Back To Victoria Beach

No longer will I listen to the jealous scoffers who title me ‘Mad’ – for kicks. Mocking old friends need not contact me – but one!  I had visions of Rena and I fighting a new battle for Freedom, a hands across the water – UNITY!  My visions are coming true!

Jon Presco

The last time the United Kingdom moved to expel Russian diplomats en masse, it was during the depths of the Cold War. The defection of a top KGB officer in 1971 revealed the scope of the Soviet Union’s espionage apparatus in the U.K., prompting the British government to banish 91 suspected Soviet intelligence officials, in the country as diplomats, in response. Moscow responded in furious fashion, calling the British espionage claims “a complete fabrication,” and retaliating with its own expulsions. The moment marked a new low in Anglo-Soviet relations, which wouldn’t improve until the end of the Cold War.

Back then, the U.K. knew what to do from long experience with Russian spies. They expelled them. They swapped them. But now, Theresa May is facing a new version of the story—one that, among other things, allegedly involves the lethal targeting of individuals on British soil. Last week, a former Russian spy and his daughter were found catatonic on a park bench, in what British authorities later identified as a poisoning with a nerve agent; they remain hospitalized in critical condition. In a speech a week later, the prime minister blamed Russia in terms that flirted with the language of war, accusing the country of a possibly “unlawful use of force” against the U.K. The Russians have denied involvement. But May’s decision Wednesday to expel 23 Russian “diplomats” identified by British authorities as undeclared intelligence officers may only be the beginning of her government’s response.

Victoria Beach

Rena was the muse to two California Artists. Christine Rosamond would not have become a world famous artist if  I had not rescued Rena Victoria Easton, by the sea – twice! She would go on to marry Admiral Sir Ian Easton who flew a Fairey Fulmer off an aircraft carrier in WW2.

Rena is right out of a Black Mask comic book. I am certain that is writer, Arthur Barnes, and John K. Butler in the camping photo where a unnamed writer brandishes a hand gun. I will be sending this to Parks department in order to get the unnamed beach named after Rena, and the Queen, in honor of War and Sea Romance.

When I first lay eyes on Rena, she was hiding her fear. War creates fear. One had to overcome your fear in order to defeat your enemy. We only found out three years ago we had the same enemy. Rena is ruled by Mars, and I, by Venus. We are a hundred and eighty degrees apart. We were Yin and Yang atop our mountain, searching for Peace and Serenity while war raged in Vietnam. Rena fought me as she fought her fears. We are epic.

Rena may have married an Admiral and lived on the Isle of Wight in order to get over her fear of the sea. Is there a monument to the joint effort to defeat the enemy in the Pacific Theatre? Ian was in charge of making sure America and Britain would be allies, forever!

Last night, world leaders listened to Beethoven’s 9th. Rena is a Aries, the god of war. She is my Damsel in Distress. I rescued her and helped her combat her epic fears. One could stand on Victoria Beach, and imagine a squardron of Spitfires flying out to sea to meet a wave of Nazi bombers in the battle of Britain. Beauty has been captured once again by the forces of evil. Our beautiful women need to be protected fro The Beast!

Christine Rosamond and Rena met. My sister looked deep into her. What she saw was her own fear and abuse, but it was hidden. They are like sisters. That outsiders were given THEIR STORY by an attorney associated with Alcohol Justice, is a true travesty, because it kept THE TRUTH down in a dungeon. Two beautiful artists and their beautiful muse – did not deserve this fate. Rena says in her letter her brother exhibited mental illness, and has disappeared. I have been disappeared because the truth can be frightening. I am just the messenger.

Victory over our fears! Peace…… last!

Easton joined the Royal Navy in 1931 and qualified as a pilot at the start of World War II in which he saw active service on aircraft carriers.[1] On 4 January 1941, flying a Fairey Fulmar of 803 Squadron from HMS Formidable during a raid on Dakar he force landed, with his aircrewman Naval Airman James Burkey and was taken prisoner and held by the Vichy French at a camp near Timbuktu until released in November 1942.[2] He was appointed Assistant Director of the Tactical and Weapons Policy Division at the Admiralty in 1960 and was seconded to the Royal Australian Navy as Captain of HMAS Watson in 1962.[1] He went on to be Naval Assistant to the Naval Member of the Templer Committee on Rationalisation of Air Power in 1965, Director of Naval Tactical and Weapons Policy Division at the Admiralty in 1966 and Captain of the aircraft carrier HMS Triumph in 1968.[1] After that he was made Assistant Chief of Naval Staff (Policy) in 1969, Flag Officer for the Admiralty Interview Board in 1971 and Head of British Defence Staff and Senior Defence Attaché in Washington D. C. in 1973.[1] He last posting was as Commandant of the Royal College of Defence Studies in 1976: he commissioned armourial bearings for the College which were which were presented during a visit by the Queen in November 1977.[3] He retired in 1978.[1]

In 1922 a cabinet committee under Winston Churchill, then Secretary of State for the Colonies, recommended the formation of the College.[1] The college was founded in 1927 as the Imperial Defence College and was located at 9 Buckingham Gate until 1939.[1] Its objective at that time was the defence of the Empire.[1] In 1946, following the end of World War II, the college reopened at Seaford House, Belgrave Square and members of the United States forces started attending courses.[1] It was renamed the Royal College of Defence Studies in 1970 and in 2007 the Queen and Prince Philip visited the college.[1]
The British Defence Staff – US, which was previously known as British Defence Staff (Washington),[1] is the home of the Ministry of Defence (United Kingdom) in the United States of America and its purpose is to serve the interests of Her Majesty’s Government in the USA. The British Defence Staff – US is led by the Defence Attaché and has responsibility for military and civilian MOD personnel located both within the Embassy and in 34 states across the USA.
British Defence Staff – US alongside the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and other Government Departments collectively serve the interests of Her Majesty’s Government in the USA.

Every three days, or so, Rena and I would drive Eisenhower on Highway 1 and spend the day at my favorite beach. She did not have a favorite beach. She was afraid of the ocean. I found this out when we stopped on a beach in Santa Barbara. She put herself well away from the waves, with her back to them, reading a book.

“You’re afraid of the ocean, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

We would climb a ladder to get over the barbed wire that kept the sheep off the road. I always stopped to take a picture with my mind’s eye of Rena walking amongst them, to the cliff, and down the trail to a protected beach. It was like being in Ireland, or Scotland.

Being from Nebraska, I knew Rena was ignorant of the many dangers. I did not take a chance that she was a quick learner. Note the warning signs, with discourse. Someone is trying to save lives.

I would make us dinner here. I went to gather driftwood. Coming back with an armful, my heart jumped out of my chest. I dropped the wood and ran down the beach. Rena was nowhere to be seen. Did a sneaker wave take her? There was only one place she could be – if she were still alive. The chances of her being there, was very low. This was an extremely dangerous place.

There was a large rock that buttressed into the water. My heart was racing as I made my way to the other side. I was in a kelp bed. The tide was still low. And, there she was, sitting on a dry rock surrounded by kelp. The look on her face was painful to behold. I knew what she was doing. She was embarrassed that she was afraid of the sea. Well, there are times to be very afraid of the ocean.

I spoke as calmly and lovingly as I could. I did not want her to panic, slip on the kelp, and get hurt. If the tide was coming in, a ten foot wall of water would be pushed in, and not break like a wave. Rena would find herself in a thick kelp bed – just like that! Her struggle to get to the slippery rocks, would be epic.

“Rena! Stay calm. You can’t be there. It is not safe. Get up slowly. Watch your footing, and come towards me.”

The look on her face guaranteed I will love her till the day I die. She did exactly as I told her. When she was near, I grabbed her, and gave her a long hug.

“I thought I had lost you. I thought the sea had taken you from me.”

This is “Unnamed Beach”. How about Victoria Beach?

One day one of the women said leave
me to solitude and nature today I want
to write a letter home and then she settled
herself on the sand and wrote:

“They call this a barren rock — this
Anacapa Island — but yesterday the tide
was low, leaving the plant life exposed.
I wish that I could name the varieties
of sea weed and moss and their wonder-
ful color, but I drop my pen in despair
of ever giving you any conception of
them. The marine gardens grow upon
submerged rocks, for I discovered a
little sand path between them resembl-
ing the pathway of a garden. Hard
against a rock affording protection from
the direct sweep of the waves, I found
a multi-colored star-fish, his back covered,
at regular intervals, with tiny spheres

of white, as if a mermaid had decorated
it with pearls.

Note how the young girl’s father and brothers put her out on the rock to gather kelp. American women couldn’t vote when this image was painted.

(c) Nuneaton Museum and Art Gallery; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Black Mask Authors



This extremely rare photo of the first west coast Black Mask get-together on January 11, 1936 captures possibly the only meeting of several of these authors.

Pictured in the back row, from left to right, are Raymond J. Moffatt, Raymond Chandler, Herbert Stinson, Dwight Babcock, Eric Taylor and Dashiell Hammett. In the front row, again from left to right, are Arthur Barnes (?), John K. Butler, W. T. Ballard, Horace McCoy and Norbert Davis.

Rosemary told me her father, Royal Rosamond, used to sail to the Channel Islands and camp with his friend, Dashiell Hammett who is seen standing on the right in the photo above.

Aunt Lillian told me she would fall asleep listening to Royal and Erle Stanley Gardner on the typewriter in the living room. Royal was Gardner’s teacher and a member of the Black Mask. I believe I can almost recoginize Black Mask authors under the tree on Santa Cruz Island sitting under a tree with my grandmother, Mary Magdalene Rosamond, who does not look very happy as she embraces a black dog. Who is that woman? Is she a writer? She looks a bit crazed, as does the guy holding a gun. Is Mary hearing some far-out and weird ideas around the campfire?

When I was fifteen Rosemary showed me about six magazines wherein her father’s stories appeared. There were several mysteries. I am going to send the camping photo to some experts. That looks like Raymond Chandler in front of the tent. Is he the guy packing heat?

Hammett wrote the Maltese Falcon that begins with a story about the Knight Templars. Was this a tale passed around the campfire on Santa Cruz Island?

Jon Presco

Copyright 2013

Sir Ian Easton was the head of College of Defence Studies in Washington where I believe he met Rena. It appears Ian Flemming opposed the entrance of Americans into this unit, and his Bond novels were a coded protest. I am sure he knew about Flemming’s feelings, they discussed on a regular basis, especially when the Bond movies came out.  Did Ian marry Rena in hope of employing her in a real spy drama, but, she proved, difficult?

Rena on the beach at night – alone

bee3It is 3:00 A.M. in the morning at the pier in Venice Beach California. It’s been twelve hours since she saw her boyfriend being chased down the boardwalk by a half-dozen muscle men that he called a name. She waited hours for him to come back. She saw the muscle men come back, but she dare not ask what became of him. She had no way of knowing he was in the hospital.

If Rena had gone down and sat on the sand, as it began to grow dark, she went up and sat in one of the bars. What money she had, got spent.

She dare not go back to the apartment she and her lover were staying at because the occupants had taken LSD, and were being rude and extremely suggestive. The two men that took her and her boyfriend in, were considering raping Rena, now that he was not there to protect her.

I am sure as Rena sat in the bar nursing a cola, some older guys put the make on her, tried to pick her up. She turned them down. When the bar closed, she took refuge in the recessed doorway. Christine, Michael, and I did not see her on our way to the end of the pier.

Rena dare not make a collect call to her grandmother in Nebraska for she would become extremely alarmed. What could she do at this late hour. Except for these three people, she had not seen anyone for an hour.

Then, she saw me stop about a hundred yards on the pier. She saw the young couple continue walking. She watched me. She studied me as I looked down on the crashing waves. There we were, alone, on the beach, at night. This beautiful young girl was never more afraid, never more convinced she would die.

* * *

When I was sixteen, Marilyn came and found me and had me go with her. She took me down a hall at our high school where they had a display case. There were works of art and some photographs. There was a young man standing on the sand looking out to sea. He was wearing a peacoat.

“Is that you?” Marilyn asked.
I studied it, then recalled a young man who came up to me while I doing my meditation and asked if he could take a photograph. I loved the ocean. I found sanctuary here with Marilyn, and then with Melinda.
“Yes. That’s me.”

I was famous for my seascapes. I could do one in six hours. I never knew what they would look like. After posting Walt Whitman’s poem, it came back to me.

I unbuttoned my peacoat and invited her to lie on a wing of it on the sand. I clutched her tightly to me as she sobbed. I felt her warm tears roll down my neck. I had just talked her out of walking north up the beach to her friends she said she had in San Fransisco. They were Beat types, like Sky, who was found dead with his beautiful face erased with a blow-torch. Melinda’s father sent two guys after this Venice Beat who was in love with his sixteen year old daughter.

I applied all my love, all my art, all my poetry, all the beauty I owned, in my search for a solution. I had just turned seventeen. I had no job, no money, no home of my own, and no power.

When I saw Christine and Michael coming back from their walk to the end of the pier, I started walked back to my little sister’s apartment. That’s when Rena sprang out of the door towards me.

“Can I walk with you?”

range_tent-gardenista_0 beach23

When Brian shut Rena and I out, I reminded him I had just given up my apartment for his good friend. So, he grabs his tent, and throws it down on the ground, locks the door, and leaves. I set the tent of in the backyard, and that night Rena and I get in it. It is summer. We start taking off our clothes, so alas we can have sexual intercourse. Then I see her bare back with the flow of her auburn hair cascading down it.

“My God, Rena! You have the most beautiful back. Let’s leave our underwear on. I don’t think doing it in a backyard is right. Here, lie down and let me rub your back.”

For an hour we were both in heaven as my hand explored, my nails, tickled, and the palm of my hand lie on her abdomen. I worshipped a Goddess, and I filled her with color energy.  Then, I pulled our blankets halfway outside our tent, and we looked up at the stars. My message was one of cosmic union and love. Rena fell asleep on my arm and shoulder.

I had a poetic voice. Rena had forgotten that. Then she listened to my ‘Birth of Venus’. She became alarmed, because, she came to own that voice. She never considered the source after she left for home.

Jon Presco

When Rena and I first kissed on my friend’s floor, a cosmic event occurred. We both found The Other. Cosmic Sparks, flew. The energy we created altered – much! How much?

Let us return to the place of The Kiss. It happened on Congress Avenue in Oakland California after my friend kidnapped Rena, drove down Pismo Beach with her until she demanded he return for me, he having left me standing there, watching him go crazy. He had to have her, just as Paris had to have Hellen.

So jealous was Brian of me, of us, that he locked us out of his apartment and went to stay at his mothers. Rena and I were now homeless. Brian gave us his tent and sleeping bag so we could sleep in the backyard. I went to Map Quest to look at that house again where I once lived. I had just given up my apartment there for a married couple and newborn child. I had gone to LA and considered moving there. I met Rena at the Venice Pier. I have never seen such a beautiful woman hence. Her animal magnetism was off the chart. She was a creature from another planet. The cosmic image above was posted on Facebook by my friend Persephone Rose who post a beautiful woman on her wall everyday. She thinks Rena is my Twin Soul. I concur, for we are both very isolated at this moment, if not most of our life.

Jon ‘The Nazarite’

About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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