Paul Amirault - The Man Who Sent the SOS: A Memoir of Reincarnation and the Titanic

The Man Who Sent

the SOS

Paul Amirault

Bear Notch Road Press

WEST HOLLYWOOD, CA

Copyright 2017 by Paul Amirault
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2017
Bear Notch Road Press
For queries: paulamirault2017@gmail.com
Cover Art by Shealyn Thomson
Jack Phillips photo courtesy of the National Archives, UK
Book Layout 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com
ISBN 978-0-9975704-0-3
eISBN 978-0-9975704-1-0

For Carol J. Amirault
1939-2014
Words will never be enough.

The curious sense of the whole thing being a dream was very prominent: that all were looking on at the scene from a near-by vantage point in a position of perfect safety, and that those who walked the decks or tied one anothers lifebelts on were actors in a scene of which we were but spectators: that the dream would end soon and we should wake up to find the scene had vanished. Many people have had a similar experience in times of danger, but it was very noticeable on the Titanics deck. I remember observing it particularly while tying on a lifebelt for a man on the deck. It is fortunate that it should be so: to be able to survey such a scene dispassionately is a wonderful aid in the destruction of the fears that go with it.

Lawrence Beesley

s urvivor and author , The Loss of the S.S. Titanic: Its Story and Its Lessons , 1912

CONTENTS

Paul, Norton, Massachusetts, August 1975

Jack, North Atlantic, April 15, 1912

Paul, Sherman Oaks, California, Spring 1996

Paul, Encino and West Hollywood, CA, 1996

Jack, Farncombe, England, April 1902

Paul, Encino and West Hollywood, CA, 1996

Jack, North Atlantic, September 1906

Paul, West Hollywood & Long Beach, CA, 1996-1998

Jack, Clifden, Ireland, December 1909

Paul, London & Godalming, England, March 1998

Jack, Liverpool and New York, Sept-Nov 1911

Paul, London and Greenland, March 1988

Jack, Liverpool and Farncombe, Nov-Dec 1911

Paul, West Hollywood, California, 1998-2002

Jack, Southampton, England and Belfast, Ireland,

January-April 1912

Paul, Orlando, Florida & West Hollywood, Jan 2003

Jack, North Atlantic, April 10-13, 1912

Paul, West Hollywood, California, Jan-Feb 2004

Jack, North Atlantic, April 13-14, 1912

Paul, West Hollywood & New York, June-Sept 2004

Jack, North Atlantic, April 14, 1912

Paul, West Hollywood, California, Oct-Nov 2004

Jack, North Atlantic, April 15, 1912

Paul, West Hollywood, California, Nov-Dec 2004

Jack, North Atlantic, April 15, 1912

Paul, West Hollywood, California, 2004-2011

Paul, West Hollywood, California, 2011-2016

Paul, West Hollywood, California, November 2016

The Man Who Sent the SOS

A Note from the Author

I never thought Id end up writing a spiritual book. When I was in my early twenties, after falling away from the church of my youth, I prided myself on my practicality. I extolled the virtues of reason, intellect, and common sense to anyone whod listenand especially to those up for indulging in that old taboo, the religion argument .

Since I always came to these scuffles well armedand could quote and dissect Bible verses like the best of themit pleased me when my opponents retreated into a corner. It also pleased me when, as a last-ditch effort, they invoked the faith card, as if that somehow trumpedand endedthe debate.

And my childhood branch of Christianity wasnt the only religion that found its way into my crosshairs. I was always fascinated by belief systems in general, and therefore, spent a great deal of time researching many different faiths. I was trying to get a handle on what adherents believedin an effort to possibly understand the origin of those beliefs.

So you can imagine my surprise when the guy who thought he knew everything was ultimately confronted by something he couldnt easily explain. It forced me to reexamine my viewsand to embark on a 12-year quest to get to the bottom of the mystery. This book is the result.

Youll be reading all about it shortly, but first, please afford me a few moments to discuss some housekeeping details about my approach.

My goal was to chronicle everything as accurately as possible. The Paul chapters are memoirpresented in novelistic format. As a result, Ive recreated conversations, meetings, and hypnosis sessions, based on memories, notes and journal entries, as well as the recollections of family members and friends. In certain instancesin order to protect the privacy of the people involvedIve changed names, locations or other identifying details; however, these alterations are clearly marked.

The Jack chapters are based on memories, tooalbeit of a somewhat different sort. You should know that, while I was writing, I didnt intentionally research things upfront. The images, words and details flowed to me, both during past-life regressions, and also as I banged away on my laptop, and it was only later that I took to the web to see if I could confirm the things I was seeing. The fact that this book exists at all is proof ofto my mind at leastthe uncanny accuracy of the information.

But Ill let you be the judge of that.

And finally, let me say thank you, in advance, for allowing me to share my spiritual journey with you.

SKINNY DIPPING IN THE DARK

Paul, Norton, Massachusetts, August 1975

I was expecting it, and as soon as the sun dipped behind the trees, I got it.

Why dont you take your shirt off now? one of the Thompson kids asked. Its night.

Busted. I was 12 years old, the fat kid, who always wore a T-shirt while swimming in our backyard pool. My excuse was I had sensitive skin and didnt want a sunburn, but obviously, this wasnt going to fly now.

Pretending not to hear, I quickly dove under, skimming porpoise-like along the bottom. What I needed was more time for the twilight to deepen into full-on night. It wasnt my rolls of fat I was ashamed ofit was my (what would later be called) man boobswhich had recently appeared, like alien sprouts, on my chest.

When I resurfaced, the question was repeated, and I had no choice but to respond with a vague oh, yeah and remove the shirt, which I tossed in a heap at the waters edge. Carefully keeping my chest submerged, I watched and waited as the darkness deepened. And just when I began to relax, my sister suddenly had the bright idea of turning on the lights.

The pool had two; one was a glowing orb submerged at the deep end, the other a floodlight attached to the rear of our house. Instinctively, I moved to the no-mans land halfway between the two lights to await the onslaught. Soon enough, it was bright as day in the pool area again. I was trapped.

Noticing my fingers were beginning to prune, I assumed wed be getting out shortly. I already had an exit strategy: scurry after the last one and lunge for my towel. But unfortunately, no one seemed eager for the pool party to end. Especially now that it was just us kids.

The cookout had wrapped up hours earlier, and the adultsmy parents and Mr. and Mrs. Thompsonhad retreated to the house. Through the window beneath the floodlights, I could see them sitting around the kitchen table, laughing and playing cards. Just like our family, the Thompsons had five children, and since they lined up in ages with my siblings and me almost exactly, we all became great childhood friends.

We werent exactly angelsat least us boys. We got into the kind of trouble kids growing up in the country often did: throwing crab apples or snowballs at moving cars; telling horrific (and mostly made-up) ghost stories to scare our younger sibs (with bonus points for making them cry); or passing around a beer lifted from our parents cooler while dutifully pretending to like the taste.