I may have been considered an adult, age wise, the first year that I was in the Navy, but I sure did not act it. I was always looking for adventure, and it really did not matter how I achieved it.
A group of people that I worked with and myself decided that we were going to spend a weekend out on the city of San Diego. We were going to sleep on the beach, eat at the bistros and forget we were in the service for two whole days. Some of our fellow enlistees and officers had been sent over to Saudi Arabia, and emotionally, we could not handle knowing that our number could be called next.
It had been a dream of mine to see the inside of The Hotel Del Coronado, since the moment that I was shocked with the news that Somewhere in Time was NOT filmed at The Grand Hotel, but here. That was the first order of business.
We walked the shore line and crossed over the invisible line that separated the "free beach" from the hotels beaches. We sauntered up to the steps and simply walked in.
I have to say that it was amusing watching some of my friends pretend to be well off financially. All of the stereotypes were into play, and we were not very considerate.
We had a hard time deciding if the Babcock and Story Bar, or the Crown Room was our favorite room. Both were exquisite. We spent most of our time out at the Village Pool, however. No one was there, and we were able to have the run of the place. Employees would walk in and out, but we were undetected as interlopers. It gave us a giddy sense of conquering a forbidden land.
The evening that we stayed there, we ate on the terrace overlooking the beach. It was a glorious view, and we were talking about the entire days events. I have to admit, I never once thought of the night's accommodations. I was having the time of my life.
As dusk hit, we took the steps back down to the beach and took a stroll. One of the members of the illegal elite stopped in his tracks and we all followed suit, eventually. He had turned back to the hotel swearing that he hear a woman's scream. We all laughed at him, telling him he was tired and what he heard was probably just someone laughing, or some such thing.
He was unconvinced, and headed back to the hotel. What else could we do but follow him? We looked at everyone strolling about, hoping to see what caused the scream that he firmly believed that he heard. We saw nothing.
So we went back inside. Back to the pool.
We were lying on the lounge chairs talking over the scream, trying to convince him that it was nothing when a young porter came up to us and explained that he did not mean to over hear, but asked about the scream. Where were we? Was it a woman? Many questions that only my friend could answer.
That was when we were made aware of the legend of Kate Morgan (one that is largely shadowed in MUCH mystery, as her identity may be confused with a Mrs. Lottie A Bernard), and her untimely death on the steps leading down to the beach. It is recorded that Miss Morgan was a woman of means only in that she had used her womanly ways to swindle many a man out of his money. It is assumed that she committed suicide as her husband, who was supposed to meet her at the hotel had run off with another woman on the train ride over.
There are many different versions of this legend roaming about. Many questions that may never be answered accompany the story as well as one that we have added. Was the scream that my friend heard the scream of a woman murdered in her prime for the sins of greed? Or was it the sound of a calling seagull in search of food?