One quiet evening in San Diego, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I settled on the back covered patio of the house where I rent a room. Looking southwest, a strange light caught my eye. At first, I mistook it for the moon, but its position and subtle glow didn’t match. It was moving slowly toward me, growing larger, its shape unmistakable—a broad, shallow plate on the bottom, topped with an inverted bowl.
The object drifted steadily for at least an hour, eerily silent against the darkening sky. It moved slowly to the north, revealing two small, steady red lights—one perched on top, the other at the southern tail. The glow wasn’t harsh but seemed lit from within, like a softly glowing tube. I estimated it must have been a few hundred feet long and possibly 75 to 100 feet high, an immense presence hovering quietly over the city.
My years working at a naval air station taught me to recognize all manner of aircraft and aerial phenomena, but nothing matched this. No sound, no blinking lights, no signs of propulsion. Just that haunting, silent glide that held me and nearby witnesses spellbound. Neighbors gathered outside, murmuring in awe, “Look at that thing.”
As the night deepened, I shared what I saw with others inside the house, and together we watched the enigmatic craft from the front yard. The local news remained silent, and the morning paper only briefly mentioned fiery objects spotted the night before—a vague nod that did little justice to the reality I had witnessed.
This was no ordinary sighting. Only one large, fat cigar-shaped object filled the sky that night, silently etching its mystery into the San Diego air, a radiant enigma that still lingers in memory. For those who dare gaze upward, such moments challenge the boundaries between known and unknown, inviting us to wonder what truly moves beyond the stars.