. Something he should be aware of. Like, ‘Hey, Dave,  you’re playing too much disc golf and ignoring something important.’ Maybe something like that.

Did it register? I don’t know…and I wasn’t about to go ask him if he got the message!

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As a Bernie supporter, I was disappointed when Clinton won the nomination. But after watching both the Republican convention ( a study in agony and disgust) and the Democratic convention, the contrast is stark and obvious. Trump presented a Dystopian view of America – Hunger Games, Fahrenheit 411,   1984 – versus Clinton’s view of America as inclusive, compassionate, progressive, where all can prosper. Think President Snow from the Hunger Games (only I can fix it, Trump said) and President Obama, the audacity of hope.

For me, this convention humanized Clinton. I learned things about her that I didn‘t know. There has never been any doubt that she’s the most qualified person for the presidency, but in the back of my mind there was always a trust issue. What I heard during this convention, though, is that she has done what Scorpios sometimes do, worked quietly and diligently behind the scenes to improve the lives of ordinary people. The character testimony about Clinton during this convention was well orchestrated, but the genuine emotional pitches were profound.

The most moving speech for me came from a Muslim couple, Khizr Khan and his wife, who talked about the death of their son, Humayun, a captain in the U.S. Army. Their appearance was a direct rebuttal to Trump’s call to ban all Muslims from the U.S. It ended with Khan pulling a pocket-sized edition of the U.S. Constitution from his coat pocket and waving it in front of the camera. “Donald Trump, let me ask you. Have you even read the U.S. Constitution? I will gladly lend you my copy.”

As the mother of a daughter, I was also moved by Chelsea Clinton’s speech about her mom. Trump’s daughter also gave a speech about him as her father, but it wasn’t anywhere near the caliber of Chelsea’s speech. After all, Chelsea’s dad has already been prez. She came of age in the White House. And now her mother is the first woman nominated by a major political party as a presidential candidate. It makes Chelsea a first, too. Dad, now Mom.

Many of the policy highlights Clinton touched on were straight out of Bernie’s platform. I don’t know if it’s enough to pull all of his 13 million supporters into the fold, particularly among millennials, but I’m hopeful. After all, the alternative is too awful to even consider and that’s why Bernie acted with such grace by endorsing her. He knows what’s at stake. He gets it.

Life under a Trump presidency would be worse than all the Dystopian novels you’ve ever read. It wouldn’t just be The Handmaid’s Tale, The Hunger Games, 1984, Brave New World, The Giver, The Running Man, or The Children of Men. Life under Trump would amount to the collective conglomeration of all of these dark visions, a primal soup of disaster and misery that would propel the country and the world into a scenario that even our most gifted writers haven’t imagined yet.

November 8?  For me, the choice is obvious. I embrace hope rather than fear, optimism rather than despair.

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This clip about a psychic artist is remarkable! See what you think.

We spent our anniversary weekend in Orlando, attending a painting class that Megan taught and, afterward, a charity for cystic fibrosis to which she’d been invited. The charity was held on the shores of Lake Eola, outside World of Beer, which occupies one of the prime spots on the lake.

She was asked to set up her easel and paints outside and work on a painting that was related to Orlando, which would later be auctioned for the charity. She chose to paint the lake with one of the trademark swans as the central figure. These swans live on the lake, are cared for and fed by the city, and are an endless source of fascination for residents and tourists alike.

In the evenings, the swans are seen settling in under the trees around the lake or taking a last minute swim before the sun sets. There are white and black swans and their cute offspring. Several months back, some of the baby swans were stolen, presumably for the black market, and were never found.

She had started the painting at home and finished it over several hours as Rob and I hung out with her. She painted it from a photograph on her phone. I was fascinated by how she could create anything in a crowd like his. People came up and watched her paint, commenting on the colors and the image. Several members of the press videotaped and photographed her. Megan, a double Virgo perfectionist, kept refining the painting, adding details.

The irony, perhaps something of a trickster synchro, is this particular image has something of a history. Several years ago, Megan was walking her dog, Nika, on a leash, outside the apartment building where she lived. Nika saw a squirrel and tore away from her, into the road, and was struck by a car. Nika was flipped into the air and slammed into the road. When Megan reached her, she thought Nika was dead. She scooped her up and sped to the vet’s office. The upshot was countless tests, a $1,200 vet bill, bruises, but  no serious injuries.

While she was at the vet’s, the driver of the car, a young man, rushed into her apartment building and announced that a dog had hit his car and he wanted the owner’s name. He filed a police report and because Nika was technically leashed but running free, he sued Megan for damages to his car. He took her to court and the mediators deemed that Megan owed him $1,200, that she could repay at $100 a month.

Go figure, right? HE hit the dog, then takes her to court. Judge Judy heard about the case and invited them both on her show – all expenses paid to LA, and regardless of her final judgment, the show would pay the driver what he was owed. The driver refused to accept the invitation, probably because he knew he would look like the jerk he is. So, for eight months, Megan paid him his hundred bucks. Then, in the eighth month, he contacted her.

“You’re an artist, right? How about if you paint me something and we’ll call it even.”

This was the painting she did for him. The first time around, the swan painting goes to this jerk. The second time around, it goes to a charity auction for cystic fibrosis. From bad to beautiful.

Before the end of the charity, the organizer told Megan that they wanted to hold off on the auction until a charity  event t in December, at the Ritz Carlton golf tournament. He felt the painting would go for much more than the $100 price Megan had placed on it. Rob and I agree and I think this beautiful swan would, too.

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Shooting stars as a form of spirit contact? Well, why not? Spirits seem to use almost anything available to them to communicate with us.

Some of the most common methods are loud noises, shattered glass, music and songs, words that appear on fogged glass, objects, numbers, names, clouds, animals, birds, and even insects. In most instances of spirit contact, synchronicity is a vital component because the method a spirit uses for contact is personally meaningful and can’t be explained by cause and effect.

On July 5, 2014, Leah’s Jenkins’s husband, Todd, proposed to her, beneath a sky filled with shooting stars. “What was interesting is that after Todd proposed, we saw shooting stars that entire summer. I have never seen more shooting stars in my entire life,” writes Leah, a high school English teacher in West Virginia.

For more than a year, she didn’t see another shooting star. Then, on November 2, 2015, Leah’s father, who had been best man at her and Todd’s wedding, passed away. “And the night he died, Todd and I saw a shooting star for the first time since he had proposed. It was around 4 a.m, in Gerrardstown and  we were driving home from mom and dad’s, where he died. A shooting star literally careened out of the sky and looked as if it might hit the front end of our car.

“We pulled over because it made us veer anyway and both broke apart.  It was the weirdest thing but I swear it just shot right for the car and though it didn’t actually hit us it sure looked like it was going to.  Daddy was a massive practical joker and startling people was his favorite thing to do so we figured he got us again!

“It was incredible because we both instantly knew it was dad. As soon as we pulled over, we looked at each other and both of us said, ‘Pops!’ You could feel it in your bones that it was dad letting us know he was OK.”

I “met” Leah through Facebook, when she mentioned me in one of her posts, saying that our book on synchronicity seriously changed her life. Writers are always curious about how their books affect the people who read them, so I asked her how the book had changed her life.

“It has allowed me to find synchronicity in everything I experience. The concept and explanation has been vital in the loss of my dad. I watch for meaning in events that may seem unrelated at first, but lead to something profound.”

I asked if she’d had any other contact with her dad since he had died. She wrote: “I definitely have a few for you. The pain of losing my dad has only been assuaged by the clues he’s leaving.I have one that I’ve only told to my husband. I’m not sure if it’s a synchro story, but I’ll share it with you for your input. You may think I’m loony but I swear every word is true.”

I assured Leah that I didn’t think any of this stuff was loony and that I had seen both of my parents during a meditation class. So she told me her experience, which seemed to be an actual visitation.

“I was washing dishes and when I looked out the window, in the corner of my eye, I saw a man in a white t-shirt behind me.  What was profound is that the TV was off and my curtains are dark- it was not a reflection. I dropped the dish I was holding and started to shake. When I swung around there was no one and when I turned back the figure was gone. He died wearing a white t shirt, Trish. I know it was him – he was letting me know he’s still there. It shook me up and set me crying but brought me much comfort.”

So what began with shooting stars led to a visitation and I suspect there will be more for Leah. As she says, “Comfort comes in synchronicities as long as you’re open enough to let them.”

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CNN’s web site includes a series of articles called The Other Side.  The series is introduced this way:  Some stories blur the lines between science, spirituality and the supernatural. These are stories from “The Other Side.“

The latest in the series is about synchronicity and starts out with an incredible example.

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Thanks to digital technology, writers can now enjoy a reality where their out of print books from mainstream publishers never go out of print because they can become ebooks.

In the 1980s I wrote a series of 10 novels that featured Quin and Mike McCleary, married private eyes who plied their trade in South Florida. Back then, private eye novels were popular; nowadays, any private eyes that exist probably do most of their work on computers. The era of Dashiell Hammett and Agatha Christie has been rendered obsolete, except in the pages of fiction.

Ballantine was beautifully cooperative about reverting the rights for the seven titles they had published, but the last three titles with Hyperion were problematic. In the years since I had published the end of the series with Hyperion – a Disney company – they had sold their fiction imprint to Warner. Once I finally got an actual name to write for reversion of rights, I got a massive runaround from four or five people in the company.

Finally, something happened with the Department of Justice and an investigation into price fixing between Apple and mainstream publishers and Amazon. The behemoth – Amazon – published the names and email addressers of the CEOs involved in the investigation. And I found the name of the CEO for Warner’s. On a Friday, I emailed him a scathing letter about my three books that had been out of print for years and how I had requested a reversion of rights several times and been rebuffed. That Monday, I received a gracious letter of apology from him and a promise that my rights would be reverted. A week later, the rights to my three books were reverted, from the same woman who had given me the run around earlier.

I then turned over the three books to David Wilson at Crossroad Press.   

Storm Surge, above, was the first of the three, and David Dodd designed a cool cover.

Since 2009,Crossroad  has been doing something unique in publishing. They have been tracking down authors whose books are out of print and offering them an opportunity to bring their books back into print through ebooks, print, and audio, at no cost to the author. Other outfits that do this charge authors an exorbitant amount of money. But the Crossroad business model is vastly different. Even the royalty split is unheard of – 80 percent of the book’s price for the author, 20 percent for Crossroad. The typical publishing royalty split is 15 percent of cover price for hardcovers, 10 percent for paperbacks.

There is no advance, but the advantage is that from the sale of the first book, the author earns something. There’s no fancy accounting, either, and Crossroad pays each month rather than every six months, like mainstream publishers. Another benefit is that David Dodd, the illustrator, asks you for ideas about the covers. For an author, this is huge.

So many times over the years, an editor would send me the idea for a cover and ask me what I thought. And when I gagged, it didn’t matter. That idea became the cover. But David Dodd doesn’t rest until the author loves the illustration. And his partner David Wilson doesn’t stop until all of your backlist is back in print, each book priced reasonably – ebooks usually at $3.99

Rob and I have written several original books for Crossroad – novels and non-fiction.

So far, the books haven’t been picked up by Barnes & Noble because of their policies, but it hasn’t mattered. If you have a hook, late night radio shows are eager for guests and many of their listeners are book buyers.

In other words, the entire landscape of publishing is changing. And it’s publishers like Crossroad who are making the difference. I mean, think about it. If Crossroad and this technology had existed in the sixties, maybe Richard Brautigan wouldn’t have killed himself because he could no longer get published. Maybe his book Trout Fishing in America, which initially captured the revolutionary spirit of the 60s, would have been followed by Marlin Fishing in the 70s or Shark Fishing in the 80s or…. Well, you get the idea.

Sixteen years into the 21^st century, no author has to commit suicide because he or she can’t get published. You still have to figure out how to market your stuff, get reviews, and do the usual stuff, but the point is that your creativity has a public venue.

I suspect that the Crossroad Press business model really is the wave of the future in publishing. Thanks to David Wilson and David Dodd!

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