Bermuda Triangle Expedition

Save Bob Beebe's original Passagemaker

2009-01-08T03:22:00.000-08:00

We believe that this is the boat used by the expedition when they went to the Bermuda Triangle.

http://ca.geocities.com/passagemaker@rogers.com/pm_intro.html

The mission of the above website is to purchase and preserve Bob Beebe's original Passagemaker and to promote voyaging under power.

Marante, Munari, Compagni, Bernardi and Brgidi

2008-12-27T13:14:00.001-08:00

MARANTE, MUNARI, COMPAGNIN, BERNARDI, and BRIGIDI: Colleagues and friends of Menconi, whom the author doesn’t speak about in the book, but who are there and would also be able to write some interesting tales. Especially Marante, who was involved in de-mining the Suez Canal; he managed to make himself understood by the Egyptians by speaking in Genoese dialect! When Menconi was writing this book they called him "Giacomo Leopardi, Curzio Malaparte, Honoré de Balzac, Victor Hugo"... partly to show that they all are well educated and partly because they were envious; but actually, while Menconi was having a good time in the Triangle with the Prof, they were de-mining and working hard on behalf of BOCAMI around the world. They thought that, by calling Menconi with those famous names, he, being a Tuscan, would get angry.

Mario Chigiotti

2008-12-27T13:13:00.001-08:00

MARIO CHIGIOTTI – A geometer. He is the “fat boss”. He was in Marconi’s Engineers Corps during the Second World War, at first with the 7th Engineers, and then with the 2nd Regiment of Engineers. He was awarded lots of medals for work "in the field" and always managed to get safely out of danger, thanks usually to his unbelievable luck. He mined eighteen bridges and then, after September 8th, he had to de-mine them. Later he had been the leader of a special team that had to de-mine a route north. He doesn't sleep a quietly unless he has at least one mine under his bed. He was in Bologna with his men in April '45; when war was over, he tried to become a geometer, but the "call of the wild" was too strong, and he worked in mine disposal again. He was hired by BOCAMI, and now he is the manager, many of “his men” followed him to the company.

Dimitri Robikoff

2008-12-27T13:12:00.001-08:00

DIMITRI ROBIKOFF - Russian, he arrives with his yacht. He invented a “pig” that is worse than those you can see at the fair of the sea in Genoa. His wife speaks Italian but she is always angry.
Also the son of the Robikoffs climbs on the pig. But it is a funny scene to look at: Italians might teach him how to use it.

Captain Kuk

2008-12-27T13:10:00.002-08:00

KUK - They hired him and his boat. He is the Captain, but the author wonders if he should have chosen another job because with his patience he could have been a monk. Maybe he didn’t follow this vocation because he has a beautiful, dark haired Cuban wife. Besides monks don't have cars as huge as trains. He lives in Miami, but he drives from Miami to Bimini and from Bimini to Miami; if you want to hire him go to the harbour.

Malinverni

2008-12-27T13:10:00.001-08:00

MALINVERNI – He too is part of the group. He manages to cook whatever he finds on the boat. He has plenty of imagination, but at times he loses some provisions (especially when those who go away leave behind just tooth pikes and paper napkins).

Uri Gheller

2008-12-27T13:09:00.002-08:00

URI GELLER - They say he was a diver in the Israeli army. But he walks on the boat in a pair of flippers! He is able to bend teaspoons with parapsychology and asks the author for information which he doesn't want to give, even if under his parapsychological powers. The Prof tells him nothing either.

Gianni Mangiali

2008-12-27T13:09:00.001-08:00

GIANNI MANGIALI - He is the underwater photographer of the expedition.

Prof. Mossatich

2008-12-27T13:08:00.002-08:00

MOSSATICH - Professor of physics and the official photographer for the expedition. He does a lot of things but never takes a photo. He can swim very well and the author never feared for his life during an adventurous crossing.

Doctor Camilli

2008-12-27T13:08:00.001-08:00

CAMILLI – As a Doctor he should take care of others, but he too suffers from seasickness. When we were still in Milan, a Fortune Teller told him that he would have an accident. He was really afraid of the Triangle, but behaved very bravely.

Engeneer Biagini, Lawyer Berti, Mr. Tirelli

2008-12-27T13:07:00.001-08:00

ENGENEER BIAGINI, LAWYER BERTI, Mr. TIRELLI - All three are very kind; together with Fogar they organized the MIZAR expedition. Tirelli is also a very good host.

Enzo Maiorca and his family

2008-12-27T13:06:00.001-08:00

MAIORCA AND HIS FAMILY - They truly are the only ones about which the author has nothing bad to say. Maiorca is our best diver. The family is great. His daughters can dance very well, they are smart and pretty. The author unconditionally admires them all, but especially Maiorca, who he defines as "a great sportsman". From a Tuscan man you cannot expect anything more or anything better.

Paolo Sironi e Ambrogio Fogar

2008-12-27T13:05:00.000-08:00

PAOLO SIRONI, AMBROGIO FOGAR – They are too well known, the readers know who they are; they often speak about their adventures because after all, it is their job.

The Prof.

2008-12-27T13:04:00.002-08:00

THE PROF - His scientific contributions are innumerable. He is a man who has been all over the world, and he is often called to meetings in America and elsewhere. He is full of humour, full of knowledge and always very thirsty.

Giorgio Brigidi

2008-12-27T13:04:00.001-08:00

GIORGIO BRIGIDI – He takes the author and the Prof to the airport by a jeep. He is not the official Bocami driver, but the nephew of the owner; he had it explained to him that he had to make himself useful, by driving or going to the Chamber of Commerce to get a document.

People and names in order of appearance in the manuscript.

2008-12-24T06:29:00.000-08:00

BOCAMI – To tell you the truth, it is a company whose name comes from the abbreviation of the Italian word which means “The clearing of mine fields” (BOnifica CAmpi MInati in Italian). The author has been working for the Bocami for 25 years. Their head office is in Genoa. It is a company which specialises in clearing mine fields and disposing of bombs both on land and under water, so it needs to employ divers. Bocami has done a lot of important work, not only in Italy, but also abroad; for example, in the Suez Canal, in the Libyan Desert (this is why Menconi didn’t want to talk to Uri Geller!) and many other places around the world. If you have mines, howitzers, unexploded aeroplane bombs, bombs of any kind buried in your garden, phone Bocami. They will clear them for you. It was founded immediately after the war, and over many years it has saved people from many embarrassing situations... and always without losing a man. They are very proud of this fact. They also have an office in Milan because it seems that it is becoming an explosive City!
GIORGIO BRIGIDI – He takes the author and the Prof to the airport by a jeep. He is not the official Bocami driver, but the nephew of the owner; he had it explained to him that he had to make himself useful, by driving or going to the Chamber of Commerce to get a document.
THE PROF - His scientific contributions are innumerable. He is a man who has been all over the world, and he is often called to meetings in America and elsewhere. He is full of humour, full of knowledge and always very thirsty.
PAOLO SIRONI, AMBROGIO FOGAR – They are too well known, the readers know who they are; they often speak about their adventures because after all, it is their job.
MAIORCA AND HIS FAMILY - They truly are the only ones about which the author has nothing bad to say. Maiorca is our best diver. The family is great. His daughters can dance very well, they are smart and pretty. The author unconditionally admires them all, but especially Maiorca, who he defines as "a great sportsman". From a Tuscan man you cannot expect anything more or anything better.
ENGENEER BIAGINI, LAWYER BERTI, Mr. TIRELLI - All three are very kind; together with Fogar they organized the MIZAR expedition. Tirelli is also a very good host.
SEAQUARIUM – The Sea aquarium is in Miami. The author doesn't like it very much, and thinks the dolphins are stupid. Besides, the sun is so strong that it can drive you crazy, particularly if you are not able to find a shop where you can buy a hat.
CAMILLI – As a Doctor he should take care of others, but he too suffers from seasickness. When we were still in Milan, a Fortune Teller told him that he would have an accident. He was really afraid of the Triangle, but behaved very bravely.
MOSSATICH - Professor of physics and the official photographer for the expedition. He does a lot of things but never takes a photo. He can swim very well and the author never feared for his life during an adventurous crossing.
GIANNI MANGIALI - He is the underwater photographer of the expedition.
URI GELLER - They say he was a diver in the Israeli army. But he walks on the boat in a pair of flippers! He is able to bend teaspoons with parapsychology and asks the author for information which he doesn't want to give, even if under his parapsychological powers. The Prof tells him nothing either.
MALINVERNI – He too is part of the group. He manages to cook whatever he finds on the boat. He has plenty of imagination, but at times he loses some provisions (especially when those who go away leave behind just tooth pikes and paper napkins).
KUK - They hired him and his boat. He is the Captain, but the author wonders if he should have chosen another job because with his patience he could have been a monk. Maybe he didn’t follow this vocation because he has a beautiful, dark haired Cuban wife. Besides monks don't have cars as huge as trains. He lives in Miami, but he drives from Miami to Bimini and from Bimini to Miami; if you want to hire him go to the harbour.
BOTTLE SENSOR – A very fragile and complicated instrument used for signalling the presence of strange materials and anomalies. It is full of electric cables, all encased in rubber, and it is made of an amorphous fibre which doesn’t reflect anything. But Maiorca sees it shine and gets angry when they tell him that it is not possible. The mysteries of the Wall!
TOBRUK - In that bay the author, on behalf of Bocami, did some bomb disposal work in which Geller is interested. But the author believes that he really wants to know more, and therefore he doesn’t tell him anything!
HEMINGWAY – Yes, the writer; he had been living for a long time in Bimini, the island on which he wrote “Islands in the Stream”. He used to live in a pub and drank Bacardi all day long. Well known and loved on the island. They want to sell a field that belonged to him. Anybody who wants it is welcome.
NEMBO KID - He is the shark hunter, a strong American man 6 feet tall, employed to keep these nice little creatures away from the divers. He looks strange. He will take the group to see the “wreck of the statue of Liberty”, thinking it is an antique. It obviously is not his fault; he doesn't even know what Palazzo Pitti is!
THE TROUPE - They are the filmmakers who follow the MIZAR expedition; they are everywhere and are a real nuisance, but we have to tolerate them. The only hope is that they include certain scenes in which the "great men" make fools of themselves; it would make a very funny documentary.
WHALE – You can find a real whale in this book.
DIMITRI ROBIKOFF - Russian, he arrives with his yacht. He invented a “pig” that is worse than those you can see at the fair of the sea in Genoa. His wife speaks Italian but she is always angry.
Also the son of the Robikoffs climbs on the pig. But it is a funny scene to look at: Italians might teach him how to use it.
THE BLONDE - Everybody photographed her in her bikini when they were in Bimini. Nobody knows who she is, but sometimes the name is not important. They won’t forget her.
DIRECTOR – We don’t known if he is a relative of the lawyer; it is he however who directs the troupe.
FRIEND OF THE KUK – He is the Captain in Bimini to whom Kuk leaves the boat on the way home. He seems quiet, but He takes a pretty girl on board and engages the autopilot. He tows friends in difficulty. He passes more time with the girl than with the passengers. He is not wrong.
ZENESE – A Genoese man who married an American woman. He is friendly but won’t stop talking... besides he wants to know something about old Genoa, so the author tells him that everything had been demolished and rebuilt. Even the road where the Zenese was born doesn’t exist anymore...
SAMANTHA - Says "Italianos muchos sentimental" and she reads palms.
MARIO CHIGIOTTI – A geometer. He is the “fat boss”. He was in Marconi’s Engineers Corps during the Second World War, at first with the 7th Engineers, and then with the 2nd Regiment of Engineers. He was awarded lots of medals for work "in the field" and always managed to get safely out of danger, thanks usually to his unbelievable luck. He mined eighteen bridges and then, after September 8th, he had to de-mine them. Later he had been the leader of a special team that had to de-mine a route north. He doesn't sleep a quietly unless he has at least one mine under his bed. He was in Bologna with his men in April '45; when war was over, he tried to become a geometer, but the "call of the wild" was too strong, and he worked in mine disposal again. He was hired by BOCAMI, and now he is the manager, many of “his men” followed him to the company.
The BOCAMI Company he manages can boast that they have never having lost a man in this very dangerous work. This is due to Chigiotti, who remembers very well his men who died during the war. He took a lot of risks, but he is still the first to go into the water when there are big problems. For this reason his men call him "the fatty", but with affection. He deserves it.
MARANTE, MUNARI, COMPAGNIN, BERNARDI, and BRIGIDI: Colleagues and friends of Menconi, whom the author doesn’t speak about in the book, but who are there and would also be able to write some interesting tales. Especially Marante, who was involved in de-mining the Suez Canal; he managed to make himself understood by the Egyptians by speaking in Genoese dialect! When Menconi was writing this book they called him "Giacomo Leopardi, Curzio Malaparte, Honoré de Balzac, Victor Hugo"... partly to show that they all are well educated and partly because they were envious; but actually, while Menconi was having a good time in the Triangle with the Prof, they were de-mining and working hard on behalf of BOCAMI around the world. They thought that, by calling Menconi with those famous names, he, being a Tuscan, would get angry.
LUIGI FERRARO - He is the one who reluctantly wrote the preface; actually, he may have preferred to write a book himself. He has a lot of things to say. He is the one who has the longest curriculum; so, because everybody knows who he is, there is no point in saying it here.
MRS CAMILLI AND TIRELLI - They wait for their husbands to come back to Malpensa airport. Mrs Camilli is worried because she remembers what the fortune teller had said. Well, he made it! Mrs Tirelli takes the author and the Prof to the Bocami office by car. She is very kind.
GIANCARLO MENCONI - The author. A Tuscan man. He’s been working for Bocami for 25 years. He is a bomb disposal expert; he makes safe those bombs which were dropped by the planes. He is tall, thin, with blue eyes. He is from Tuscany but lives in Pegli, in Liguria. He has a marvellous family. He is not a very talkative man, so heaven knows how he managed to say so many things in a book. He can also paint, and is good at it. But he doesn't boast.
He is a Tuscan man. Like Curzio Malaparte. Damned (Tuscans). He doesn't like to spend his money because he appreciates how it is earned.
If he was born again, he wants to come back as a shell, in Bimini. Goodbye.

Chapter 14

2008-12-24T06:28:00.001-08:00

Or: boats disappear in the triangle... but of what importance is just one boat? In the “Corriere della Sera” we read during the flight tells us the usual unfortunate things about Italy. We Arrive in Italy. We are searched. Has war broken out? No, it hasn’t. It’s just the fault of 4 terrorists who New York believes to be on the plane. Goodbye, Maiorca family! Malpensa, raining and empty. Has it really ended?

I would like to know, (but will they ever tell me?), what those iron bits, discovered above the wall, were. They say they were "archaeological finds". I’m not so sure, in my opinion what they recovered, and what I saw, was simply part of an old, rusted, common connecting rod, which probably fell from a boat a few years ago. It now has a different form from the original, because of the deposits of calcareous substances accumulated during the years... We’ll see. However, it is still a mystery. Like others before us, we have neither added nor removed anything from the legend.
At least as far as I understand.
There must be something true in all this, because ships and aeroplanes still disappear in that area.
The American Coastguard says that they are simply normal accidents, which happen because of the tremendous traffic in the area. Those Americans, how sly they are! They tell us so; and, as we cannot contradict them, we have to secretly go there. The truth is that they are afraid we might find something, so they make fun of us. The Americans! The real ones. I mean the gringos. No, I don’t believe it. Those people left their footprint on the moon; is it conceivable that they have been unable to unveil a closer mystery?
It is like them telling us that they discovered the prickly pears in Lampedusa. The fact is that the secrets they hid, after making numerous studies and checks, about so many planes which disappeared, must be so awful and unbelievable that they keep it to themselves. We mustn’t forget that the American people see themselves as the Almighty’s scapegoat for all mankind’s evils. However, sooner or later, as happened with the "Watergate", a journalist will manage to unveil the secret and tell it to the rest of the world.
Then we will finally know the truth. I just hope we haven’t disturbed the eternal sleep of the Gods of Atlantis by going for a walk along the wall of Bimini. I hope no accident will happen to me, not like as happened to those unlucky chaps who went to see death inside the pyramids of the Pharaohs. Anyway, we took nothing away of that we saw because there was nothing to be taken, except those big rocks which formed the wall, and they actually were much too heavy. Meanwhile, the Americans are happy having fun on their beautiful yachts in and around the waters of the Triangle.... even though sometimes a boat disappears; but they don’t seem to care about it. The ocean is so big, what is a single boat among the thousands of boats? The main point is to survive.
It is suppertime. Alitalia gives us a few small things to eat. I manage to eat them with greater effort than before.
Later I read a few pages in the “Corriere della Sera”; they say that in Italy there are the usual problems of prices and the underworld; never mind. Then they switch off the lights as the film of the day starts; I stop reading the newspaper and look with interest at the film starring Charles Bronson. I sleep. I am all stiff, now. The stewardess wakes me up and gives to me a smile and a coffee that I appreciate.
It is 7 am on 24th February.

February 24th
I look out of the window. We are now flying over France. The ocean is behind us. I see many passengers going to the toilet to freshen up. The Americans also have to brush their teeth, since they always have the toothbrush in the small pocket of their horrible shirts.
Sironi is angry with the American sitting in front of him because, without asking, he has lowered the back of his chair to sleep more comfortably; and in so doing has forced my friend to doze even more uncomfortably than ever, and he now has stiff legs. We are about to land, the pilot says. It is eight thirty and we get off, sleepy, upset, and shaken at Rome Airport.
There is a surprise waiting for us! We have to walk through a line of police, and there are some “carabinieri” in military uniforms with guns; my goodness, what’s happening?
It is a normal reaction; we look incredulously at each other.
We are forced, one by one, to be searched by a gentleman, not in uniform, while a lady in uniform does the same with the women. They opened our bags and touched us everywhere, a scandalous show; what a beautiful welcome home the Italians gave us! We stay quiet as we realise that it is a typical situation in Italy these days.
But what makes you furious is that they look everywhere without telling you why. To talk to a police officer is really difficult; in our country it has been like this since the time of Franceschiello (a king of Naples in the 17th century), but now it’s too much. They touch you and you conform, silently, as if it were a normal thing. No reaction, not a word.
You just obey. Perhaps by submitting to it all you are able to avoid being beaten, you just give a pale, crooked smile. Dear Totò, we really are corporals! (A famous Italian film, featuring the equally famous actor, Toto, called “Siamo uomini o caporali?” Where the few “uomini” were the brave people, while the majority were “caporali”, i.e. the cowards). I put a hand in my pocket to get a handkerchief, and the lady in uniform immediately stops my hand. But my dear, you have just searched me! It doesn’t matter sir, keep your hands out of your pockets and be quiet. Again. We go down the stairs to collect our suitcases and in the luggage collection area we find the same excitement. My God, has war broken out? At last, while we wait for our baggage, a police officer kindly tells us that all this is happening because there had been a warning from New York that four terrorists were travelling on our plane. Have you understood? This is a normal event nowadays in the society in which we live. A Spanish lady with her children is so happy at having escaped the danger that she swears never to come to Italy again. As you please madam, but tell this to the Alitalia gentlemen who allow their customers to be treated in this way without any explanation. But Sir, didn’t the police check everybody’s luggage in New York? I ask myself the same question madam, they certainly checked me. After many hours of being dragged from one side to another, here and there, waiting for them to decide to do something; but what are they going to do? Finally, after being subjected to X-rays, our suitcases appear on the conveyor belt. It’s eleven o’clock. Now we just have to take them to customs control, yes, another check, before they are put onto the Milan flight.
Thanks to Maiorca’s presence, we are able to find a customs officer who, good-heartedly and intelligently, just gives a casual glance to our luggage. Done. We put the suitcases on the belt again and go upstairs to the internal flight connections.
We say goodbye to Maiorca and his family who are going to Catania.
I thanked Enzo for having been so tolerant with me. Meeting and getting to know such a great athlete, a brave, sincere and loyal man, has been a great pleasure.
The aeroplane for Milan departs at twelve o’clock.
Not even enough time to fasten our seat belts and we are in Malpensa.
It is 1 pm.
A light, incessant, and lazy drizzle beats against the windows of the plane... we can hardly see the foggy country around. Couldn’t Milan have welcomed us in a different way?
I don't know why, but I feel in my heart a great sadness.
We pick up the luggage and go down the stairs of the aeroplane one by one, trying not to get soaked... In the Airport building there is nobody. Did you hope somebody from the TV would have been there? Don’t make me laugh. Only the Camilli and Tirelli ladies were there, apprehensively waiting for their husbands. I can see two “carabinieri”, an officer of the “Guardia di Finanza” in uniform and an immense void... empty everywhere, in the café, in the waiting rooms, in the corridors. Not even a cat! No taxis, no buses. Only rain, fog, cold, numbness, hunger, sadness, tiredness. Camilli is happy to hug his wife again... he has been able to return to Milan unharmed... in fact, he was the member of the expedition to whom the sorceress had foretold a sad return, on a stretcher! What can we say? We say goodbye to each other and agree to keep in touch.
The expedition to the Bermudas really ends here. Good-bye, hugs. Mrs Tirelli kindly takes the Prof and me to the Bocami head office. It is 2 p.m. on 24th February. The great void that I feel inside is soothed only by the thought that tonight I can hug my marvellous family again.
This is the end of this chronicle.
I have scribbled these lines and I declare without fear of being denied by anyone, that what I have written in this sort of diary, or chronicle or memories of the voyage to the Bahamas Islands made by the Mizar expedition during the month of February 1977 is completely true.
You can see that this is not a fantasy; it is a true record of what happened to me, together with my observations and impressions about the expedition and the people and friends I was with. I apologize if sometimes I had a little fun when writing about some of the human weaknesses of these great and famous men. They clearly taught me something, and I had a lot to learn; therefore I hope I haven’t upset anyone. I can assure everybody, male and female, black and white, great and small, that this was a wonderful journey for me. I have had the opportunity to see and learn many things; things that I could only have seen in a film had I not had the good fortune to have been invited on this expedition. Thank you Caterina. Now I am able to see things more clearly, and I think that one of these days I will go to see the boss of the Bocami, the man with a huge belly, and I will tell him to stop smiling when he orders me to go and defuse bombs under the water.
One summer day, having just had permission to go on holiday, I was travelling along the motorway, minding my own business, when I see the big light blue car of my boss, Mr.Mario. He asks me to stop. He comes up to me and, displaying his usual beautiful gentlemanly manners and with an innocent look on his face, he asks me to do something for him. He is very good at this and he does so with a nice smile. If he were a priest, he could have had a bright ecclesiastical career; he might also have been a good politician. He tells me to follow him to the river Ticino; it would only delay my holiday by about half an hour he insists. Even though I know half an hour wouldn’t be enough, I follow him. He says: “A bomb has been discovered in the water in front of Sofia Loren’s Villa and the police are already there”. I follow him; we leave the motorway but since he always drives as fast as his car will go, we are given a speeding ticket near Bereguardo. Well done!
As soon as we arrive, we put the diving suits on and jump into the water.
The river was flowing so fast that we had to tie ourselves upstream with ropes before we could work in the cold water and defuse the device.
The work was not easy because it was difficult to see anything; we finished at three o'clock, without having had anything to eat. But then, a fisherman approaches, gesticulating a lot, and saying that there was another bomb further downstream; I was quietly cursing. Unfortunately it was clearly visible and had to be removed; damn! At nine o'clock in the evening we were still in the water, probably looking like pale, soft pieces of smelly cod; we eventually removed four bombs. A record I say. But if that time I did everything my boss asked me, this time it’s different! If he wants me to continue to work for him I want an increase in salary; after all he must realise that I am the only one of the whole company who has been to the Triangle of the death! That’s all.
Finally, I would like to apologise to everyone, especially to the Prof because I have certainly made some observations that diverge from theirs and his; I put that down to my Tuscan nature drives my hand and also my tongue, just for the pleasure of being polemic.
Curzio was right: we all are damned. GOODBYE.

Chapter 13

2008-12-24T06:27:00.001-08:00

Or: departure. Here is the aeroplane for New York. Disquisition on politeness. The Americans always have a toothbrush and a glass in their hand. In my opinion they are also computerized!! The Prof and the little monkey. A suitcase has disappeared. We talk about the expedition: was it worthwhile? What have we found out? They will tell us in Milan.

February 23rd
We get up not too early, at about ten o'clock; the Prof turns the TV on, I pack the suitcase, he changes channels, I have a bath, he smokes and thinks, I switch the TV off, he has a bath, and I look out of the window. We are ready and we go down; I walk down the staircases, he takes the lift. I sit down talking to the others, he arrives. At 2 pm we have the plane for New York. Just time to have a café at the hotel, then, with our car and a taxi we head to the airport. The journey is quite long. We are in the fast and the traffic in this beautiful city is chaotic. Flying over bridges and then down into the subways, following the bends and the long straight roads with their many lanes; there are also enormous green, flashing road signs which tell take the exit. We arrive at the airport at 1 pm. and meet Majorca with his family and Gianni Mangiali.
We are all waiting for the same aeroplane. We exchange friendly, greetings because we haven’t seen each other since the day before yesterday, then Tirelli and Sironi organise our tickets. Now the Plane is taking off. It is 2 pm. Goodbye sweet Miami.
The journey by plane from Miami to New York is not one to be recalled. A banal three hour flight spent mostly in meditation and staring, with a certain curiosity, at the American super-people.
After all that I have heard and read about this stars and stripes world, and now what I have seen, confirmed in my mind that we poor Italians are as far away from them as we are from the moon. The institutions and the life that these people lead seem so very different to ours; it is like comparing us with the Africans.
However, when you look and observe these Americans individually, you realize that they are human beings just like us; and they have many more faults because they have evolved quicker than we have. A poor man can make mistakes due to his ignorance; let’s say he puts his fingers inside his nostrils when he is in company, maybe in a crowded cinema, or while he is eating in a restaurant... or he puts his feet on the table because he does not know any better, he may not have received a proper education. Never-the-less he might be a very likeable person. But if the same mistakes are made by somebody who did receive an education, and a very good one, (as I assume all the “dummies” I have seen in America did), then behaving in this way may be normal in America, but to me it is disgusting.
I also noticed that the Americans are less talkative than we are (what an abnormality you Italians have, you speak for hours and are constantly moving your hands as you speak), they dress in an awful way and they always seem to have a toothbrush in their shirt pockets. The Americans must all have false teeth; I can’t imagine one without them! Maybe when they were kids, playing in those beautiful clean gardens which all look similar to the other, they may have fallen over and broken their teeth; poor little kids. When they are grown up you must pay careful attention because they always seem to have a glass in their hands. How can assembly line workers work and drink at the same time, I don’t understand. Maybe they can because they have three hands, and therefore are able to maintain their productivity at the same time! How lucky they are to have been born here!
And the women! I imagine that, if you take them to bed and remove their clothes, you will find somewhere on their body a push-button system where it is written; if you press button number 1 they start crying, if you press button number 2 they start laughing, if you press button number 3 they jump... and so on. A kind of internal super computer which calculates the time used and lists the number of different sexual requests.
However it is not true that black people don't travel together with white people; in the row of seats close to mine, two girls sit side by side; a quiet, pretty black girl, and an enormous blonde girl. The blonde, who looked like a whipped cream cake with a cherry on top, is smoking furiously and not saying a word to her compatriot. But who arrived in America first, the blacks or the whites?
Now the plane is flying above an enormous river; I look out of the window... it is really wonderful to be able to enjoy this beautiful scenery from above.
The Prof is catching up on his sleep, and Camilli is offering us all some sparkling wine.
Occasionally I hear, but a little far away from me, the laughter of the Maiorca sisters; they are both twenty years old and have their whole lives in front of them.
We continue like this for a while, get up, take a seat, look out of the window; because the aeroplane is full it is difficult to move and my legs are very stiff, I am very uncomfortable. Nearby an enormous blonde is about to suffocate me with all the smoke that is coming out of her rosy little mouth. Luckily the corridor divides us. Thanks! At last we get the order to fasten our seat belts. We slowly lose height; we are flying over an enormous geometric network made up of detached houses, all with small gardens in front of them. These are the suburbs of New York, which is still far away; it is the “satellite” city, a destination which is dreamed about by the whole of humanity who works in the eye of the cyclone during the day. Square cottages with square gardens, white cottages with green gardens and mailboxes standing like sentinels, all very clean; but be careful, a leaf has fallen on the green grassy carpet, what a pity! Cream, pop corn, Nabisco biscuits and Coke; enormous refrigerators, full with a thousand litres of everything… if a Biafra child could ever dream of such a thing , either through hunger or in the hope of a miracle, he would wake up in the morning and find that his eyes were bigger than his head. He would be absolutely amazed by it all.
There we are. Kennedy Airport. Exit. It’s 5 pm. An American lady asks if one of us could help her and carry a small monkey in a cage up to the exit. The Prof says he will.
Oh, what a nice Italian gentleman!
Now let’s go and see if our suitcases have arrived. NO! It is not necessary, Tirelli tells me, we will pick them up when we arrive in Milan. Well, maybe!! We take a bus to the Alitalia terminal and as soon as we arrive, we rush to the check-in counters where, my dear gentlemen, we find those kind, smiling and elegantly dressed employees in their nice blue uniforms representing our national airline; and they tell us that our flight has been cancelled. (This cannot be true, can it?).
And do you know why? No, please, tell us! It is because the mechanics, who service the Jumbos, are on strike at Malpensa Airport. Did you get that? And now what do we do? Good God, take it easy, it is simple; you take the Rome flight of course! We agree, we can’t say no. Maiorca, who had lingered by the American National Airline terminal to see if he could get the luggage coming from Miami, approaches and tells me that he saw a suitcase, probably mine or the Prof’s, because it had the Bocami logo printed on it, going up and down the conveyor belt... I should have known! I angrily go out, followed by the Prof, and look for a taxi to return there as quickly as possible, but there aren’t any. Not having the patience to wait, I look towards the distant building and start walking.
The Prof follows me. Thanks Prof, you are a friend. A delightful walk, through flowerbeds, over traffic islands, along pavements, pedestrian crossings, traffic lights, which are always red of course, between cars driven too fast and too near, etc. After a quarter of an hour we arrive; breathless. Through the windows of the building I see my suitcase quietly gliding over the belt, and I also see the police officers near the exit, checking documents and attaching stickers. Just like in all the airports in the world.
Now I need to have my suitcase back, but here lies the problem; being in a hurry, I left my passport and ticket in the other bag at the Alitalia terminal, therefore I should go back to get them. Then I wonder, what on earth should I tell these people as I’m not able to make myself understood? In short, even if I’m right, I can easily look as if I’m wrong; so I decide, together with the Prof, to go in, pick up the suitcase and then, with a polite thank you, leave. This is what I do.
Everything went as I had hoped. But now I wonder again, why did they just take this suitcase off and not the other?
What is it, an American mystery? No it isn’t! The Americans are always right, no mystery at all. The other suitcase had Milan written on it, but this one has Genova. And where is Genoa, in California? Maybe! But Milan is definitely in Italy.
We manage to get a taxi to take us back. We lounge about in the Alitalia waiting room, waiting for the Rome plane at 7.30 pm.
We are divided into smaller groups and time passes slowly. Somebody goes to the café, somebody looks at the window displays, somebody else buys something; and then, when the time of departure approaches, we all get together again to go through the barrier and to be checked by the electronic spy.
With Anglo-Saxon punctuality (we have to learn, no doubt about that) the Jumbo starts to taxi towards the runway.
By some strange coincidence I have the same seat as when we left, 24 C, and I hope it is a sign of good luck. In my row there are Tirelli and Sironi on the left, Mossatich and Camilli on the right of the corridor. The Prof has chosen a seat for smokers and is a long way from us. The Maiorca family too are far away. The 747 is almost full. There are many Italians from Sicily going back home, and a nice company of Americans going to Rome to see the Pope. I deduce from the Crucifix they wear around their necks that they are American Catholics.
Besides, each of them has a card attached to their suit, on which it is written where they come from and where they are going. Be careful not to get lost! The usual dreadful noise of the engines and the enormous cigar starts to rush down the runway at three hundred kilometres per hour, it increases speed and goes up, up into the sky; and then it takes a horizontal position at nine thousand metres and seems to relax. We unfasten our safety belts. Rest.
Dear Tirelli, I start saying, we are travelling towards Italy, from where we came with so much enthusiasm and desire to discover something, just a few days ago; in your opinion, what have we discovered? Are you satisfied with the expedition?
Was our trip to Bimini useful for sport, for science, or for something else? What did you think when you were organising everything in Milan with Fogar and the others? Many of the expedition answer this question of mine by saying that I am a pessimist, that I already know what I want to say. The Prof too tells me so, even though he knows better than me that there is little to say; the charts produced by the instrument from Miami to Bimini, and in Bimini, will be taken home by him (Bocami will gladly give them to him), he can keep them all his life on his bedside table, to evoke the spirits, he can study them as long as he wants, he can lose sleep over them, he can go over everything again and again with a fine tooth comb, but it won't change at all the judgment he gave right at the beginning, at the very moment the pen started to move!
And that is, nothing, zero, nothing at all. It is a design that could have been drawn anywhere in the world, with a puzzling, and absolutely stupid likeness. Tirelli, of course, will answer my question when he knows something for sure; and that will be when the analyses of the things found down there are completed at the Milan University.

Chapter 12

2008-12-24T06:26:00.000-08:00

Or: Miami. The Prof has slept well and he is hungry. Two rooms at the Parkview hotel. The suitcases finally go! A Genoese in Miami! He knows everything; damn. However, he is a good man. But he does go on talking... talking…talking. Sheep!

February 22nd
The wash from another boat, travelling rather quickly, slaps the side of our boat and wakes me up. My cabin is illuminated by the splendid sunlight which enters through the porthole. I look around and I see my two friends asleep. Mossatich is sleeping in the bunk below mine, and on the other side there is Sironi, or at least I assume so, because all I can see are a pile of rags. I get up quietly, put on my shoes and climb up on deck. Good morning Prof.
The Prof is already up. Good morning, have you slept well? Of course! Very well. Me too, at long last! He is messing around with one of his suitcases, throwing stuff out and putting it back in a disorderly manor, but in a manor which is more congenial to him. Hey, Menconi, he says, let’s go and have a coffee somewhere. Beautiful idea I say, but we ought to wait for the others; we are due to meet Tirelli and Camilli here so I think its better to wait. But the Prof wants to go, so he goes.
I don't know if he will find a bar nearby because here in Miami the distances are so enormous that you can’t go anywhere on foot. I go down to have a wash and then to put on some normal clothes before going back on deck. At nine o’clock the large heads of Paolo and Mossatich appear as they climb up through the hatch.
Tirelli and Camilli arrive in a big Hertz car, then the Prof comes back, and we all meet in the pilothouse to tell each other about our latest adventures. Tirelli says that he has booked two rooms at the Parkview Hotel for the four of us and we should feel free to go and take a look. We decide that in the afternoon we will pack all the instruments and sports gear, and then we will give everything to a transport company for them to send back to Italy.
Very good I say, but we must make sure that the transport company is safe and reliable because the instruments Bocami gave me are very delicate. At the same time I breathe a sigh of relief because the idea of carrying the seven suitcases plus two of mine though Customs in Milan has been worrying me for some time. Gentlemen, shall we now go and get something to eat?
We all get into the huge car and head towards the hotel to drop off our luggage. Good morning and so on... room 214 and 216 please.
In the hall Camilli has met a Genoese gentleman who is a guest at the same hotel. He is now living in America, and has been married to a local woman for a long time; he happily offers to help us, as this also represents a wonderful opportunity for him to speak with some fellow countrymen. We go out to find a place where we can eat and the Genoese man, having nothing better to do, comes with us; he helps us to cross the roads and talks and talks and talks, we cannot stop him. He knows everything about everybody, he knows Miami like the back of his hand, we follow him and listen to him; he is showing off, and, as he is a sailor, he tells us all about his adventures with numerous attractive women. But where are we going to eat? We keep walking. Quick, turn left, go straight on, now turn right, wait, there’s a traffic light… beautiful window displays! How long do we have to go on like this? asks the Prof. Now it is going to take even longer because the Prof has seen a pair of trousers in a shop and he wants to buy them. The Prof goes into the shop so Tirelli and I must wait for him (I don’t want to lose Tirelli because he is the man who has the money and therefore the keys to the world, as my grandfather used to say!). Meanwhile the rest of the group walk on, they turn a corner and from that moment on, we lose contact. After a while, the Prof comes sadly out of the shop, the trousers don’t fit him, and so we keep going. But where are we going? We have lost sight of our friends. We look around, glance at the shops, and finally have breakfast in the first pub we happen to see. Typical American service. Plenty to eat. The firm is paying, and after all this is breakfast and lunch together. I have been living and eating with these people for a few days now and I am still unable to understand if breakfast is breakfast or whether breakfast includes lunch. When I am at home, I just have a coffee.
Now that we have eaten we can think better, so we decide to go back to the hotel to wait for our friends. After a few minutes they arrive so we get into a car and return to “Passagemaker”. Meanwhile we say goodbye for now to “Zenese" (Genoese in dialect), we will meet again tonight. We are now busy getting the equipment packed ready for the return journey. Everyone lends a hand, and by 2:30 p.m. we have everything packed that has to be sent back to Italy. The carrier arrives on time; we load the boxes, and give him the Ata Carnet. My episode with “instruments” is now closed at last. I just hope that everything arrives back in good condition. We return on board to have a coke, our last free drink on the boat. At that moment Kuk arrives in a car as big as a train, apparently he lives here in Miami. He is looking very elegant and he is here with his beautiful brown haired Cuban wife. We say a heartily goodbye to him; a man who displayed so much skill and patience in many trying situations. (I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had quietly sailed away one night, considering all the mess we had created on his boat and because of all those silly things we had done).
Now it’s 6 pm. Sironi says that it is time to go to the hotel and have a shower, so, as he is the driver, we docilely follow him. "U Zenese" (the Genoese) has attached himself to our group and joins us for dinner; he says that he knows a place where we can eat the best paella in Miami. We are unanimous and follow him contentedly. He makes every effort to ensure that we are all happy, and as we are walking in two groups of six, he goes to and fro speaking to everybody and being very polite. We talk and, as I live in Pegli (near Genoa), I sense that he needs to tell somebody his story. He remembers the streets of Genoa with nostalgia, and asks me so many questions; I tell him that unfortunately, the road where he was born doesn’t exist anymore, that the quarter of Piccapietra has been destroyed and rebuilt, and that “Via Madre di Dio” has changed and is now an exclusive area with many skyscrapers etc.
We arrive at a typical Spanish restaurant in the Latin district of the city; and there are hundreds of places like this in Miami. The walls are covered with posters of the Plaza de Toros which you can find in many Spanish towns, and with plenty of pennants, bullfighting ornaments, swords and other stuff made specifically for sticking into the poor beast. Some walls are painted the colour of blood. The waiters are helpful, and of course our friend speaks Spanish so he is at ease as he orders paella for everybody. While we wait they bring us some white wine, Castilla, which we happily drink; especially as we haven’t drunk any wine since our departure from Italy. The "Paella Valenciana" arrives, and we eat a lot. This American-Genoese gentleman is certainly a good chap, but he also has his faults, for instance, speaking too much during dinner. I believe that in order to enjoy a good dish, you should do as the monks do; eat slowly and silently. Pretending to listen to him, smiling at his wisecracks and his silly jokes, stresses me so much that I am forced to use my brain; but my brain wants to rest while my stomach does the work! “U Zena” is upsetting me so much that I want to get up and leave this delicious meal. But of course, I stay and listen.
He starts to tell us all about the history of American, beginning with the redskins, and in such incredible, colourful detail, that none of us are able to say a single word. We have to listen. Just listen. Camilli winks at me and I angrily look back at him; after all, it is his fault that we are here.
At ten o’clock we leave and go to another place nearby where we can drink till late. It is in a beautiful basement, hidden from the indiscreet eyes of careless passer-bys; the lady behind the counter nods to the Spanish of the “Zenese” and she takes us to another room hidden further away from the first, where there is an enormous counter, and behind it two beautiful girls who wait for silly customers such as us. Since it is our last evening in Miami, we’ll probably spend a lot of money without worrying about it too much. Bacardi for everybody.
There are no other customers in this place. The atmosphere gets warmer as minutes pass by; now this man pays, and we happily gulp down this blond liqueur. Then the Prof pays, then me, then Camilli; the girls accept drinks from us, they learn that we are Italian... we keep drinking... Sironi pays, Tirelli pays, somebody strums an organ... the notes fly, we drink again... the girls are pretty, they wear beautiful low cut dresses, one is Colombian and the other is Cuban. We immediately make friends, they are able to understand us... but there is the counter which separates us. They are giggling when they say that Italians are good lovers; they have jet black hair, with dark, horizontal shining eyes which seem to say “I will knock you down immediately” if you try anything.
They say that it’s nice to be in an American town where they can listen to something different, the “gringos” speak to us about macaroni, spaghetti, mandolins... but you Italians are different; “Italianos mucios amador”, etc. They want to know if we are sailors; no dear Samantha, this damned little devil says her name is, we are not sailors, we are members of an expedition just back from the Bahamas, from the Triangle of death; have you ever heard anyone speak about it? “Triangolo de la muerte?” What is this Triangle? I don’t pursue the subject... poor girl, she doesn't know anything. The Triangle is a stones throw from her and she has never heard about it. Did you hear that, Prof ! She doesn't know anything about it. It is better not to know I say, and I don’t know anything either! Do you even care about it, Samantha? All you have to do is pour the blonde Bacardi to all your customers and smile. The Triangle, don’t make me laugh! Ask him, the Prof, he is a great scientist, yet he doesn't know anything either!
There are no triangles, believe me, no squares and no stripes on this earth. As that guy said... there is just a beautiful island, in fact many beautiful islands all surrounded by marvellous seas, with lots of holidaying Americans who fish day and night, despite the Triangle. That’s all.
Samantha, how pretty you are! She smiles; she takes my right hand, and tells me my future... she says that I will live long and that I will win a huge sum of money. So, as soon as I arrive in Italy, I must learn how to fill in a Football coupon. Its midnight on 22nd. Other customers arrive. The magic circle breaks. Now the girls have to serve them too... so we go. Goodbye sweet Samantha, goodbye! A kiss on the cheek for both girls from each of us; then, continuous goodbyes until we reach the door. What a nice feelings; my God! The Prof, in the euphoria of the moment, goes up to the counter and buys an enormous box of Havana cigars.
The dollars are disappearing rapidly.
Back at the hotel the Prof enters the room and turns the television on; and then, dead tired, goes to bed. After a moment, he starts to snore. I switch the TV off and fall into bed.
I count sheep a million times. I turn again and again, listening to his snoring; it is turning into a nightmare.
Please Prof, turn; he turns, he snores, he is destroying me. Who said that if you count sheep, you fall asleep? The devil grabs hold of me, and with a pillow I have this impelling desire to kill. Calm down, I tell myself. I calm down and keep counting; one, two, three, white, white, black, black and white, come on, jump my beautiful little sheep, come on, one hundred... two hundred... all the sheep of the world... Samantha... the pillow is soaked now.
God damn it! I want to tell all the shepherds in the world, and their bloody sheep, to keep away from me!

Chapter 11

2008-12-24T06:25:00.000-08:00

Or: hotels and suitcases: to do and undo them is life. Frivolous purchases by the Prof. Goodbye Bimini. Rough sea. A boat in danger. Problems with the cars. Will we stay here? On the horizon the lights of "civilization" appear. Miamarina.

February 21st
It is nine o’clock. It’s been quite a long time since streaks of undisturbed light have entered the room, cheering it up with many colours. We lazily get up and pack the suitcases. If we don’t leave tonight we will have to sleep on the boat, because the room was paid for up to today.
So this morning we have to leave. Let’s pack the suitcases, again! How many times have I packed them? Hundreds of times. It is always difficult. To unpack them is much easier. How many times have I unpacked them? Hundreds of times. In between packing and unpacking the suitcases, a parenthesis of time is hidden, narrating instants in a life, moments of sadness because of a departure, moments of happiness because of a return, and then we go, that’s how it always is. I should have become used to it, having led this kind of life for years, but… every time I leave... Hurry up, Menconi!
Let’s go, Prof, I’m ready. A waiter loads our luggage onto a cart. The trip from the hotel to the boat is quite long. So we are lucky that someone has given us a hand.
At the boat we find our friends. We drop the luggage and choose a bunk. The whole stern is reserved for the Prof (wonderful).
Then, having sat down together for a huge breakfast, which puts us all in good spirits, we decide to go around and take some photos, even though we are leaving the boat unattended.
At a small market Sironi and the Prof buy a straw hat, I buy a necklace of coconut seeds and other expensive trifles.
Unfortunately prices are high everywhere, especially here. So I just watch. But I do buy some postcards. Sironi, tell me, what is the sea like today? I ask. “The Captain told me it is becoming less rough”, says Sironi; he also says that perhaps this evening we will be able to leave, “He called early this morning, to check on the boat and so we spoke a little, he seems quite smart”. After walking up and down the only road in the village, we return to our boat, while Sironi takes our passports to the Customs to get approval for our departure.
On board the time passes quietly.
I stretch out on the bow deck and sunbath.
I know I have to go back to Milan to breath in wagon loads of fog, therefore I can’t resist making the most of the weather we have here. I also think about my business, I keep my eyes closed and nobody disturbs me.
I can hear the sound of activity; below somebody is talking, I must have fallen asleep... I look at the clock, it is five thirty p.m. I go down to see what’s happening.
The Captain is talking to Sironi and the other two. I come closer. "At 6 p.m. we will leave", I hear them say. Okay. We can go and get ready. The Captain disembarks again.
It is six and the Captain returns on board followed by a girl; now I understand why this is the time he wants to leave!
We unfasten the ropes and slowly leave the pier for the last time, we let the current take us, goodbye Bimini. Another boat follows us. It is the Captain’s friend who is going to accompany us. Sailing away, the island becomes just a stripe of land disappearing on the horizon in a sea of fire. Now it’s getting dark. One hundred metres away from us, the other boat follows, like a ghost. The two Captains keep in radio contact. The sea is very rough, but compared to yesterday it is not so bad. However, it is still not calm enough to allow us to stand up safely, so we all four sit on the sofa, using our feet as props, a bit like the kids game of statues. Only the girl is on her feet as she stands against the Captain’s armchair, she is twittering on and on to the young American, who, all of a sudden puts the autopilot into operation, in order to listen to her more comfortably.
Time passes. It is 8 p.m. local time. Mossatich is hungry so, with difficulty, he gets to the galley, and by supporting himself against the walls he manages to put together something we can chew. Milk and biscuits. For the Prof the meal is fine because, more importantly, he has something to drink. I don’t want anything because I am feeling rather sick, it would be impossible for anything to pass down my throat, I stay quiet.
Now here we go. With the coming of the darkness, the pitching of this floating trap increases, and the noise of the waves breaking against the bow (and too often in my opinion) resembles a car crashing against a post. We look at each other.
It seems to be a problem of ours. We sigh. Now the girl dozes quietly on the nearby sofa. The intercom croaks. The Captain takes the microphone and says "hello". It is his friend calling. They are talking, or rather shouting, excitedly. The boat slows down and then I realize that something has happened; Sironi goes out and walks toward the stern to see, what has happened. The Captain reverses and heads towards the other boat. I go out and see the other light far away in a sea of black ink. Paolo, what has happened? The Captain says that the boat following us has something wrong with the engine. He says that we will tow the boat while they will repair it. We approach; it is a difficult manoeuvre at night even with a calm sea but with a sea like this it is really dangerous. We have to throw a rope, and to do so we have to be very near... while the Captain holds the rudder, Paolo launches the bag and they catch the rope. It is secured and the boat is ready to go again. Now I am wondering if those gentlemen want to be towed in order to save the naphtha. No, they would be mad to do so. But then, this is not Italy! However the feeling of tension is increased. I smile bitterly. We go slower, of course; it will take an eternity. The Prof takes advantage of the bustle of activity to go to sleep; having a compartment in the stern all to himself, he can finally stretch out with his belly up, and breathe deeply. Mossatich does the same, and disappears, swallowed by a berth in the bow. Paolo and I are still awake. We don’t trust the Captains very much. Here we go. We navigate very slowly, but we keep going. Then we hear an awful snap... a terrible noise right at the stern... we both run out, and the Captain slows down. The cable has broken.
The Prof, also startled, comes out to find out what has happened. It is nothing important Prof, I say, it is just the cable. He goes back to sleep. The same dangerous manoeuvre of one hour ago is performed, and then we continue. As the of the microphone croaks again, we stop to recover the towing cable. The engine of the other boat has been repaired so we can now go full steam ahead.
It is a good time to try and get some sleep, so I go first. After a while I get up and call Sironi... It’s your turn to sleep, I say, I’ll take over the watch. Everything is all right my bearded angel he says, and he lies down on the sofa. He can finally have a good sleep. From now on, the crossing is quiet, and despite the nausea, I sometimes fall asleep too. I am far away, looking inside myself; like looking into a kaleidoscope. I see enormous boredom, and a great sadness attacking me from within, all these things have come together, because leaving Bimini has saddened me more than I expected. I get up, I sit down, I yawn, I look, I listen, I rest, I scratch myself, I beat my head, I wake up, I fall asleep, I wake up again. My God, it’s never-ending.
After what appears to be a century I go out, as I look towards the horizon I see a weak light; since I cannot talk to anybody, I imagine it is the reflexion of the lights of Miami, I do hope so. Yes it is, and it is also midnight.
At two o’clock on 22nd February as the boat arrives back in Miamarina.
I give the Captain a hand as he approaches the pier; then he thanks me and tells me that he has to go and report our arrival to the Customs. Okay, I understand. The trip is over.
I relax. Now I can go down in my berth and stretch out.

Chapter 10

2008-12-24T06:24:00.000-08:00

Or: "Adventure 2" leaves for the Bermudas; it has a look around and then it goes back home. Part of the group returns by plane. We return with Kuk by boat. We have to cross the sea, even though it is rough; Sironi is a good swimmer, not to mention Mossatich, Kuk and I are not bad, but will the Prof survive if something bad happens?

February 20th - Sunday
The wind came again and again the sea is rough.
Today, “Adventure 2" leaves for the Bermudas. It is a day for goodbyes. Three quarters of the expedition are leaving. We get up early, the Prof and I have breakfast and then we go to the pier. The great Biagini, his son and Berti, a lawyer from Bologna, are all ready to leave by plane that will take them to Miami and then on to Italy. Goodbyes and hugs, photos of the whole group who took part in the "Mizar Expedition”, compliments, kindnesses, we are really happy, it has been an interesting adventure, we hope to see each other again, there will be other projects, goodbye, sorry, suitcases ready, we go.
At eleven o’clock “Adventure 2" leaves the moorings and the harbour with the tide. Kuk follows it in "Passagemaker," but we have to shoot some scenes as it heads for the Bermudas. The sea is rough.
We stop about two miles from the harbour, in open waters. The filmmakers start shooting, there are some difficult transfers of men from one boat to the other to shoot the film; then finally "Adventure 2" takes onboard the men who are going to the Bermudas and the anchor is raised, the sails loosen in the wind with great cheerful snaps. All the crew are there; this beautiful boat, of which Fogar is in charge, sails away, close to the wind. The voyage will take quite a long time.
Sironi, who helped Fogar to set the sails, dives into the water to return to the "Passagemaker". We are three hundred metres away, and watch with apprehension as Paolo swims through this mountainous sea, he finally makes it and we head back to the harbour. It will be a boring day today; but it shouldn’t be, especially in a place like this.
Three of the four organizers of the expedition have departed. The fourth, Tirelli, stays with us during the afternoon. It is almost evening when Camilli, Tirelli, Mangiali, and the Maiorca family fly off to Miami, the filmmakers will fly straight back to Italy. So we will meet the others again in Miami.
In Bimini the Prof, Sironi, Mossatich and I wait for good weather for the crossing. Even Kuk goes away, and leaves the boat with a friend. Now the sea is really rough. All the others have gone by plane but we have to leave by boat because of all the equipment that we have. If the wind drops, we will perhaps be able to depart tomorrow evening. Meanwhile we have to secure with ropes everything that could move on the boat; oxygen tanks, suitcases, tools, boxes of various objects, dinghy, and compressor. If we depart tomorrow, we are told that it will be a difficult voyage. How lucky I am! But at least, in comparison to last time, we will have a more comfortable voyage and a berth for each of us! A glance around the galley is enough for us to decide not to eat on board. Those who left for the Bermudas had taken almost everything. After checking up and down, looking everywhere, I manage to put together the following list of provisions; three tins of meat, a box of coffee, three bags of beans, a one kilo packet of spaghetti, about ten cans of soft drinks, three tins of tomatoes, a billion paper napkins, a box of biscuits, a can of oil, millions of toothpicks and loads of dirty dishes. So a restaurant is the best choice for us. We decide to have lobster for dinner; even though it is going to be really expensive, it is our only alternative. We are in a sea of coka-cola!
The waiter brings us the bill. Then lots of green dollar bills magically pass from my hands to his. I sigh, but I maintain my composure as I pay. My head itches, my thoughts are far away. The Prof cannot stand this grumbling about every excessive expense, but I don’t listen to him. We come from different backgrounds; his life will always be in sharp colours, while mine, unfortunately, in black and white and maybe this is why we always disagree. After the meal we return to greet the two who have stayed on board to guard the boat. The Captain who has temporarily taken over from Kuk, and who we have never been introduced to, is nowhere to be seen. It seems that he has other things on his mind, as we see him talking to a pretty blonde girl fifty metres away, on another yacht. We four survivors, quietly sit on the sofas in the pilothouse, and talk about many things. The worrying part of our conversation is about the possibility that this floating wardrobe could break in two during tomorrow's crossing… touch wood!
I’m worried about the Prof, he can swim, but with his weight and the Gulf Stream, who knows what might happen!
Luckily we have an expert in Paolo Sironi, and he is certainly clever; we can also depend on Mossatich, a friend of Fogar... the only question mark hands over the Prof. We pass the time, we laugh about him.
Shall we say goodnight to our friends and go to bed? The day ends like this. Off we go to the hotel. It is 11 pm. The same black woman we have seen before, and as sad as all the others in the world, invites us with signs and twittering, to follow her. We walk straight on. After all, what do we know?
Judging by the quality of her English, she might be a member of the Salvation Army. Goodbye dear.

Chapter 8

2008-12-24T06:22:00.000-08:00

Or: a beach made of shells and Robinson’s dream. The Prof arrives and this poetic atmosphere ends. We return to the Wall... as dumb as a Wall. Four conclusive tests. So much bitterness inside.

February 18th
This morning I got up early, I couldn’t stand the Prof’s terrible noises anymore, so I went for a walk around the island, wandering along the beach. Yesterday’s rough sea had calmed down, and now we can see what the waves have deposited on the beach. All around there were many beautiful shells; together with the putrescent bladders of hundreds of medusae which lay empty after being thrown by the sea onto the dry land. Now their shrunken filaments are no longer frightening. (These sea creatures appear to be harmless and look quite nice as they hover in the water like a caravel with their big sail; but actually, their long filaments, sometimes a few metres long, are dangerous to man because they can deliver a sharp sting and cause severe bruising).
I started collecting a few shells to take home, as a reminder of such a wonderful country; these are the humble things that make your life a happy one. I walked and walked, looking for something even more beautiful, something new, but in my heart I felt that all I would find was a beach crowded with people just like me, all looking for shells. I frequently glanced around to see if anyone had followed my example. I walked happy and free, accompanied only by the gentle noise of the sea which was now calm compared to the previous day.
It was in those moments that I hoped this island of dreams would disappear from the eyes of others so I could live there alone. My God, I must admit that I would have liked to stay there! Leave without me my friends, return to Italy and say that you lost me.
I feel that I cannot go back. I have to enjoy this freedom and happiness for as long as I can; I have to be fully involved in this new exciting experience. I start talking to myself, telling the imaginary people to go away, I don't know who you are, I don't know you, and you are trouble. I undress, I am alone, only the rising sun and me… what a marvellous spectacle! A world with nobody in it. I can't hear a sound, no cars, nothing at all; every single thing in this mechanical and programmed life seems to have disappeared; today the world is different! I feel as if I am a part of the Universe and I feel a sense of immensity. A shiver runs through my spine, and my eyes are full of tears; I realize that this is all about to end, I know that I have to leave, and I start singing out loud. For miles and miles the beach is a desert, empty, I feel like a God! And you Sun! You and I are Gods! The sea seems to be ashamed of my swearing and keeps on receding. The beach has become wider, now.
Hi Prof, here I am, good morning. I woke up and didn’t want to stay in bed, so I came here. Shall we go? Yes, let’s go to the boat. Let’s have breakfast before leaving; I feel empty, I am weak, I am hungry. Have you seen all these shells Prof? Yes, I did, he says, I’ll look for some tonight, when we come back. Yes, of course, I answer: every time the sea withdraws you see death on the beach, but you must know how to read it, I say. Today we need to take advantage of the calm sea conditions and do a lot of research in order to establish the true importance of the Wall he says. Yes, I answer, you are right. You need to keep trying. I will go down too and put the bottle directly above the Wall, so that you can establish exactly and without any doubt, what it is. During this conversation we have eaten. We head towards the boat. It’s nine o’clock on 18th February. Today I feel that the Prof and I are in perfect harmony and friendship. We see the same things and agree about everything, therefore we establish a sort of timetable to follow, the details of which will be discussed later together with Maiorca. Everything is all right, so we go. We slowly depart from the pier on “Passagemaker”. On board, besides the Prof and me, we find Maiorca, Camilli, Sironi and Mangiali. We are now out of the harbour, and suddenly we see four dolphins line up by the bow of our ship and swim with us. Cries of joy and amazement from all of us. I take lots of photographs of them. The Kuk drops anchor above the Wall. What patience this man has! The organisers of the expedition must pay him very well because he is able to ignore everything; especially the mess that reigns all around him on his boat, which, under normal conditions, would be sufficient for him to tell us all to bugger off. This Kuk must either be a very crafty person who plans to buy a new boat with all the money we crazy people pay him, or he is a man who should have been a monk because of his strange cold patience that he shows. We fetch our instruments from their hideaway (how many times we have picked up these suitcases!) and we attach the battery leads to the instruments in order to make the "Judge of Truth" work. This should be the decisive test. The Prof, together with Maiorca, organise how they are going to work underwater. Then Enzo puts on his diving gear and plunges into the sea. I pass the bottle sensor to him, and he swims off to the stern of the boat, following the direction of the Wall. When he is far enough away from the boat, so as not to influence the magnetic needle of the instrument, we signal him to dive and to start on task number 1. The pen starts to draw a clear straight line. The Prof and I look at each other. We know that at this moment Enzo is placing the bottle sensor above the Wall. Then, a few moments later, he surfaces to await further instructions. The Prof tells him to move on to task number 2. I wave to Maiorca, and he dives again and does as he is asked, which is to move the sensor to the left of the Wall. Meanwhile we keep watching, but in dismay, as the pen doesn’t register anything, it continues to trace a straight red line. We follow the same procedure as the sensor is moved to the right of the Wall, and we get the same result. Nothing. The readings are no different between the Wall and the sand in its immediate proximities. There are no anomalies, “no hand of man” in evidence. The Prof asks Enzo to go twenty metres further away and pass on to task number 4. Enzo completes the measurements of the Wall at three points, like the previous time, but we still don't get any result. We spend ages taking measurements, and then Enzo runs out of air and has to come back. I now get ready to go down to take measurements from the bow side. But it will be pointless, of course, because we won’t get any results. From the sea, I look at the Prof who is waving to me and saying no. He is rubbing his beard with his hand. We are defeated.
I recover the sixty meters of cable from the sea, and then hand the Prof the bottle sensor and climb back onto the boat. That’s it. I feel a strange bitterness inside me, because I am unable to understand the phenomenon. We start afresh to discuss with Maiorca, and we both listen to the Prof’s theories. He says that it would be useful to take a piece of rock from the Wall and take it to the University to be analysed in one of their laboratories. But unfortunately we don't have any equipment to do this. Therefore we have to abandon this tempting idea. Gentlemen, everything remains as it was before we came.
We are disconsolate because we have to say goodbye to the possibility of being able to give a definitive explanation about the phenomenon of the Wall (at least for now). Mr Cousteau sailed the same waters for some time, and came to the same conclusion. We, unlike him, have an ultra-modern perfect instrument, which is accurate, at least as far as science currently understands. We had pinned our hopes on this instrument and therefore we were sure we had done anything possible on 18th February 1977. So that’s that.
We have something to eat and then, because the sea is still calm, we do some fishing.
I lie down in the sun. At least, the trip will be useful for something. By 4 pm we are already back and berthed at the pier. The Prof and I say goodbye to those who remain on the boat, and we desolately walk towards the hotel. Has someone thought about committing suicide? I don't know. Now there is one thing that is really important us, and that is that we two, unlike the others on the expedition, can have a super shower, sprawl on a sofa, and then forget the unhappy story of this foolish day.
That’s all.

Chapter 7

2008-12-24T06:21:00.000-08:00

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.

Chapter 6

2008-12-24T06:20:00.000-08:00

Or: today Uri Geller and Fogar go into the water: the Prof and I will act as spectators. All the filmmakers are there. The American of the sharks. How to dress up two inexperienced guys. The expert looses his mask. In my contract there is nothing about five metre long sharks: I prefer bombs. Somebody wants to climb on board together with his oxygen tanks…they are the competent ones. An evening talking about Hemingway and the loneliness of American women.

February 16th
As usual we are not able to leave the mooring before 11 o’clock. This morning the “Koala” is also leaving the harbour, so we have to wait for high tide. It arrives and we leave. They hire another boat too…the whole expedition is on board, including the filmmakers and the director. Uri Geller is also onboard, he will dive down to the wall and try some parapsychic or parascientific or parasomething exercises, he wants to see if he is able to bend spoons by the wall even more quickly. The Prof and I are just spectators on the boat this morning. So we hope to enjoy the spectacle of Uri and Fogar entering the water from the deck of the “Passagemaker”. I am sure the Prof will start fishing with total indifference to what’s going on around him. He can’t make out what Geller is going to do on the wall. An American joins us from Bimini, a certain Mr. Vaston or Vatson, who lives on the island and earns his living as a shark hunter. He is six feet tall, and his shoulders are as wide as an open wardrobe. We hire him for fifty dollars a day to keep the sharks away from the waters where we are doing some underwater shooting for the film. We call him the “The ‘Nembo Kid” (the name of an old Italian cartoon, a sort of Superman).
Anyway, now we head to the wall. The sea is not calm at all. We are being tossed around. I think we are going to have some problems, especially when we have to transfer men and instruments from the boat to the dinghy, and back again. We’ll see. Its noon, and the Captain drops anchor about fifty metres from the wall… today the American is in a very good mood, at last he is no longer alone among all those people talking in a different language.
The ‘Nembo Kid’ is near him, and they talk about what is going to happen. The “Koala” too drops anchor. The dinghy is bringing Fogar and Uri to our boat, where the underwater equipment is ready for them.

The two, helped by Maiorca and Camilli, get into their diving suits. I hear some rumours about Geller having done his Military service in the Israeli navy, as a diver, so I’m ready to admire him, as I respect and trust those people’s methods. As for Fogar, I think he has never worn diving equipment in his life, but I might be wrong, if so, I apologize. Anyway, looking at how skilful they are at putting their stuff on … I can only imagine how good they must be at the rest. At last, after a lot of stretching and twisting, forgetting this and that and putting things on in the wrong order, the two are ready. However, the important thing in my opinion, and I would have thought in theirs too, is not to walk along the side of the boat with their flippers on, especially if they are wearing their oxygen tanks. In my day we had to do some serious training courses in a swimming pool before going underwater. But today! Oh how wonderful technology is, the subaqueous world seems to have turned into a joke, because now you can throw two untrained men into the sea and that’s it; and into this particularly dangerous sea! Luckily, Camilli, Mangiali and the big American are with them. Anyway, a two metre high jump and that’s it! I see them both surface, eventually, but somebody has lost his mask!
But who? I am not saying; if you guess you’ll be right. Paolo Sironi goes down into the rubber boat and starts to follow them.
The wall is quite a distance away and the sea is really rough. The Prof doesn’t want to get involved with this sort of thing, he keeps fishing, he casts the line and reels it in, and every time there is a fish attached to the hook. Incredible! But I don’t think he finds any satisfaction in it. I put on my wetsuit top, flippers and mask, and jump into the water. I love this subaqueous landscape; I can never have enough of it. Then I hear the Prof calling me rather excitedly; Menconi, there’s a shark, get out of there, climb up, and be careful! Because of the rough sea I’m not able to see any fin on the horizon; so I don’t know if the shark is far away or if it is under my feet. Anyway, I believe him and swim as fast as I can towards the dinghy. To be honest, I prefer bombs to sharks; and in these waters there live those five metre long white sharks, or so they say. No my dear, this is not written in the contract! Paolo brings the dinghy up to me and tells me to climb in because he wants me to go with him to wait above the wall for the others to surface. They will certainly need some help, he says. I climb in and of we go. Above the wall we drop the small anchor. Then I go again into water and from the surface I have a look at what is going on down there. Uri is on the wall and he is bending a spoon, surrounded by Fogar and the others, Mangiali is filming the scene. Maiorca and Camilli are not interested in what Uri is doing, they are more interested in something else which I believe to be the wonderful trigonia (a genus of mollusks that first appeared during the Jurassic period, which began about 208 million years ago) But I see a shark passing by at subsonic speed and about thirty metres away from them. They too see it; they drop everything, all their equipment, then turn and swim up to the dinghy. I’m sure somebody’s mask will mist up. Finally they surface, they have enough shots! Fogar and Uri want to climb on board with their tanks on, but Paolo and I manage to take them off before pushing both of them into the dinghy. However, it was hard work for us to achieve this! Even on board Geller keeps his flippers on, he is lying in the middle of the boat. If you don't take your flippers off, my friend, we won't be going anywhere. Do you wear them in bed? Now we look like four octopuses getting in each others way. A rough sea, a small dinghy, four men dressed in wetsuits, two double air tanks, the small anchor that seems to be caught on something and an outboard motor that has to be started. Geller, who needs looking after, moves towards the bow; be careful of the tanks, take that flipper out of my back…damn! One of the cameramen is shooting the scene from the support boat, if he turns it into a documentary we will have something to laugh about. The other divers are able to get back without any help at all. Finally we can go, and the enormous sprays of water keep covering us completely.
Now I anticipate a difficult situation as we have to climb the rope ladder onto the boat. We arrive, and luckily the American is there; holding on with one hand, he takes the twenty kilo double tanks that we manage to pass to him between the waves. Then we even have to pass Geller to him, the poor wet chicken. The dinghy crashes against the boat repeatedly. Eventually we are all out and Sironi takes it to the side of the "Passagemaker", and manages to secure it somehow.
Everybody is safe. The director decides that the shots are good (of course they are, I can't imagine a more natural way of performing), so we can raise the anchor and head back towards the harbour. In this boat everybody gives orders, I think. But gentlemen, when we have to deal with filmmakers everything is difficult; they are perfectionists. No, not like that, that's not good, let's try again, put a hand here, and don’t look at the lens, move those bins, stand against the light, make the instrument work, throw the sensor into the water, take it out, throw it in again, slowly like that, good, now take it out, slowly, slowly, perfect, Enzo, help him. I don't like it. Let's try again, assemble the ladder, now pass the underwater camera to Fogar, you down there, move yourselves quickly, put those tanks somewhere else, put that fishing rod away. Please, those who have nothing to do with it get out of camera shot. Try again, open that, pull this, we cannot get people to read "Bocami", that's publicity, and the television company will cut the scene. Fogar, pretend to read the instrument and then speak to the Prof; Prof, now call Enzo and get him to make a note of something on the instrument. You too Sironi, come near, say something…speak! My God, shut up, turn, look towards the shore, nod, and on and on like that for entire afternoon.
We arrive in Bimini, and the director decides to shoot some scenes around the fisherman’s island, and he also wants to interview the Prof. We go, four or five of us plus the TV crew. We rent a big boat with a flat keel, and head towards the lagoon. The sun is setting, the tide is very low, and the channel in which we can sail is marked by buoys. The sea is turning gold; the sand, made of billions of crushed shellfish, is pure white and the coconuts attached to the palms, greet us from up on high, sheltered by their huge pale green umbrellas.
The boat passes slowly along the coast, and the cameraman is shooting continuously. Here and there some old natives, sitting in groups of three or four and working on the heaps of oysters they have collected. They look like statues of dried wood. Here and there you can see small wooden houses set up on piles. It looks like a primordial show, thank you God for giving me the chance to see it. We go ahead religiously aware of such a wonderful landscape. The pelicans, standing on the sand banks which form small islands in the lagoon, watch us as we approach. We come across a boat stuck on the sand so we use it like a small pier; it enables us to step on land without getting wet, so we all take the opportunity to put our footprints on this pure white sand and stroll around … we look for some nice shells to take home. Now there isn’t enough light to film, it’s a real shame; in a moment it will be dark. We get back onto the boat to go back. We split into two groups to have dinner on the boats, and then, on behalf of Bocami, I decide to treat everyone to some drinks. Let’s go to the night club where we were dancing last night, I say.
The girls are happy. Unlike yesterday evening, Mangiali, Camilli, Sironi, Tirelli, Mossadich and two TV people join us.
We are a nice team, we go in and at the bar we find the American diver who suggests that we should try the local stuff. Most of us say yes. In a huge one litre glass they bring to us a whitish mush with some small coconut cubes and some pieces of bright red something or other floating inside. Nobody knows what it is, even after tasting it. Never mind, the evening is long and we’ll recover. We get up to dance, return to the table; we get up again, and the evening goes on like this. We move on to something else to drink; this time it is Bacardi for everyone. This blond liqueur, served on a mountain of ice cubes, enters your throat and reconciles you with your life. Now I think I understand Hemingway. Every evening, having paid his respects to his Bacardi, he was carried upstairs, drunk, and put to bed. The club is now full of people. Those Americans, who spent all day fishing for swordfish or sailfish in the deep sea, arrive in groups to have a few drinks. American women of a certain age (but where are the young ones?), let’s say about forty, have always reminded me of those sculptured figures from Greek archaeology, they wear lots of make up to make themselves appear younger, in fact just like those women who go to see the Pope. They all look very similar to one another, as if they were made in a factory, and look like the rag dolls you could buy long ago at a Country Fair. With a simple nod, you can have them glued to your side for the evening, those perfect mouths and stereotyped smiles, as if the are advertising Doctor Knapp’s toothpaste; they look at you as if you come from another planet. Squeezing all their stuff into big zippers, they happily agree to dance with you. These American women feel alone because their husbands are already completely drunk. They, the husbands, toss their heads continuously in search of a steady support, they look at you with a stupid smile on their faces, but they cannot remember you as they plunge back into the limbo of drunkenness. All our team is unleashed and we dance to frenzied rhythms which could bring on a stroke if you are not careful. Patrizia, Enzo, the Prof and others don’t miss a dance, the ‘Nembo Kid’ dances too, with a tiny blonde girl half his size, but who knows what she is doing. He must be able to take his pick of all the girls in Bimini. Anyway, there is nothing wrong with that; such a good-looking man cannot “be on a diet”. He did cheat us with the drinks, but he is such a pleasant man! The party ends, the black musicians put away their instruments and abandon the stage in a flash. I don’t know why, but it reminds me of trade unions. Gentlemen, we have drunk and danced, shall we now go to bed too?
Goodnight, the team has broken up. I spent twenty-seven dollars and fifty cents. We walk independently towards the hotel.
In the small street we meet somebody who wants to keep us company, a lovely native woman, but the Prof and I, walk straight by. It’s a small world.

Chapter 5

2008-12-24T06:19:00.001-08:00

Or: one searches for the Wall with the instrument... but the Wall is not found. Unlike the Prof, Maiorca thinks that the bottle shaped sensor is a joke. After three months the Prof will still think about this unexplainable episode... we only find iron... is it possible that this Wall has really disappeared? If so, where has it gone? Everything is chaotic, when we disembark... even though the chicken and turtle with coke-cola represent reality for us. Hemingway and Bacardi.

February 15th
Wake up at eight. I go with the Prof to have breakfast. Plentiful: fruit juice, bacon and eggs, jam, coffee, sandwich, the cost of all this is $5. It breaks my heart. We leave and then buy some postcards to send to Italy. On the road we meet Paolo Sironi who is heading towards the radio station to phone home. I take advantage of this opportunity and go with him. I want to phone the Bocami in Milan. The Prof wants to buy a few things so we arrange to meet later on board. The call lasts just a few minutes, but costs $18 each!
Our families are fine and there is fog in Milan. But fog there is not unusual; however, we leave much happier, because here everything is very nice. We head towards the boat, ‘Adventure 2’, because high tide has enabled it to enter the harbour, and following in its wake there is a trail of other boats, now it is moored just behind ours. I make a courtesy visit to Biagini where I also find Uri Geller, Tirelli, Fogar and some others. I say hello but then I take my leave as the other boat is ready to sail, it is 11 o’clock. We want to try to stop directly over the top of the Wall (well, yes, it is a sort of wall under the sea, but nobody knows if it is natural or man-made. They want to try to position the boat right on top of it so that the measurements they take are as accurate as possible). As we approach the Wall we slow down, and lower a dinghy into the water to which we attach a sixty metre line. Maiorca climbs into the dinghy with the buoys and I throw the sensor into the sea and reel out the same length of cable. As the boat increases speed the Prof puts the instrument which measures the magnetic field into operation. Both the sensor and the boat move in tandem, and on my signal Maiorca throws the first buoy into the sea. We look at the first recorded anomaly on the ribbon; now the Prof and I know that this recorded anomaly cannot be the Wall, it must be just some piece of iron.
The recorded anomaly is different from that of yesterday and the pen moves rapidly to the right and to the left of the normally continuous line... it is iron, undoubtedly. The Prof turns the boat around and retraces one hundred meters to where the first signal was recorded, following the same path so that we cross the Wall again. We are crossing the Wall, any signal? We go back and try to cross the Wall again from further away... the Prof gestures to Maiorca to drop another buoy... another anomaly, more iron.
The Prof begins to get agitated, he cannot sit still and relax, and he won’t rest until he sorts out this mystery. He cannot make any sense of it; he cannot explain why the instrument is failing to record/signal/identify the Wall, it seems as if the instrument has a will of its own. For more than an hour we continue to criss-cross the area; the Wall is below us, but the instrument won’t identify it. We stop. The Kuk drops anchor and Enzo climbs back on board. Then we check the signals. I listen to what Maiorca has to say, and I am amazed! So is the Prof.

Readers please don't forget that we are in the area of the "Triangle" where they say the strangest things can happen. Well, now something strange has happened to us, and therefore no one can argue against us. Maiorca approaches me and very calmly says “Menconi, listen, you have to explain something; why does the sensor stop flashing at a certain moment during our navigation, explain why this happens because this is what is interesting me”. I look at him in amazement, I stare into his eyes, you must be joking I say….come on, the sensor didn’t flash, did it? Enzo Maiorca is a man without any fixed ideas, a man who looks at what is in front of him and who doesn’t suffer from hallucinations. We both think the other is joking, but he looses his temper, a typical reaction from a Sicilian man like him. I try to calm him down, but he insists that he saw the repeated flashing of the sensor. He thought this was a typical function of the sensor, an aid to help divers identify what they are searching for. We continue arguing about it.
The Prof is as amazed as me... we have never known a bottle sensor that would send flashes of light. There are no bulbs in the sensor; there are some electric wires encased in rubber and that is all. The sensor is shielded by a five millimetre thick amorphous fibre which isn't reflective. There is no point in talking about reflected light, especially as the sky was the colour of lead, there was no sun, just clouds. Maiorca remains absolutely certain that the sensor lit up, shone for a few minutes, and then went out. It is something I had never seen before, and the Prof had never told me about any previous, similar phenomenon. There is nothing else to say about it.
We go over our readings repeatedly. Enzo prepares to go into water, together with his daughter and Gianni. They dive at the point where the first buoy is positioned; they go deep, they check, after a while they return to the surface with a piece of rust encrusted iron in their hand. But there is no sign of the Wall; they are in an area where it does not exist. We are ready to take another measurement. Down they go again, time passes, and then they surface. They have yet another piece of something metallic in their hand, and they say that the Wall must not be very far away from the signal. They recover another metallic object near the third signal, but the Wall is not to be found.

It is a mystery, yesterday the gauge perfectly identified the presence of the Wall, but today the same instrument doesn't show anything. The Prof cannot make head or tail of it. There is no technical explanation, the instrument is in perfect working order, and after all it was able to recognize the presence of the pieces of submerged iron. The instrument works, so why does it refuse to show the presence of the Wall today?
What has changed over the past twenty four hours? If the rocks that form the Wall are artificial are they man made? If they are man made, if that is what we were expected to believe yesterday, why is it that today the instrument refuses to tell us anything? Does a scientific explanation for all this exist? Is there a logical explanation? The Prof is very serious, he is not at ease. And he doesn’t let me rest either. He wants to go deeper into this question and he would like to do some more tests now, but it is getting late, so we postpone everything until tomorrow. Tonight we are invited to dinner at a restaurant which is characteristic of the island.
So Kuk steers towards Bimini, and we put the instruments safely away again in their hiding place. After a while we disembark and go to the hotel to enjoy a beautiful shower.
The Prof is thoughtful, he is troubled, there is something about the story that is not convincing; he has brought the recorded ribbons to the hotel and from one cigarette to another he continues to study them. It will soon be May and he will still be examining them. Finally it is time for dinner and hopefully, God willing, we can put aside this problem. Come on Prof, let’s go.
We can still do some more experiments, come on. We have tomorrow or another day to try again. Persevere. We walk .We keep talking, optimistically, until we arrive near the boat and meet the rest of the party; hi everyone, handshakes and then we leave for the restaurant. What a wonderful spread! We arrange the seating and while talking a waiter takes our orders. I find myself sitting next to Uri Geller who, having learnt about the work I do (I defuse bombs both in and out of the water) seems to be very interested in the subject. I think that his interest is pretty normal, but then I remember that he is an Israeli and since I have worked with the Bocami in Libya, in the Bay of Tobruk, on behalf of the Libyan government, I do not encourage talk on the subject. I wasn’t sure, but I had no intention of becoming mixed up with the Arabs. The Prof changes the subject and shows everyone a brand new teaspoon he bought; the purpose being to challenge Geller’s ability. After picking it up and carefully weighing it in his hand, Geller refuses the Prof’s challenge. But the request is not in vein because during dinner, I witness a phenomenal show! After persistent requests from Livio Biagini, Uri accepts a teaspoon... he holds the narrowest part with two fingers and starts to rub it. In an instant half of the spoon falls onto the table. Fantastic. But what is even more inconceivable, and I would never have believed it had I not been there, sitting at the table, assisting the event, the two pieces of the teaspoon when put together again didn't fit. Unbelievable. By rubbing the teaspoon Uri not only succeeded in snapping it in two, but also in pulverizing it into thin air. A piece of the teaspoon is missing; nobody can understand where it might have gone. We are totally amazed; this man is really in possession of a diabolic power.
We eat. The Prof and some others have chosen turtle, the meat seems to be swimming in a brown watery soup and I believe, looking at some of their faces, that there isn’t much difference between my chicken (I have a good imagination!) which is drowned in a such a hot spicy sauce that leaves the mouth completely dried up, and their pieces of swimming turtle. But some are enjoying the meal very much, they have large portions and they eagerly wallop it down, followed by enormous glasses of iced coke! Oh, the sublime culinary art of these Americans, the edges of the dishes are stained with fat, onto which they place buttered croutons with jam, good God, what delights! Give me a beautiful fresh fruit juice to wash down the turtle. Cheers.
On my extreme right all I hear is the scrapping of cutlery on plates so I deduce from it that the whole gang is lapping it up, yes everybody is eating and nobody is speaking. I want to say that since I am at the far end of the table, I am not able to see everyone’s reactions, I can only imagine them. My grandfather said that in the entire world what is really important is to be satisfied with what you have. He was a tall, big man, who weighed more than one hundred and twenty kilos when dead; how was it possible for my poor grandmother, who was such a tiny woman; I asked myself this many times as I grew up. Ah, the mysteries of life. Finally the meal ends, and we all go our separate ways. On the road back to the hotel, me, the Prof, Enzo, Mrs. Maria and the two Maiorca girls, see a sign saying "Ancorage", it is a typical English pub with a small band. In fact from the outside we hear a loud noise; however, the singer has a decent voice and is accompanied by a guitar. Since we are all are very thirsty, and because we have to try to digest the terrible swill we have just had, we decide to go in. Having already spent a lot, a little more won’t make much difference, after all, the firm is paying.
Inside, it is beautiful, furnished in the simple taste of the islanders but with American cents. We make ourselves comfortable. Immediately a peppery young native girl, with all her curves in the right places, takes our order. As we glance around we see that the bar is full of blonde, decent looking rich Americans, some are dancing, others just look at us and roll their eyes, and they wink knowingly. Not sure about the wink, I look over my shoulder. The Prof and Maiorca get up to have a dance with Patrizia, I keep Mrs. Maria and Rosanna company. Meanwhile the Bacardi arrives. There are some glass showcases full of sketches and photos of big sail fish; and photos of a man with the beard, Hemingway. Then I remember that he came to Bimini and lived here for many years, this is where he wrote several novels. In fact, above a door there is a nameplate that says that Hemingway lived above this café from 1933 to 1939 and it is here that he wrote the novel "Islands in the tide". He also drank hectolitres of Bacardi.

Chapter 4

2008-12-24T06:15:00.001-08:00

Or: shall we swim in the ocean or in the swimming pool? The guy who bends spoons arrives; Prof is angry because he would rather not have any magicians as members of the expedition. But that gives a touch of folklore. Anyway Uri Geller earns 1000 “green sheets” a day. More than Prof, and he is a scientist. The pen starts reporting anomalies. I dive…and here I am, face to face with the Wall! The adventure begins.

February 13th
It is 8 o’clock, good morning Island of Bimini. We are unable to land at the moment so we climb on the rigging, like monkeys, doing our best to see the island. But an endless row of yachts make it impossible to see the landscape… among all those masts and sails stuck like toothpicks into a wonderful blue sky, we are unable to see very much. A little further away there are lovely palm trees, sweetly dozing, loaded with fruit, and languidly bending with their reflections in the lagoon.
At last, at 11 o'clock, Customs papers are completed and we can set foot on land. Prof, the Maiorca family and I happily head to the hotel, the organisation has booked rooms for us at the "Bimini Big Game Fishing Club Hotel".
You can see it is a luxury place from the fact that there are some American women playing tennis and, at a respectful distance, statuesque white coated islanders waiting for their orders. The Prof and I are together again of course, we share an enormous room with bathroom, where I feel sure we will be treated like Kings. The others sleep on the boat. There is air conditioning and a bucket of ice too. Prof happily takes many small ice cubes. This room is terribly cold, I say, will you please switch that damned thing off? A nice bath to remove all the memories of the voyage, a quick snap of the Prof, then we agree to go and eat on board. Look at that lovely swimming pool, Prof says to me as we leave the hotel. I’ll eat and then come back for a swim. But you are joking I say; we have this wonderful sea with its crystal clear water; why do you want to go swimming in the hotel swimming pool?
I can't understand you! He is rather angry and accuses me of always wanting to pick arguments. He insists that he will have a bathe in the hotel pool. But he won't, because we go on talking to our friends on the boat till 5 pm. We discuss the timetable for the following day; we must look for the Bimini Wall and so we must come to an agreement on how we should proceed, especially with Enzo, who is the boss of the sub aqua troupe. We eventually go back to our hotel, but after a couple of hours return to the boat, where we are introduced to Uri Geller who has just flown in from New York. Somebody tells us that he too is a member of the expedition, and he will try some exercises involving paranormal activity under water and by the Wall. I want to laugh out loud, but I restrain myself. The Prof becomes a little angry, he doesn't like the idea of working with a magician…he is a scientist after all.
But what on earth will Uri Geller do by the Wall, and anyway, what has a magician and magic got to do with geophysics or archaeology?
Questions without answers! They are paying him (and he is very expensive, I am told), they seem to be in awe of him, they look at him, they touch him, they don't miss a single word he says. Apparently he is a nice chap, but I’m sure he is a very good actor.
He travels with his secretary and suffers from seasickness; we have something in common …well, he suffers from seasickness too!
While we are on the boat he entertains us by bending some spoons; but with a certain look, you know what I mean. So what’s the trick? We surround him, trying to get an explanation, and then the cameramen arrive and start fighting among themselves to get the best shots, all pushing and shoving. Finally he shouts at them to stop and, managing to escape, he goes into the Pilothouse and stands in front of the compass. He politely asks for silence before putting one hand on his forehead, possibly to warm it up, he then concentrates intensely, he places his left hand near the compass, closes his fist, makes a great effort, now he is super concentrated, his eyes glued to the instrument, a tremendous effort together with a cry coming from his throat…he looks like a madman…here we are at last; this strange strength coming from his brain makes the needle of the compass move ten degrees. Extraordinary! We all are quite shocked. He rests. I don’t like circuses or variety shows; I don’t know why, but they both bring out certain sadness in my mind. I imagine them being so hungry, that they are forced to suffer and do the strangest things imaginable just to survive. Prof takes his watch and passes it to Uri. Uri says he will make it move back one and a half hours, just by holding it upside down in his hand. He concentrates. It’s 8 pm; he turns the watch over and it now reads 6.30. Fantastic. Silvio Biagini arrives to take Geller for dinner.
We all are all talking about this extraordinary Uri, everyone has something to say, even that this good chap earns one thousand green backs a day just to spend some time with us. Lucky him! I think about my meagre Italian salary and sigh. Well, now I can say that I have met Uri Geller! We eat on the boat, Malinverni brings some tins of something and someone prepares a salad. Now it’s late for me so I say goodbye to everyone and walk to the hotel. Prof will come later. Goodnight.

14th February
Wake up my friend, it’s six o’clock. At seven thirty we are leaving to discover the mystery of the Wall! We get up. We have breakfast and at ten past seven we are on the boat. We are all present. We set the instrument so we can start using it as soon as we are outside the harbour. It’s seven thirty; we undo the ropes and cast off. The current takes us away from the pier, and then the engine takes us slowly forward. Off we go. I look at the sky; it is cloudy and dark…maybe it’s going to rain. We sail all around the island, it is just a stripe of land a few miles long and about two hundred metres wide, I think. We go to the opposite side of the island, not far from where we started.
The Wall should be about half a mile from the shore. The instrument is working and the pen is drawing a straight red line. Meanwhile we prepare marker buoys which we will throw into the sea if we register any anomalies. The sea is slightly rough. The Captain tells us that we are above the Wall, and in fact, the instrument confirms it! The red line is no longer straight, it seems to be doodling, a sort of ornamental sketch, so I instantly throw a buoy into the sea. There was an anomaly, the instrument clearly revealed it. Now the pen draws a straight line again. Prof tells the Captain to reverse course and go back, we cross the Wall at another point…same signal…down goes another buoy.
We throw down three buoys, then the Captain stops the boat and drops anchor. Maiorca and Camilli get ready. After a while they dive and swim towards the buoys. Camilli takes the spear gun with him. Here the sea is treacherous and you never know what lurks below. We read the lead-line: the depth is six metres. Now we eagerly wait for the results. The Captain keeps watch from the bow, looking to see if there are any fins approaching. Eventually Maiorca comes to the surface saying he found nothing relevant near the buoys, so we tell him to swim in larger and larger circles around the markers. He diver again and Mangiali and Patrizia follow him with a video camera. They tell us that there is a world of wonderful colours below, just waiting to be filmed. Maiorca comes up again and from far away shouts that he has found the Wall. I take my mask and flippers and, with two lead weights attached to my belt, I jump in too. As I put my head under the surface of the water I see something far more beautiful than I could ever have imagined, and I have dived in many seas throughout my life! Nonetheless, this vision fills my heart with immense joy, I don’t have time now to see the Wall, and I’m in ecstasy. I am mesmerised, no aquarium could ever reproduce such richness of colour or such perfect nature. Hundreds of wonderfully coloured fish lazily swim by, slightly moving their fins, colourful parrot fish come near me and play hide-and-seek, unaware that man might be a danger, some lobsters climb onto white rocks, gorgonias (sea-fans) with their net-like purple fans gently moving with the current, yellow sea anemones, pink actinians, red starfish, colonies of elavenides with their strange yellow hue, light blue Portuguese caravels with their strange tentacles and from which you should keep a respectfully distance, and so many other types of fish. Good God, I wake from my dream, I see Maiorca fifty meters ahead and swim towards him; I dive while holding my breath, and swimming near the bottom of the sea I can see some enormous blocks of rocks placed side by side, roughly rectangular and laid out geometrically. I calculate that those blocks must be about four metres wide and two metres long. I go to the surface to take some air and I dive again, I want to see how high the Wall is. It is more or less forty centimetres, maybe in other places it might be a little higher. I look around and I see Mangiali trying to catch some fish. He abandoned the video camera, and with a sort of native’s arrow and a piece of elastic he found in the boat (You are not allowed to use real spear guns for fishing) he amazingly and quickly spears dozens of lobsters. Sport and cooking take over from science. I surface, climb on the boat and speak to the Prof. Meanwhile Maiorca has checked all the other markers, and there is no doubt, where there is a buoy, the Wall is to be found nearby. Enzo comes back on board together with Camilli. We dry off and discuss what we have seen; The Prof is very interested, he listens to us and says he would like to do more experiments. Obviously the Wall is artificial, he says. But he still has some doubts in his scientific head. I must explain to the reader that the Wall is actually like a road; it is as wide as a main road, and raised a little off the sea bed. We’ll have to dig next to one of these rocks to see how high the Wall is and we’ll have to repeat this exercise at different positions to be sure. That is what the Prof and Maiorca say, even though Enzo, having seen this paved thing from close quarters, is sure that it is a man made wall, he is happy to do it. Now it’s late, it’s 5 pm and we are hungry. The Captain boiled the lobsters caught by Gianni, and now he’s cutting them in two, lengthways, with a huge knife, offering them to us with some slices of lemon. We stuff ourselves. It’s raining, rain as light as a veil.
The sea is slightly rough, a little more than this morning.
We all are in the pilothouse planning tomorrow’s work. Prof says that in order to be sure of the position of the Wall, we should throw the buoy immediately the anomaly is registered by the sensor which we are towing across the surface. To do this, and because the sensor is sixty metres away from the boat, we have to follow the sensor in the dinghy. Maiorca volunteers to carry out this job in the dinghy. We will do it tomorrow because the Captain, who is a very patient man, raises the anchor. Now it’s almost evening. We go back quickly; while sailing, we hide the instruments and all the professional stuff in the false bottom of the boat. The Captain is worried because he says that, in Bimini, they don’t like people who are interested in archaeology; the authority is fearful that we might take something interesting away and he is worried that the local police will come aboard.
So we enter the harbour as clean as tourists just looking at the wonderful sights the Bahamas sea offers. With precise manoeuvring, Captain Kuk hits the bow against a cement pole and grazes the boat along the small pier.
I don’t know if Kuk usually swears, but by the look on his face, I would say he does!
It is now 7 pm and it is raining. I’m fed up. We say goodbye and go back to the hotel.

Chapter 3

2008-12-24T06:14:00.000-08:00

Or; appointment with the fourth dimension. But will it be true then? Disquisition on the American method of working together and on our method, the Italian one. The sea is rough. The Prof retires to eat and to drink something. Is snoring contagious? Ugh.

February 12th
I wake up at seven. Fogar is sleeping in the same boat, and at seven thirty, he makes radio contact with Italy. Brring, brring, brring, the phone is continually in use, he wants the world to know about us. We have breakfast and then start to sort out the suitcases again because they have to be transferred to the other boat before we leave. We also learn that our orders have changed; rather than depart immediately, we will depart at 11 o'clock. So we have plenty of time. We decide to pay a visit to the nearby shops in Miamarina, and we cast a few furtive glances at the beautiful girls with their two metre long legs, lazily tanning themselves on the decks of the moored yachts. We meet a colleague of ours and we chat to pass the time. Eleven comes and goes and we haven't left yet. Finally at one, a whistle signals the call for embarkation. We climb aboard. Good-bye Miami. Slowly, slowly we leave our moorings and navigate through the innumerable channels, then finally into the open sea, ocean, destination Bimini, one of the Islands in the Bahamas. We are making for the Triangle.
Someone wrote that life was born in Bimini. We will see. It now awaits us; we have an appointment with the fourth dimension! It is a story which, they say, has aroused the passion of many people. I am not really interested in the story about the Triangle; it is just a matter of principle.

This mystery is in the Americans own backyard, but they don’t seem to take much interest in it. Also, they have this terrible habit of insisting on working together, while instead, we Italians prefer to work by ourselves. We believe that if one of us misses something, the other will probably see it. Thank God, we still believe in the Italian genius, as if we were still at the heart of the Renaissance, and, if we did nothing else, we struck a blow for all Italians. Our style of working proved to be the right one on every single occasion. Now listen please Gentlemen, do not phone Italy, at least for a few days. Let’s pretend we are from another nation, we do not want people to know who we are or what we are doing. We need to erase what has happened because if you make just one call, it is possible that others will hound us and it could lead to all sorts of problems, even killings, robberies and extortion.
Off we go; the sea is rough. The captain says "strength two, and when we get to the channel that divides the continent from the Bahamas we will start to dance". Lets get ready Prof. We secure, as well as we can, the brand new instrument from the Bocami, (something that measures the magnetic field of the earth), to the of stern of the ship, then we throw the sensor into the water. It has sixty metres of cable which trails behind us. We switch on the instrument and begin to take readings. The pen traces through a ribbon and prints a continuous flat red line, for now. For miles and miles everything is normal. There are no aberrations. The hours pass and we take it in turns to keep watch over the instrument. Then the sea gets stronger, the captain says "strength four" and the ship starts to dance. I suffer from sea sickness, but I have taken a tablet before departing. The Prof doesn't suffer; he is quietly sitting above the hand rails of the boat, watching the instrument. We will measure the whole channel from Miami to Bimini, he says. Very well Prof, we'll take it in turns to keep an eye on it. I occasionally go and sit inside the cabin where all the others are gathered, but they seem to be continually rushing off to the bathroom.

I feel pale and I am in a cold sweat, but I try to ignore it and return outside to take a mouthful of air. It is a really bad sea, and we have at least another ten hours of this, says the Captain. Astern, and about half a mile away is our flagship, 'Adventure 2'. It really is a beautiful ship. We are now in continual radio contact, especially as it is beginning to get dark. We take regular readings from the instrument which is measuring a continuous shift in the magnetic field, the pen draws a very ample curve that goes over the right of the ribbon; but it is simply because the sun is going down over the horizon, says the Prof, nothing abnormal or significant about it.
It is now pitch black. The Captain turns on a portable light above the instrument, so we can keep on reading the measurements. The Prof retires to the cabin to get something to eat and drink. Inside the boat people are being continuously tossed against each other. All the time they try to catch whatever is being knocked onto the floor. The Captain sets course on the autopilot and then starts to quietly doze, sprawled across his armchair, his legs together and above the level of his head, in the American way. The voyage continues like this. I spend time inside and outside, continually being knocked from pillar to post; but the coolness of the evening is good for me and I prefer to remain in the open air. The Prof is unmoved, like a Budda, he's tough. We lose all sense of time, it simply passes with each shift; but then a dazed and bewildered Camilli appears. Now the three of us take it in turns to monitor the instrument, which is good because it is beginning to get much cooler. I am able to doze too. Somehow time passes. I take over from the Prof. The red line continues to go straight.
No anomalies Prof? No, everything is in order. Finally the Captain says that we are near the island of Bimini. How we survived the past nine hours God only knows. Gradually the boat starts to slow down. The Captain is in contact with "Adventure 2". Now, the green lighthouse of the small harbour of Bimini can be seen. The Captain tells those in the other boat to drop anchor when they are level with the lighthouse because it is low tide and the boat draws about three metres.
Our boat has almost stopped now, the Captain takes a depth sounding and, guided by the lighthouse, and with the aid of a spot light which pierces the surrounding darkness, he moves slowly, slowly forward looking for the shore line. I am sure it is near; he veers to the left and follows the lighthouses profile with his light. The boat moves cautiously towards the entrance of the harbour, the shallow waters present some difficulty, there is only a narrow passage to navigate through, but our man knows these waters like the back of his hand. We berth at the wharf. It is midnight on the 12th February.
Naturally we cannot set foot on land until tomorrow morning. As all over the world, and here too, the omnipresent customs are vigilant. So for tonight we will end up sleeping on the boat. Again! We sleep in the stern cabin, that is me, the Maiorca family and Gianni Mangiali. The Prof sleeps in the bow, contently, together with Sironi, Camilli and Mossadich. In the pilothouse there are four couches to accommodate the four people who were destroyed by sea sickness. I fall asleep in a shot, but then I keep waking up, I cannot settle. Sleeping with the hatch open and berthed at the jetty of an island that I have never seen before and that I know nothing about worries me. What kind of people are they? Are they natives? What if they quietly climb aboard, what if some snakes slither into the cabins? In other words, I don't sleep peacefully.
The others sleep; I hear everyone’s light breathing. I sleep too. But suddenly I feel something hit me in the face...a nozzle!! I am startled of course, until I understand why it hit me, so I say nothing. The following morning I realise that Gianni had thrown a piece of equipment at me because I had snored! Good God, I've caught it from the Prof, he has infected me!

Chapter 2

2008-12-24T06:13:00.001-08:00

Or; what happens next: What happens if we get lost in Miami. Check out the boats. They are all very nice. Everyone has their own theories about the Triangle. How do I sleep in such a small cabin with the Prof and 5 suitcases? It is a nightmare just thinking about it.

February 10th.
Wake up Prof, we are in America and it is 8 o’clock. Camera slung round the neck and a $5 breakfast. Today we are free so we decide to go to the beach. Maiorca, shall we go? Yes, we need two taxies, but, where is the beach? We are being driven so fast that we lose sight of Maiorca. Up, down, red and green lights, but we cannot see Maiorca. We arrive. There is a beautiful enormous beach. We get out of the taxi; but the very high waves and rough sea, mean that we can’t go for a swim, damn! It starts to rain and I get a little angry, so we start to take photographs of Pelicans on the pier, they are tearing at the raw flesh of a barracuda. What does one do in this weather?
The taxi driver is Brazilian and he has an Italian wife. We talk. He works in a nightclub and his wife is a singer.
We want to stay here in Miami, but we have to go to the Triangle. But there is still no sign of Maiorca. Do you want to go back asks the taxi driver. No, we’ll stay. But the City is so big, it is impossible to get there on foot. Don’t worry; we will face that problem after lunch, bye.
We discover a small place to eat on the pier where a negro woman laughs heartily at what we are trying to say, but are unable to say. The dogfish arrives but it could easily have been a shark for all we knew. Great choice Prof! It was a lovely, hearty fish meal for $6 and 85 cents.
Goodbye.

We take the bus back to the hotel. But is it the correct road? Well, according to the map in my hand it is, says Prof. But do you know how to read it? Here we are you see; now here we should turn right ... then it is the next crossroad further ahead. Are you sure they gave us the right instructions? We should never have listened to them. Kilometers and kilometers go by, the city is enormous. After more than an hour I see a skyscraper which seems to me to be one I saw this morning. Here we are I say. Are you sure? Yes. We get off. Excellent, we are just a few steps from our hotel.
I phone Italy and typically of course, I dial the wrong number; my hello is greeted by a flabbergasted Genoese woman. I am finally able to talk to my wife. Things in Italy are not good! But I’ve only just left? I know, but you know, at times, miracles... it is late afternoon now.
We call a taxi and we go to Miamarina where our boats are moored. At the jetty we meet the rest of the expedition; film producers, writers, directors, engineers and lawyers, twenty people in all plus Captain Kuk, an American who they have taken on together with his boat. Engineer Biagini, from Bologna (a Bolognese) who is very nice, Lawyer Berti, who is very nice, Doctor Tirelli who is very nice. They are the three who, together with Fogar, dreamt up this expedition. They are all very nice. We visit the yacht "Adventure 2°" it is very beautiful, but I prefer to keep my feet on land. On the 12th, with this boat, and with that of Captain Kuk, the "Passagemaker", we will leave for the Bahamas. . Handshakes and slaps on the back, you are obliged to step on board. Are we all on the same a boat, no? In the evening Livio Biagini acts as host and invites us to supper in a posh place; we start talking and we start to get to know each other better. I have done this and that. I have a theory, this is my theory about the Triangle; we will see, we will see. But meanwhile, the table where we are gathered is so small and there isn't enough room to move your elbows. From the dish to the mouth the journey taken by the fork becomes difficult. Finally our evening is over. My dear Americans, it is only10 o’clock!
Did you hear what they said Prof? The rotor arm of a petrol engine has a clearance of just a fraction of a millimeter. Think about it, the planes which fly over the Triangle, a fault in the magnetic field and puff; the engines block and it is head first into the depth of the Atlantic. They are lost forever. What about boats? How do you explain the fact that they disappear too, even though they have a diesel engine? Well, we’ll have to wait and see.
Are you staying near here they ask? Yes, so we say goodnight and thank you, and see you tomorrow. I’m thirsty says Prof, shall we have a drink? Goodnight.

February 11th.
We all get up early in the morning. We pack our bags and leave the hotel, it is a pity because I like it so much, and I could have got used to it. Tonight we will sleep on the boat because early in the morning of the 12th, we will set out on our adventure aboard ‘Adventure 2’.
The same taxi takes us from the hotel to Miamarina. We get out and board the boat. The tiny cabin in the stern is for the Prof and me and five suitcases. I’m really worried about tonight, how can I move if there is only space enough for the Prof, and I know he will take it all? I’ll think about it later. We just leave our suitcases in the cabin. Then, the Prof, Maiorca and family and Mangiali decide to go to the Seaquarium, which is about 20 kilometres away, so I decide to join them. How can you go to Miami and not visit the marine circus, it’s like going to Florence and not visiting the ‘Uffizi’.
We arrive having crossed Miami, with all the streets twisting and turning, going up and down, from side to side, like a merry-go-round. We see road signs pointing to the exit from all directions; without stopping you just throw a few cents into a basket at the side of the road and then continue along these enormous roads built for enormous cars. We pay $5 per head to enter Seaquarium, it is enormous and, so they say, wonderful! Now I’m not so enthusiastic; the sun is strong and beating on my head.
I have only one thought; I need a hat, a cap, even a knotted handkerchief, anything, just to cover my head. It is a thought that will worry me for the rest of the day.
We talk from time to time. We pass from show to show, from one amphitheatre to another where they make dolphins do stupid things. But they make no impression on me; they leave me indifferent to their antics. However, the kids are having a great time. The Prof and Gianni take loads of pictures. Then on to another show in another amphitheatre where there are more dolphins. They, the dolphins, swim with attractive young girls. The Americans from Minnesota, Arkansas, Texas and Virginia all smile through their teeth, the whole world is happy. These ‘showmen’ make enormous whales jump through hoops in a tiny pool; it is so sad to see. Then these strong young men reward them with enormous buckets of fish.
I keep thinking about a hat, where can I find one. I am dead tired. But unfortunately we keep going from one pool to another. Now I begin to drag myself. It’s 2 pm and I’m really hungry. But we have to see the shows. At last, lunchtime comes. Self service.
Always the same stuff. Coke. Come on, eat something. Great lunch they say, are they being sarcastic I ask myself, I am not sure, I think it is terrible stuff. Pints of ice cold water run through our dry throats. I can’t stand these Americans with all their ice I say, and I repeat that it is an obsession with them. The Prof scolds me saying that I’m never happy with what I have. They like ice. And, after all, aren’t you on holiday? Well yes, I say, maybe. The kids laugh and have fun listening to our banter. I pay and off we go. Another stroll in the gardens, other fish to see. Sharks swimming on the surface with their dorsal fins stained with blood, caused by scrapping against the side of pillars supporting the bridges, which are used by the pedestrians who are walking too and fro to get a closer view. The sharks swimming in the deep pose no harm, but the white ones on the surface are sufficiently threatening and make the audience rather nervous. In fact, there are warning notice on the walls and grills telling people that if they fall in they are dead! You don’t need to understand English to get the message! At last I find something I like: two iguanas lying in the sun and two crocodiles, their eyes shut, waiting for their prey. If your shadow covers them, they lazily open one eye. Let’s go. More dolphins, and then a visit to the pool which is on three levels. There are beautiful groupers swimming by, pregnant and sleepy and very close to your nose which you have glued to the glass panes. Giant turtles pass by in absolute silence, together with white sea-bream as big as frying pans, moonfish, parrot fish and many others I do not know and don’t want to know as, after all, I’m not interested, I couldn’t care less. But please, can we go now? There is nothing left to see, and besides, somebody is telling us it is closing time. We walk towards the exit. By the entrance gate I discover a nice little shop where they sell souvenirs and of course some hats too. I buy one, but if only I had seen it when we went in! We take two taxis back to Miamarina and we all meet again on the boat.
At last something to eat on the support boat, a nice big dish of spaghetti that Piero Malinverni puts under our noses. We happily eat, and then Prof and I try to get the instruments ready, we are going to use them tomorrow morning as soon as we are out of the port. But, as the boat is full of suitcases and boxes, it is not easy to find what we are looking for. Not only do we have to move the suitcases, but also all everyone who is blocking the corridors; the pilothouse is full of people talking, moving, eating, drinking, opening the fridge, cleaning, dirtying, smoking, going up and down.
Eventually we manage to gather all the instruments, and then Prof and I, who are sleeping on the other boat, say goodnight to the troupe and leave. You first, no wait, it’s better if I go in first, then you follow, but be careful, bow your head, don’t shut the door, leave the hatch open too. Just a moment, I want to squat down on the loo. Now for a few minutes I have the whole cabin just for me, and I can even stretch out my legs. Then I draw them up again, as Prof comes in. The flush doesn’t work, he says. Well, I don’t need it. I think about the terrible night waiting for me and I am not happy. I put some wax in my ears; I swallow a sleeping pill and make myself comfortable. Goodnight. Will I sleep or remain awake? Listen, Prof says, if I snore and I annoy you, wake me. Well, I say, it would be better if you didn’t go to bed! Sleep and at least one of us will have some rest! My God, it is going to be awful, but tonight will be over soon.

Chapter 1

2008-12-24T06:11:00.000-08:00

Or: how to embark with seven suitcases that are officially two but are really two if you count them, and other adventures.

February 9th 1977.
We depart from the BOCAMI Head Office, heading for Malpensa Airport, 8 o’clock.
Giorgio Brigidi takes me and the Prof to the airport by jeep. For the 30 Km drive I have to sit on the rear seat, my legs stuck among the suitcases and my head bent because of the low roof. The journey is made up of impressions, questions, and worries about the set of suitcases, seven suitcases containing the instruments that will be used later to demonstrate something or other. I silently swear and keep my head low. The Prof chats with Giorgio. The landscape passes by and we get to the airport at last. Its 08.40 and of course not one of the other members of the expedition is in sight. We are early because we have to get the suitcases through Customs.
I have a forged Ata Carnet. The instruments that have to be in just two suitcases for the Ata Carnet, are in fact in seven suitcases, so when I present myself with all the stuff I just listen to shouts of horror coming from the guy in charge of the Customs papers. He laughs at us and asks how it is possible these days to falsify a Carnet. I show him how easy you can. The Prof tries to hide, he doesn’t want to know about Customs, that man, this is too strong an impact with reality for him; he is a scientist, he can’t stand things that we normal people have to deal with. So it’s up to me, even though, I don’t like the damn Customs very much either. But the instruments are there, inside seven heavy cases, and besides, we have our four personal suitcases too. Alas, what can we do? We have to get through somehow. I get in touch with the Head of the Malpensa Parcels Department and, my God, he’s a nice man who helps us, takes us, drags us, and makes us jump from one office to another. But forgive me he says, even if one wanted to close both eyes, nothing can be done gentlemen; can’t you see, the official stamp from the Milan Chamber of Commerce at the bottom of the sheets is missing! And now for Gods sake, what can we do? Without the official stamp you just can’t get through. And where should we go to get this stamp? They are speaking about us as if we had never left home before, in their opinion we are stupid idiots, but never mind, the important thing is that they let us go; but they don’t. We are stuck here.
Giorgio, I say, please, go to Milan with all that rubbish and get them to put the round stamp on it. Where is the Chamber of Commerce, he says. Bloody hell, look in the telephone directory. Giorgio looks and chases off, like a scolded rabbit. Time seems to be racing away; will we ever be able to leave? However, they assure us that we will leave and, if the worst comes to the worst they will send the Ata Carnet to New York on the next Alitalia flight.
This is a nice prospect indeed. Time flashes by like lightening.
In the meantime we get our personal luggage through. Tickets passed. I’m not smoking and Giorgio Brigidi isn’t here; the Prof’s scarf and detective story which were left on an armchair have been pinched. It is 12 o’clock. The other members of the expedition are coming. Gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable in the first class waiting room, says a female with a forty-two-teeth smile. She shows us to a very cosy room, clearly it is for rich people and I immediately feel at ease, like a fish on a marble slab. I make the acquaintance of Dr Camilli, Prof Mossatich and Mr Mangiali and the whole line of escorts. We are going to the Bermudas. The Alitalia young ladies all give us lots of encouragement; poor dears, they are going to the Bermudas! Only a quarter of an hour till departure, I hope my watch isn’t slow.
Finally Giorgio appears with the Carnet. All done? All done. Now we rush, waving the sheets at the man who shakes his head as a Profession. He finally adds the sacred signature and hey presto, the seven instruments turn into two! Guys we are coming through. Hang on! And when we are in New York with the falsified Ata Carnet, what do we do? You sort it out yourselves! Get going. We are leaving, goodbye and best wishes. Write to me, yes bye, farewell, and tears among those ladies who are present. The Triangle you know; many dead people. People disappear… Goodbye, we climb on board. Good heavens, what is this, a skyscraper? No it’s just a Jumbo, a monster I can tell you. Prof, you are 24A, please sit down by the window. I cannot, I have number 24C and besides I have to take a pill. I am really afraid of making a fool of myself; I can feel sick at times. In the meantime I make the acquaintance of Maiorca and his family; they were already on the plane having boarded in Rome. The stewardesses are nice and there are few passengers in this cabin, you can breath. I can’t stand crowds. Have you fastened your seat belts? Well done, good boys, here we go. Taking off…a tremendous noise and the thing gains height, together with my stomach, which, for a while is in my throat. At last the thing becomes horizontal, off with the belts and people stir; meanwhile the Prof starts to smoke, but it’s forbidden! Well we are Italians, aren’t we? We make friends; we are all going to the same place.
Camilli is a dentist and also a skin-diver, Mangiali is a clerk who goes in for under water photography, Mossatich is a Professor of Physics who acts as a photographer on land, Maiorca is himself, the Prof is a well-known scientist, I don’t know what I am, but who cares, we are going to solve the mystery of the Triangle. The rest of the expedition is waiting for us in Miami. That’s right, that Miami in Florida, where there are those enormous swimming-pools that fill the seventy-millimetre screen and where you always see those lovely girls, so languidly stretched out that they seem to be telling you to….. take me, take me! But try if you dare, you’ll see whether you are the one with an enormous belly and wallet, or the hunk who plays the part of the international spy. For him it’s so easy. Maybe you’d better stay at home and be happy with what you’ve got.
We are above the ocean already. Thoughts head towards just one goal, like missiles in the sky which all end up in the same hole. But I don’t want to think about it. I’m a little scared. However, the others seem quite relaxed.
This is not the first time I’ve travelled, I’m just a little afraid of being sick, not of the Triangle, even though I read the book “The Cursed Triangle” before starting the journey. It appears to be a book written specifically for us who are heading to the same place; it’s like a breviary of death, a nice passport to the hereafter. Hurray, we’ll see then. Some of us are scared to death because a witch, or fortune-teller, saw some kind of misfortune in the tea leaves.
The Atlantic passes below us, somebody reads, the Prof sleeps. He is a quiet man. Eh, wake up; they give us something to eat, looks like baby food. Eating on a plane is so difficult. What should be a pleasure turns into a punishment; small bags under the legs, tray on the tiny table, packets of food that won’t open, drinks balancing precariously on the tray, pillow behind the back, inevitably something falls. Please be careful, excuse me , let me pass, I knew it of course, but for Gods sake wait a moment, now please pass, tray on the ground, glass in one hand, you crouch, twist and he passes. The stewardess asks if we want coffee. I’ll have some. The window shades are lowered and it turns dark. A film starts. It is two dollars to listen to it, zero dollars to look. I look. I doze with just one eye open and glance at the film now and again, finally, after two hours the film ends and the light is back on. Below, there is a fantastic light show and somebody says that we are flying over Newfoundland. I see an enormous expanse of ice and some dots; they are icebreakers, stuck and sealed in all sides. It’s nice to think that Bocami is paying me and I’m warm here. I wonder how cold it is down there. I look away and think about the instruments, seven suitcases that I have to pick up as soon as I get to the Customs. Prof, seven suitcases plus our four is eleven suitcases for two men! Let’s have a drink he says, the Prof is always thirsty. He drinks a lot, but swears that he wants to lose weight. Yes, ok, tomorrow. Time passes… toilet, aisle, nap, window, aisle, crossed legs, yawns, stretch the legs. Coffee? No, thanks. Yes, coffee, he says.
New York! Look down there; the Captain says that we are landing at Kennedy Airport. Good God, it’s impossible, New York, I’m in New York. Oh, how happy I am. Then the idea of the Customs inspection instantly puts my feet back on the ground. Seven suitcases that are two. Who can understand that? Prof, listen, do you speak American? No! Neither do I. Great, isn’t it?
At last we are here, we have arrived, we have got this far. We all get off together; but move as if we are sleep-walking. There is somebody waiting for us, an Alitalia man, our guide who will quickly get us through Customs. Thank God. Who says that we are not efficient in Italy? Hello my friend, come with me, hold my hand firmly; but I’m a little more serious. Off we go to see the ogre.
Everybody goes in one direction, while my Alitalia friend and I in another. I have the Carnet to sort out; open that suitcase, please. Oh no, surely not this one. I open it and start to sweat. Check. The Carnet is written in Italian. The Carnet must be written in English. Oh God, and now what? Here it is written “two suitcases of instruments”, and what’s in the other suitcases? More instruments, OK? “No…it’s not OK”. Don’t understand, do you? No, don’t understand. Two instruments in seven suitcases! I’m in a cold sweat. Alitalia tries to calm down the ogre. But he doesn’t understand much either; eventually, the man calms down. He erases two and writes seven on all the papers and then disappears. That’s done. Malpensa Customs will not be looking forward to seeing me again. Goodbye.

I find the others outside and the Prof raises his spirits. I raise mine too, because he has my two suitcases with him. We head towards the other terminal. We have to wait four hours before we can catch the internal flight to Miami, so we must try to occupy them. How? Gentlemen, we are going to the Triangle. But the Americans don’t appear to be interested, they couldn’t care less. What kind of people are they? We are going to the Triangle, don’t you know? It is we Italians who are going to confront the Triangle. Don’t you understand, don’t you care? No they don’t. They have those enormous cars which run silently and they are not interested in our expedition. We, who have the “Cinquecento”, it is we who are going to the Bermudas. We are hoping to pick up some crumbs that they may have left behind, who knows, maybe we will, we’ll see. But I don’t really believe it. If I look at their cars and then think about our Cinquecento, no I don’t believe it, it is not possible. Don’t be angry. You never have a good word to say about anyone or anything we know that. So, let’s go. I am a pessimist.
It is 4pm local time; we left Malpensa at 1pm our time. What a small world, it has only taken 3 hours to get here! We are all stretched out in Eastern Airlines comfortable armchairs, waiting for our flight.
We start to look around. So, this is the USA, OK.
Their cars are as long as four shop windows and they don’t make any noise. Enormous young men with square shoulders and blond girls in tow pass by without giving us a second look. We are waiting; we are walking up and down. I buy some postcards but I need some stamps, they are dispensed by machine, I need some cents, has anybody got any cents? Let’s go and eat it is 7 o’clock.
It’s self service. A strange mixture of salad and other things with jam, ice cold coca cola even though it is freezing outside. We start to spend our money; $3 and 60 cents. Ok, I haven’t spent too much, and you Prof? Neither have I, $5 dollars, not bad. The others are looking after the luggage, so we go back to relieve them so they can get something to eat. Rest, sleep, smoke, and stretch our legs ready for another trip. We are ready. The Triangle; finally we are able to continue our journey, we squeeze onto the aircraft and off we go. It is a thing much smaller than the jumbo and of course all our movements become much more difficult. But we cannot go back, besides, it takes just 3 hours. We start chatting, and eventually everyone is talking over each other. Camilli starts telling funny stories, he is good at this. Time goes by. We are all going into the unknown; we become friends and start to get to know each other better. Life is so short. We arrive at Miami Airport.

We get off the plane like shadows, we are all so tired. However, someone is waiting for us. It is Ambrogio Fogar with Paolo Sironi, they’ve come to help us, pleased to meet you, welcome to Miami, give me your luggage, there is a car outside. Let’s take a taxi too because we have a mountain of luggage. The air is wonderful, yet it is almost midnight.
The stars twinkle between the palm trees, it takes me back to another century, I am in love with this place already; Miami I love you. I breathe the air which has a smell of youth; it reminds me of spring, the taste of simple things, my teacher and the flowers on the window sill. People are wearing short sleeves, I have a coat. Now we head towards Miami Beach and the ‘Mardi Gras’ hotel. After a brisk drive along a straight road lined with superb palm trees, we arrive. Our rooms have colour televisions and a nice shower with plenty of hot water. These Americans! Lots of little soaps, matches, paper tissues, plenty of ice, mountains of towels. Tell me something Prof, just think about our Italian hotels.
The others sleep on the boat, but because there isn’t enough space the Prof, myself and Maiorca and his family stay at the hotel. Goodnight, see you tomorrow. What a place!
It is the life of millionaires, and it is just the start.

Preface by Com. Luigi Ferraro

2008-12-24T06:09:00.000-08:00

During my life I have done many odd things, but I would never have believed that I might be asked, with such insistency, to write the preface to a book! I explained very clearly that asking me to do such a thing was nonsense, in as far as it was so different from the field in which I have some expertise and therefore a certain importance and consequently some credibility.
I said that I was ready to cooperate and help find some prestigious people in the field of culture who, by using their name, would add importance to this work, which it surely deserves, but it was all in vain. I found myself surrounded by a many heads, authors and friends, but they were so stubborn and unreasonable that I could not hide my annoyance; in the end I felt forced to accept this task, but “on your head be it” I cautioned!
However, acceptance came after having talked privately to the author, inviting him to reflect, and trying sincerely and affectionately to make him understand that he should not be influenced by idealistic considerations. He answered that my reasoning could be right but he didn’t care, it seemed that his real interest was in me and because of this he would be quite happy with my signature alone!! It must be made clear that he was influenced more by my gold medal for military valour than by my attempts to dissuade him.
I wanted to underline this detail because I think it helps to emphasize the structure, the feelings and the moral values of Menconi, in whose writing, as well as in any of his definitions, interpretations and conclusions, there cannot be the slightest sign of malevolence or malice (Unless the readers want to see it in this way).
His fellow adventurers lived and worked with Menconi for a fortnight, and that was enough time to ascertain the truth.
Uri Geller was with him for a shorter period of time, but his mediumistic powers allowed him to come to the same conclusion as me.
He borrowed Fogar from Bocami, through my good offices, and he brought him back alive!
The Prof. has always known him; and mutual esteem, friendship and warmth do not permit any false interpretations.
The expedition and its organizers deserve praise and gratitude for trying to reveal a mystery of universal interest.
Aware of this importance, they chose top level experts in every field, and so we have Fogar as the navigator, Maiorca as the skin-diver, a super terrestrial by the name of Uri Geller, and the famous scientist, Prof. Carabelli, and they were greatly helped in complementary fields by collaborators such as Mangiali, Tirelli, Camilli, Biagini, Mossatich, etc.
They could not have had a better group. The mystery will remain a mystery, but it does not diminish the merit of those who tried to reveal it. If you read the story with a serene soul, with a touch of intelligence, you will begin to appreciate the peculiar instinctive inspiration of the author, his concise and expressive humour. Then, between laughter and other feelings, you realize that it is put in a style that makes you appreciate the human dimension of the enterprise and all of its heroes.
I forgot! All the strange things that have happened to me over the years make me realise how lucky I have been!
Here I am, certain to get a great reputation for writing the preface to a surely successful book.

Luigi Ferraro
Commander Luigi Ferraro was the inventor of the means of assault (MAS) for the Marina Militare Italiana (1941). He created and runs the well known manufacturer of diving equipment, Techni-Sub.

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2008-12-24T03:06:00.001-08:00