Or: Prof, it is not my fault there is no wind, but he thinks it is. They tell us that there is a hole under the sea that we must see. We go. Luckily, Uri departs: and he will later say that the Wall helped his experiments. Bah! The dead ship. The moray eel.
February 17th
It is eight and I wake up, I go to the window to take a glance at the weather... the sun filters through the shutters, and the palms are bending in the strong north wind. No need to guess that the sea has changed. I wake the Prof and I tell him. He is downcast, we cannot go down to the Wall this morning to do any mapping if the conditions are bad he says … I tell him that if the sea has changed it is not my fault... but he argues that it is, because we should have insisted on doing this work when the sea was calm. We go on with this boring exchange for a while, and then we decide to go and take a look at the sea. We head towards the boat, but before reaching the harbour we take a path through the palms and across the island to see what the sea is like on the other side. We are on the opposite shore now, and the wind blows strong, the sea is very rough; whitish foam breaks against the island. The palms are bending in agony and I hear the pain escaping from them. You see Prof, the sea is rough. Yes, but it is very beautiful here, he says, take a photo for me. Are you ready, I take four shots of the landscape; they will result in beautiful photographs even though the beauty and harmony will be interrupted by the silhouette of the Prof. What a pity. We see a poster that says we are trespassing on land owned by Hemingway. However, it is for sale, if anyone wants to fix it up. This place is really beautiful, but we have to leave. I am hungry and want to have breakfast on the boat. I climb onboard, greet those who are there and make an assault on the galley. I manage to find a packet of biscuits that I begin to crunch them while making coffee.
The Prof prefers to make himself some bacon and eggs; he's watching his weight you know! The others start to arrive and we listen to the days orders. The sea is too rough so we cannot go to the Wall. The ‘Nembo Kid’ says that he could take us to a place where the sea is leeward, and therefore it will be calm. So the bosses decide to go there. It seems that there is a ship which ran aground, but we will also have to keep our eyes open for sharks. He also adds that there is a hole in the sea! We go, as if we had never seen a beached ship before. We cast off and the "Passagemaker" starts to move with most of the troupe on board... well, with about three quarters of us. The crew of the "Koala" is staying in the harbour together with Biagini, Tirelli and Fogar. This morning Uri Geller is leaving for New York, so Biagini, the perfect host, together with the others accompany him to the hydroplane. I think Uri Geller’s job is over. The Prof is extremely pleased that he’s gone. The Triangle remains as it is; he finds it incomprehensible, even without Uri who will inevitably claim that his work became easier because of the Wall. Bah!
We are hardly out of the harbour, facing a four mile stretch of open sea when, my God, I suffer with terrible sea sickness, and it really is bad. Will the boat be able to withstand this battering, and if so, for how long?
On the shore of an island, to our left, I see a motorboat climb at least five metres over the tip of the waves. There is no time to ponder; we have something serious to think about. We are sailing in the open sea, with some scary voids between the waves; we all have to hang on to whatever solid fixtures we can in order to stop ourselves sliding around. The sea is emerald green, a sea of eternal damnation, of death; it doesn't leave you in any doubt. A sea so agitated, giving no favours of any sort and we poor humans are overwhelmed by such power. This floating closet, with half a metre of keel, is creaking so scarily but somehow resisting; but for how long? My stomach is upside-down and cursing continuously, damn! And we still have another four miles of this to face. Then to leeward there is an island in the distance, on the horizon I can just about make out palm trees which seem to be jumping up and down in the sea. Here the sea seems to be relenting. I feel better now. At the same time I see something standing erect in the open sea. It looks like a castle. As we approach it takes the form of a ship. A dead ship. Slowly slowly, the ‘Kuk’ drops anchor astern of it. They prepare the camera equipment and begin to get ready; this filming opportunity seems too good to be true. But in reality it is just a reinforced concrete hull, standing upright, like the statue of Liberty. It was probably used by the American air force for bombing exercises. These attacks have created window like holes in the cement, and from a distance it takes on the appearance of an ancient castle. Of course, this piece of wreckage doesn't have anything exceptional to offer, but in the eyes of an American like the ‘Nembo Kid’, it represents a kind of Colosseum which tourists must visit. And it is bait for us dumb, poor foreigners, which we swallow of course. Maiorca, Camilli, Patrizia and the ‘Nembo Kid’ put on their gear and plunge into the water to do some scuba diving. I tell the Prof that the wreckage is a magnificent hideaway for many dangerous sea creatures and therefore it is better to keep a good distance away from it. For neither love nor money Prof, please don’t go into the water. After this advice I too put on my diving suit and go down. I don't have to worry because Camilli has his sawn off shotgun, and then of course there is the ‘Nembo Kid’. In the shade of the hull, the light is playing beautiful games. The ship is lying on its bottom, with its keel jammed firmly among the rocks which in turn have been continuously tearing her apart with every movement of the sea. However, with the sea as lively as it is today and knocking you against the rust encrusted iron rods, it is not a very healthy idea to go inside the hull. It would be better just to give her a quick glance from the outside. Maiorca picks up three twenty millimetre shells and hands them to me. I recognize them as coming from the war and they are of no interest to us. Then, I see a moray eel of very large dimensions, its head erect, but sleeping calmly just around the corner, I get a terrible cold feeling in my stomach. I find it difficult to keep my nerve, but bravely move slowly backwards, without making a noise. Every metre that I gain upward is studded with a thousand bad thoughts which become sweeter when I finally reach the surface. A brief moment, it is true, but it seemed so long. How sweaty I am! That’s enough for me today, but then I am not an underwater fisherman, especially when where can be similar surprises around every corner. If you had the chance to look at it from a distance, you might have time to think about what to do, but if you suddenly come face to face with the beast, you have no time to think. No, even if I had a high powered rifle with me I think I would have done the same; it is too dangerous a creature to tangle with. If it is a bad shot, and if you are diving without tanks, it is ninety percent certain that you will end up like a mouse in the mouth of the cat. So, it is better to leave it alone. Meanwhile, there are no sharks in sight and consequently the ‘Nembo Kid’ has not been very useful.
I return to the boat and tell the Prof what happened. I think about the ‘Nembo Kid’ again, they have recruited him for fifty dollars a day to protect us from the sharks and also to film some scenes where he is fighting and stabbing one of them. But we are unlucky, a shark has not been seen and therefore we cannot enjoy the spectacle. The others have now climbed back on board. I ask Enzo if he has seen anything interesting, but he hasn't either. What do we do now? Shall we go to see the hole in the sea? No, the sea conditions make it impossible to go there. So we decide to return to Bimini. It is four o'clock on Thursday 17th.
I reflect on what we have been doing; for days we have been going from one island to another in the middle of this famous Triangle. When the seas have been calm I have seen motorboats quietly heading towards the horizon. I stopped a group of fishermen setting off in their boats to catch sailfish; I ask if they know about the triangle and, if so, what they think about it. I ask if they, who come from the American Continent, are particularly worried about sailing in these waters when they are reputedly very treacherous, and also what they think about the Triangle of Death stories. Are the tales, for some reason, created on purpose, or is there some truth in that we read? They say that for now there aren’t any such stories, and really, nobody knows what to say. But I, and all of us here, have seen nothing strange at all, just the flashing of the bottle sensor, which, after a few drinks could add a mysterious charm to our story. The new encounter with the wind makes it a grueling return and distracts me from any reflection on the matter. We start being tossed around again.... oh to be human! The sea is no calmer than before. We are being slammed from cabin wall to cabin wall, in-between the mountainous waves. Finally we enter the harbour and find a berth. The wharfs are all occupied. Evidently it was not a sea to be taken lightly. Captain ‘Kuk’! This man is stark raving mad! When we left Italy, an excursion had been planned to visit the Andros Islands. Now it seems that there will be no possibility of going there. We have wasted too much time already and we haven't been able, through no fault of our own, to stick to the work schedule. By going to Andros we would have had the chance to take a quick look at the famous circular holes, created by the winds, and reportedly up to twenty metres wide and which sink like wells, hundreds of metres deep, under the sea bed and into the earth itself. They seem to be a kind of siphon, some with openings hardly big enough to allow a diver with his air tanks to enter; others however, are so enormous that they can swallow a whole ship.
Without even allowing for the presence of sharks which have decided to take residence around the holes, probably due to the presence of more oxygen in the water, we shuddered at the idea at going down into one of these whirlpools; but if we had done then Maiorca would have had to have been lowered into one of these by rope.
So, taking everything into consideration, we decide not to go (and perhaps it is a good time to go home, we are all tired out). We go to dinner, me, the Prof, Maiorca and family; but this time we choose a small place with the superb insignia of the "Red Lion", and where, we are told, we would eat very well. Good night.
February 17th
It is eight and I wake up, I go to the window to take a glance at the weather... the sun filters through the shutters, and the palms are bending in the strong north wind. No need to guess that the sea has changed. I wake the Prof and I tell him. He is downcast, we cannot go down to the Wall this morning to do any mapping if the conditions are bad he says … I tell him that if the sea has changed it is not my fault... but he argues that it is, because we should have insisted on doing this work when the sea was calm. We go on with this boring exchange for a while, and then we decide to go and take a look at the sea. We head towards the boat, but before reaching the harbour we take a path through the palms and across the island to see what the sea is like on the other side. We are on the opposite shore now, and the wind blows strong, the sea is very rough; whitish foam breaks against the island. The palms are bending in agony and I hear the pain escaping from them. You see Prof, the sea is rough. Yes, but it is very beautiful here, he says, take a photo for me. Are you ready, I take four shots of the landscape; they will result in beautiful photographs even though the beauty and harmony will be interrupted by the silhouette of the Prof. What a pity. We see a poster that says we are trespassing on land owned by Hemingway. However, it is for sale, if anyone wants to fix it up. This place is really beautiful, but we have to leave. I am hungry and want to have breakfast on the boat. I climb onboard, greet those who are there and make an assault on the galley. I manage to find a packet of biscuits that I begin to crunch them while making coffee.
The Prof prefers to make himself some bacon and eggs; he's watching his weight you know! The others start to arrive and we listen to the days orders. The sea is too rough so we cannot go to the Wall. The ‘Nembo Kid’ says that he could take us to a place where the sea is leeward, and therefore it will be calm. So the bosses decide to go there. It seems that there is a ship which ran aground, but we will also have to keep our eyes open for sharks. He also adds that there is a hole in the sea! We go, as if we had never seen a beached ship before. We cast off and the "Passagemaker" starts to move with most of the troupe on board... well, with about three quarters of us. The crew of the "Koala" is staying in the harbour together with Biagini, Tirelli and Fogar. This morning Uri Geller is leaving for New York, so Biagini, the perfect host, together with the others accompany him to the hydroplane. I think Uri Geller’s job is over. The Prof is extremely pleased that he’s gone. The Triangle remains as it is; he finds it incomprehensible, even without Uri who will inevitably claim that his work became easier because of the Wall. Bah!
We are hardly out of the harbour, facing a four mile stretch of open sea when, my God, I suffer with terrible sea sickness, and it really is bad. Will the boat be able to withstand this battering, and if so, for how long?
On the shore of an island, to our left, I see a motorboat climb at least five metres over the tip of the waves. There is no time to ponder; we have something serious to think about. We are sailing in the open sea, with some scary voids between the waves; we all have to hang on to whatever solid fixtures we can in order to stop ourselves sliding around. The sea is emerald green, a sea of eternal damnation, of death; it doesn't leave you in any doubt. A sea so agitated, giving no favours of any sort and we poor humans are overwhelmed by such power. This floating closet, with half a metre of keel, is creaking so scarily but somehow resisting; but for how long? My stomach is upside-down and cursing continuously, damn! And we still have another four miles of this to face. Then to leeward there is an island in the distance, on the horizon I can just about make out palm trees which seem to be jumping up and down in the sea. Here the sea seems to be relenting. I feel better now. At the same time I see something standing erect in the open sea. It looks like a castle. As we approach it takes the form of a ship. A dead ship. Slowly slowly, the ‘Kuk’ drops anchor astern of it. They prepare the camera equipment and begin to get ready; this filming opportunity seems too good to be true. But in reality it is just a reinforced concrete hull, standing upright, like the statue of Liberty. It was probably used by the American air force for bombing exercises. These attacks have created window like holes in the cement, and from a distance it takes on the appearance of an ancient castle. Of course, this piece of wreckage doesn't have anything exceptional to offer, but in the eyes of an American like the ‘Nembo Kid’, it represents a kind of Colosseum which tourists must visit. And it is bait for us dumb, poor foreigners, which we swallow of course. Maiorca, Camilli, Patrizia and the ‘Nembo Kid’ put on their gear and plunge into the water to do some scuba diving. I tell the Prof that the wreckage is a magnificent hideaway for many dangerous sea creatures and therefore it is better to keep a good distance away from it. For neither love nor money Prof, please don’t go into the water. After this advice I too put on my diving suit and go down. I don't have to worry because Camilli has his sawn off shotgun, and then of course there is the ‘Nembo Kid’. In the shade of the hull, the light is playing beautiful games. The ship is lying on its bottom, with its keel jammed firmly among the rocks which in turn have been continuously tearing her apart with every movement of the sea. However, with the sea as lively as it is today and knocking you against the rust encrusted iron rods, it is not a very healthy idea to go inside the hull. It would be better just to give her a quick glance from the outside. Maiorca picks up three twenty millimetre shells and hands them to me. I recognize them as coming from the war and they are of no interest to us. Then, I see a moray eel of very large dimensions, its head erect, but sleeping calmly just around the corner, I get a terrible cold feeling in my stomach. I find it difficult to keep my nerve, but bravely move slowly backwards, without making a noise. Every metre that I gain upward is studded with a thousand bad thoughts which become sweeter when I finally reach the surface. A brief moment, it is true, but it seemed so long. How sweaty I am! That’s enough for me today, but then I am not an underwater fisherman, especially when where can be similar surprises around every corner. If you had the chance to look at it from a distance, you might have time to think about what to do, but if you suddenly come face to face with the beast, you have no time to think. No, even if I had a high powered rifle with me I think I would have done the same; it is too dangerous a creature to tangle with. If it is a bad shot, and if you are diving without tanks, it is ninety percent certain that you will end up like a mouse in the mouth of the cat. So, it is better to leave it alone. Meanwhile, there are no sharks in sight and consequently the ‘Nembo Kid’ has not been very useful.
I return to the boat and tell the Prof what happened. I think about the ‘Nembo Kid’ again, they have recruited him for fifty dollars a day to protect us from the sharks and also to film some scenes where he is fighting and stabbing one of them. But we are unlucky, a shark has not been seen and therefore we cannot enjoy the spectacle. The others have now climbed back on board. I ask Enzo if he has seen anything interesting, but he hasn't either. What do we do now? Shall we go to see the hole in the sea? No, the sea conditions make it impossible to go there. So we decide to return to Bimini. It is four o'clock on Thursday 17th.
I reflect on what we have been doing; for days we have been going from one island to another in the middle of this famous Triangle. When the seas have been calm I have seen motorboats quietly heading towards the horizon. I stopped a group of fishermen setting off in their boats to catch sailfish; I ask if they know about the triangle and, if so, what they think about it. I ask if they, who come from the American Continent, are particularly worried about sailing in these waters when they are reputedly very treacherous, and also what they think about the Triangle of Death stories. Are the tales, for some reason, created on purpose, or is there some truth in that we read? They say that for now there aren’t any such stories, and really, nobody knows what to say. But I, and all of us here, have seen nothing strange at all, just the flashing of the bottle sensor, which, after a few drinks could add a mysterious charm to our story. The new encounter with the wind makes it a grueling return and distracts me from any reflection on the matter. We start being tossed around again.... oh to be human! The sea is no calmer than before. We are being slammed from cabin wall to cabin wall, in-between the mountainous waves. Finally we enter the harbour and find a berth. The wharfs are all occupied. Evidently it was not a sea to be taken lightly. Captain ‘Kuk’! This man is stark raving mad! When we left Italy, an excursion had been planned to visit the Andros Islands. Now it seems that there will be no possibility of going there. We have wasted too much time already and we haven't been able, through no fault of our own, to stick to the work schedule. By going to Andros we would have had the chance to take a quick look at the famous circular holes, created by the winds, and reportedly up to twenty metres wide and which sink like wells, hundreds of metres deep, under the sea bed and into the earth itself. They seem to be a kind of siphon, some with openings hardly big enough to allow a diver with his air tanks to enter; others however, are so enormous that they can swallow a whole ship.
Without even allowing for the presence of sharks which have decided to take residence around the holes, probably due to the presence of more oxygen in the water, we shuddered at the idea at going down into one of these whirlpools; but if we had done then Maiorca would have had to have been lowered into one of these by rope.
So, taking everything into consideration, we decide not to go (and perhaps it is a good time to go home, we are all tired out). We go to dinner, me, the Prof, Maiorca and family; but this time we choose a small place with the superb insignia of the "Red Lion", and where, we are told, we would eat very well. Good night.
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