On the night of 18-19 April 1961, my aircrew flew a B-47 from New Hampshire
to Spain. That afternoon, we rode the bus downtown to look around Madrid.
The next morning we went on alert, which meant we lived in the alert barracks
for a week, ready to get to our aircraft immediately if and when the klaxon
sounded. (The klaxon was a very loud horn that could be heard everywhere
on the base.)
We got off alert on 27 April for a week of "rest and recuperation"
(R&R). Because there were plenty of empty rooms in the alert barracks
and we wanted to explore Madrid, we left our stuff where it was and rode
the bus to town and back each day.
On Sunday, 30 April, we stayed in the barracks to rest. That afternoon,
I decided to see if I could leave my body and go visit my mother in Arkansas.
I sat in an armchair, told myself to return and wake up when the klaxon
was tested at 6 p.m., and systematically turned off all the switches by
which I normally operate my body. (How I did that is not the subject of
this report.)
I left my body and traveled west, toward the sun. I thought I should be
moving much faster, but I flew like an airplane across Spain and Portugal
and out over the Atlantic Ocean. Then I somehow accelerated, to the Fayetteville,
Arkansas, airport. My mother lived a few miles south of the airport. I headed
south along Highway 71, but sailed right past her house. I turned around
and tried again, but flew past her house again. Several times. For some
reason, I couldn't land there. After awhile I gave up and thought about
going back to Spain, but it wouldn't be easy, because I would not have the
sun to follow. I wandered around northwest Arkansas for awhile and then
drifted into a dream.
Then -- pop! -- I was back in my body. The klaxon was sounding. I felt somewhat
spacy and disoriented. Enroute to the bathroom, some of the men looked at
me sideways, and one said, "Welcome back." When I started to wash
my hands and face, something swung out away from my chest, over the sink,
and got in the way. It was a piece of cardboard about six inches wide, hanging
on a string around my neck, with a hand-lettered sign on it that read: DO
NOT BURY FOR 30 DAYS.
I went back to our room, held up the sign, and asked, "What's this?"
My aircraft commander, Dick James, said, "You shouldn't scare your
friends like that. You had us worried. We couldn't wake you up. And we couldn't
find a heart-beat. You were still breathing -- about once a minute -- and
I thought it might not be a good idea to move you, so we just left you sitting
there. But you really should set an alarm clock, or something, before you
do that."
"I did. I told myself to wake up when they tested the klaxon."
"Oh ... I guess you forgot ... they test it every day except Sunday.
This is Monday."
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It is easy to lose track of time during out-of-body travel -- and it can
be dangerous.
How long would I have been out, if I had not set something like an alarm
clock?
What would have happened if my friends had panicked and called an ambulance?
If the medics couldn't awaken me, they would take my body to the base hospital,
and if the doctors couldn't awaken me, they would radio for a Med-evac flight
to a larger hospital -- where there would be no aircraft on alert and thus
no klaxon.
In fact, my body could have been flown to the hospital at Frankfurt, Germany
-- or San Antonio, Texas -- in far less time than the 26 hours I was out
of it.
How many comatose people are actually out-of-body traveling?
Until recently, a body that looked that dead probably would have been buried
alive. That is what almost happened to Jarius's daughter (Mark 5:35-43).
Everyone said she was dead. Jesus said, "She is not dead, but sleeping."
They laughed at him. He held her hand, said, "Maiden, arise" --
and she did. I think she was out-of-body traveling, and he called her back
to her body.