Klint and I go back to 1972. After 25 flights, he had a shootout with the DEA in the California desert. It left 26 holes in his Aero Commander.
Ernest Hemingway was good company, but his drinking and hard living were difficult to keep up with. Argentinian president Juan Peron was either a tad insincere, or he didn’t dare challenge the will of his legendary wife, Evita. Mexican president Lazaro Cardenas deserved his reputation as the perhaps the least corrupt president in Mexican history. And B. Traven, one of the most reclusive and mysterious writers who ever lived, kept his secrets but revealed more than he intended.
By Stephen Meyer, Jan. 8, 1987 Read full article
Pirate – at the top of each 180-degree arc, the ship pauses for a millisecond.
It takes a long time to talk myself into going on the Zipper — a lot longer than it takes me to talk Rob into going with me. I’ve got to hand it to him: even though he went through the extreme pain of passing a kidney stone a couple of days ago, he’s game. The only reasonI can cite for my hesitation about going on the damn thing (apart from general cowardice and a rooted distrust of outsized mechanical devices) is that the first time I rode it, almost 20 years ago, I truly believed I was going to die.
By Roger Anderson, July 13, 1989 Read full article
The family home in El Cajon turned into a fountain of family history.
And there were two packets of letters, one from 1936, the other from 1938 — letters written by Arthur and Muriel, from the family home in Point Loma, to my father when he was enrolled at the University of Arizona and, later, at Pomona College. I began to read, hoping to gain insight into my father’s unhappiness — and trembling a bit at the prospect of meeting my grandfather for the first time, nearly a half century after he destroyed himself. Almost immediately I found myself caught up in the daily life of a San Diego family in the years leading up to World War II.
By Roger Anderson, May 25, 1989 Read full article
I returned to the cockpit. The smell of Alan’s blood filled my nostrils.
It was time to fly, after a series of delays that spanned two months. The Mexican Feds and our connection had a shootout, then a rainstorm had our landing strip under water. Then there was a problem with another dealer taking some of our connections’ not-yet-harvested crop. All the petty stuff that happens that you stay fed up with and never get used to. The drive from Coronado to Palm Springs was uneventful. I arrived at this little bar, where I was to meet Klint and Alan.
By Michael Jon Thorne, Sept. 2, 1993 Read full article
Shoemaker in paddock area. His grandmother washed and wrapped the baby in a blanket and placed him on the door of the oven.
It’s Friday morning, August 19. Although I’m dressed in a Chanel-style blue-and-white suit, I’m not wearing an apron as I heap two inches of chopped liver on fresh egg bread. The sandwich is for Bill Shoemaker, arguably the most talented and famous jockey of this century.
By Eleanor Widmer, Sept. 22, 1994 Read full article
Stingaree, 1924. The Stingaree flourished because it was the first U.S. port of call sailors reached after rounding Cape Horn.
San Diego Historical Society
Cops ensured that the technically illegal sexual traffic was conducted in an orderly manner. Was this during the celebrated, commercialized “Stingaree” days? No. This was around 1929, and Lyle Guthrie had just become a San Diego police officer. His beat was called “South Six”: from Second to Seventh, between F and Market. Before Guthrie was a cop he had spent four years as a Marine MP, so he knew the area he’d be flatfooting was the tenderloin.
By Mary Lang, July 15, 1993 Read full article