Scared to Death - A Novel
1
Monday, February 4, 1963 – 1:14:52 a.m.
On the edge of the Bermuda Triangle in the Florida Straits
The roaring of rough seas and the overbearing darkness of early morning prevented the crew of the SS Marine Sulphur Queen from seeing the seven-foot bubble appearing on the weather deck near the bow. Just seconds before 1:15 a.m. on February 4, 1963, darkness was enveloping the 504 foot long tanker as it made its way toward Norfolk, Virginia, carrying its load of molten sulphur. Then, at 1:15 a.m. precisely, a bubble, appearing first violet, and then gradually changing in color from blue to green, then to yellow and finally to red, appeared on the tanker’s bow two feet off the deck and seven feet in diameter. The color change occurred quickly, lasting no more than 15 seconds until it reached its final shimmering glow of blood red. The iridescent hue, emitted by its shimmering, cast eerie shadows and blood-red shapes across the decking. It made no sound, affected no laws of nature and was perfectly spherical. Were one to walk around it, he would note that it appeared the same from every angle. It hovered silently against the backdrop of darkness and the roar of the sea. It didn’t rotate or travel, but it did move in perfect harmony with the up and down motion of the tanker over which it now rested. The distance between it and the deck always remained exactly two feet. Its diameter also always remained exactly seven feet. It never varied or changed. It was as if it were solid, but it was not. Had someone been there to touch it, he would have felt no texture to it. It would not have been cold or hot, hard or soft. It would have been as if there were nothing there at all. Yet there was. Had a hand been pushed into this bubble, no ripples would have occurred as one might expect to happen if he were to push on a bubble made of soap or perhaps even a balloon. He would note, however, that his hand would disappear into nothing. It would appear that his arm was cut off in a perfectly straight line where it entered the bubble. However, upon removing it, he would encounter no harm. Everything about him would be as it was before. There would be no change.
In reality, nothing was there, yet it was. The oddness of this phenomenon, however, went unnoticed since the crew was concentrating all their energies on the storm outside. The crewmates were involved in either guiding the tanker through the rough seas or staying inside to avoid being swept off the deck into the violent waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
The tanker was somewhere off the coast of Florida, part way into what’s been called the Bermuda Triangle, an area of ocean whose generally accepted apexes range from Miami, Florida, to Bermuda to San Juan, Puerto Rico. Although not superstitious, many of the crewmembers were nevertheless edgy at having to travel through this particular part of the ocean. Had they known of the ethereal bubble that now hovered above the deck of their tanker, likely many of them would have reasoned that the stories and myths of this part of the ocean were true. Some would have prayed to God. Others would have scoffed at it as nothing, while others would likely have begged the captain on bended knee to turn the tanker around and go home. Nevertheless, no one did because no one knew.
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