Lost Signal In The Bermuda Triangle

Bermuda Triangle, they said, was just a myth. Just an anthology of tall tales and misunderstood meteorology. But I know what I saw. And I wasn’t supposed to be around to tell it.

It began as a routine job. I was a freelance fishery journalist, out to do a story on maritime folklore for a new series of “Unsolved Mysteries of the Deep.” The plan was simple: We’d fly out of Miami, black bag ourselves onto a chartered vessel through the Bermuda Triangle, interview a couple of “true believers,” head home, and assemble a sort of something-something skepticalish piece that would make our hosts feel good about us.

Keep them on both sides of the argument on the boil.

The boat was not much to speak of—The Albatross, a rust-rotted but sea-worthy vessel, commanded by a late-sixties retiree with the too-on-the-nose name of Captain Dale, who said he’d seen “things in the sea”, but refused to say more. I was accompanied by Sarah, a marine biologist researching migratory whale migration patterns, and Max, a drone pilot capturing footage for a documentary.

I woke up around 3:17 a.m. to the sound of a thud and Max yelling, “What the hell is that?” I rushed to the deck. The sky was an unnatural, pulsing violet because the atmosphere had become a bomb’s lobotomy scar, and now there it lay, its face blown off. The sea was quiet, too quiet. Even the wind had stopped.

And then our compasses began whirling like dervishes. The GPS went dead. Radios? Silent.

Sarah pointed to the sky. “That isn’t a storm,” she whispered.

Overhead, a black triangle floated noiselessly, barely visible against the sky. Not a sound. Not a breeze. Max attempted to take off the drone, but it lifted off unpredictably.

Then I went back to the deck and ran the circuit.

Captain Dale stumbled and trembled. "I'm back," he muttered. "I said," she should not return here..."

Light beams are wrapped around the boat.

Stopping time.

I can't explain what happened next. That makes sense. The sea bends like a bowl. The star has been transformed into a spiral. I felt my body being separated - how my mind was separated from the flesh. The photo immersed my brain: an old ship swallowed up by water, people silent,

with translucent skin, and strange creatures with eyes at the end. A huge, deep, unfashionable eye.

Then it's black.

When I came out, I floated in the rescue area. By yourself. Albatross is gone. There are no signs by Sarah, Max, or Captain Dale.

I was greeted by the Coast Guard with a helicopter 18 hours later. Officials said there were no storms in the area. No shipwrecks were found. No emergency calls have been recorded.

You told me that I didn't need to hallucinate. The crew probably had mechanical difficulties and sank. I was lucky enough to live there.

But I know the truth.

Notebook - the one I always pulled in a waterproof bag - was something new. Something I didn't write.

It was a sketch of an empty triangular object drawn with precise geometric lines. Below are four words printed with perfect block letters:

"They are not selected."

I tried to look it up. I have submitted an inquiry under FOIA. He contacted former naval officers, meteorologists, and even Uphologists. Each lead was edited or mysteriously silent. The man I spoke to, a retired radar engineer at a naval base near Puerto Rico, said, "You know what's there. You just don't talk about it."

Weeks have passed. Then something strange started to happen.

My email was deleted without mentioning it. My cloud material disappeared from the trip. Drone memory card? Fried. The friend I spoke to stopped returning the phone. One night, I found the door a little open, but it was always closed.

Then the dream began.

I returned to the triangle every night - in this purple heaven, these eyes were approaching. Look at me.

Judge me.

I attempted to publish the story. Editors rejected it, announcing it turned into too “fringe” for his or her platforms. That it felt “manufactured,” “unbelievable,” “fictional.”

So here I am, turning to Vocal Media. Because perhaps a person right here believes. Maybe a person available has visible the violet sky, the still ocean, the spinning compasses. Maybe another person survived and has a web page of their pocketbook, too.

Or perhaps… they have been chosen.

I wasn't.

But I remember.

And I'm beginning to suppose remembering turned into the point.

Because a part of me by no means left.

And I worry my relaxation might be referred to as back soon.

Do you have a Bermuda Triangle story, dream, or theory? Comment below—let’s join the dots. Because I have a sense that the Triangle isn`t achieved with us yet.