Sometimes things don’t go as planned – and those moments often make for the best stories. Tripping columns offer readers a chance to share their wild adventures from the road.
I’ve discovered the secret of the mysterious shipwrecks and disappearances in the Bermuda Triangle. It’s rum.
My discovery began as day of sailing the sparkling turquoise waters of postcard-perfect Bermuda with a local, complete with his captain’s cap. Captain Ron assured me he knew the waters better than anyone and I felt reassured that I was in good hands. Conditions were perfect: warm breeze, clear skies and the boat loaded with a barbeque, food and rum. What could possibly go wrong? Besides the fact we were in the Bermuda Triangle...
Oh yes, I know that the island is encircled with dangerous submerged reefs, shipwrecks and stories of ships that simply disappear into thin air. Paranormal explanations include personal accounts of strange light sightings and space-time warps.
But I suggest rum as the perpetrator. Rum has been sold on the island for over 200 years, and the Rum Swizzle is the islands’ unofficial national drink. I drank the fruity concoction and experienced strange sightings and lapses in time myself.
As we sailed around the island, past pink beaches and pastel houses, both the sun and the rum stocks were getting low, and I was a tad concerned about making it back before sunset. “Ah’ll ged you back in no time First Matey, I know these wadders bedder than anyone,” slurred Capt. Ron, cap askew, as he filled his glass with the rest of the bottle of rum.
Soon the only lights on the lonely Atlantic Ocean were the stars and distant houses, which shone as tiny guides on the otherwise black velvet night. Ron lost interest in navigating, having opened a new bottle of rum.
I peered nervously into the darkness. I made out large rocks lying directly ahead of us. I also noticed we were approaching them quickly and mentioned this to Ron. Loudly.
“Don worry lilll’ lllady, I know theesh wadders...” CRUNCH! Ron managed to dislodge us from the jagged rocks, but then steered right into a shoal, which ripped off the rudder.
Drifting out to sea in the black of night with a drunken captain in the Bermuda Triangle. Now I was really in trouble.
I spied the shoreline and wondered if I could swim. Unlikely.
A frantic call to habour police got us towed back to port, preserving us from the mysterious fate that has befallen other vessels, undoubtedly under the influence of the same “spirit” of the Bermuda Triangle.
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