Bermuda Triangle Quotes

Alec: Catarina made up the Bermuda Triangle? Magnus: Don't be ridiculous, Alexander. That was Ragnor.

Don't you believe in flying saucers, they ask me? Don't you believe in telepathy? — in ancient astronauts? — in the Bermuda triangle? — in life after death? No, I reply. No, no, no, no, and again no. One person recently, goaded into desperation by the litany of unrelieved negation, burst out "Don't you believe in anything?" Yes", I said. "I believe in evidence. I believe in observation, measurement, and reasoning, confirmed by independent observers. I'll believe anything, no matter how wild and ridiculous, if there is evidence for it. The wilder and more ridiculous something is, however, the firmer and more solid the evidence will have to be.

Our Nora has a magic pussy. It’s the opposite of the Bermuda Triangle. Lost men sail into it and then find themselves.

In fact, I think that’s probably what the Bermuda Triangle is up to. It doesn’t mean to do any harm, and it’s actually pretty nice once you get to know it. It’s just that Bermuda doesn’t know how to handle itself when somebody sails into its territory, because that hardly ever happens.

Afternoons are the Bermuda Triangles of our days. Across many domains, the trough represents a danger zone for productivity, ethics, and health.

Funny, reely," he said. "You spend your whole life goin' to school and learnin' stuff, and they never tell you about stuff like the Bermuda Triangle and UFOs and all these Old Masters running around the inside of the Earth. Why do we have to learn boring stuff when there's all this brilliant stuff we could be learnin', that's what I want to know.

I can't help it that this is the Bermuda Triangle-she pointed at her crotch-when guys venture there, they tend to stay. I tapped my chin. Oh, I thought you called it that because it's sucked in lots of seamen.

I'm making out with a dead girl in my dreams. I'm screwing women I have no business screwing. I'm pushing away the one person who actually gives a damn about me. It's like the Bermuda Triangle of heartache and I'm sinking fast.

Ty tapped Nick's knee. "Do you really want him left behind knowing you did this? It can wait until we get back." "Just stop talking, Beaumont," Nick grunted. "You're like the Bermuda Triangle of morals." Zane snorted and covered it with a cough.

My thing is a Mystery and not just a Mystery, but Bermuda--no sun, only Triangle. Unknowable. Unsolvable.

Like the Bermuda triangle, she swallowed her victims whole.

Human beings had polluted the seawater and mechanically destroyed the nearby coast; all life had paid this price. Often, in airports, on sidewalks, at restaurants, children and adults alike stop me to ask about barracuda and sharks; killer whales; the deadly sorcery of the Bermuda Triangle; the Loch Ness Monster. When I saw Le Veyron, I believed that the sea’s most monstrous force doesn’t live in Loch Ness. It lives in us.

There isn’t anything about me that is analogous to the Bermuda Triangle’s “rogue wave” phenomenon (at least I hope there isn’t). I don’t capsize sailors, much less entire ships. I keep myself to myself, you know? In fact, I think that’s probably what the Bermuda Triangle is up to. It doesn’t mean to do any harm, and it’s actually pretty nice once you get to know it. It’s just that Bermuda doesn’t know how to handle itself when somebody sails into its territory, because that hardly ever happens. It hasn’t had much chance to practice, and it’s used to things going a certain way. So if a sailor DOES come around, it gets a little nervous, freaks the fuck out, and creates hurricane-like devastation in every direction around it. And then it gets embarrassed and sad and calls its friends.

Afternoons are the Bermuda Triangles of our days

There is nothing right about the triangle known as Bermuda. The only thing right is the knowledge you’ll be left behind if you try to rack up the Bermuda Triangle.

Sometimes life carries you in different directions and you don’t even realise you’ve gone down a fork in the road; the great GPS of destiny has not followed the planned route and there has been no sign to indicate you’ve passed the point of no return. Life’s Bermuda Triangle is both myth and reality.

Everything I do today is for Zahra’s sweet smiles and soft laughs. She has the magnetism of the Bermuda Triangle, and I’m a lost plane desperate to land.

No matter what precautions were taken, socks disappeared into a Bermuda Triangle for socks, a swirling vortex that swallowed one sock at a time, leaving its partner stranded.

Ick. The only thing worse than ‘silly family time’ was ‘serious family time’, which we’d just entered like it was the Bermuda Triangle.

She has the magnetism of the Bermuda Triangle, and I’m a lost plane desperate to land.

calling his eyes, smile, and voice her Bermuda Triangle. Any three of those could take her off course,

And I know that there are black boys and black girls out there lost in a Bermuda triangle of the mind or stranded in the doldrums of America, some of them treading and some of them drowning, never feeling and never forgetting. The most precious thing I had then is the most precious thing I have now—my own curiosity. That is the thing I knew, even in the classroom, they could not take from me. That is the thing that buoyed me and eventually plucked me from the sea.

I swear,” Hal said, “this place is like the Bermuda Triangle. It’s friggin’ spooky. I went out to feed the monkeys last night, and I saw the Easter Bunny walking down the road with Sasquatch. And now there are rockets shooting into the sky from nowhere.

Let's face it. I'm the romantic equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. Men date me then disappear , never to be heard from again." Jaymes, Olivia (2013-12-18). Justice Healed (Cowboy Justice Association Book 2) (Kindle Locations 981-982). Blonde Ambition Press. Kindle Edition.

The Bermuda Triangle coughs up myths like a consumptive asthmatic. Missing vessels are blamed on aliens. Atlantis. Time rifts. Ghost ships. Magnetic anomalies. Methane eruptions. People go mad. People lose their minds. Sometimes I think I've been in the Bermuda Triangle my whole life.

You spend hours wrestling with yourself, trying to keep your vision intact, your intensity undiminished. Sometimes I have to stick my head under the tap to get my wits back. And for what? You know what publishing is like these days. Paper costs going up all the time. Nothing gets printed unless it can be made into a movie. Everything is media. Crooked politicians sell their unwritten memoirs for thousands. I’ve got a great idea for a novel. It’s about a giant shark who’s possessed by a demon while swimming in the Bermuda Triangle. And the demon talks in CB lingo, see? There’ll be recipes in the back.

What about this, then?” The metal surface rippled at his touch, stretching and splitting into a million thin wires that made it look like a giant version of one of those pin art toys Sophie used to play with as a kid. He tapped his fingers in a quick rhythm, and the pins shifted and sank, forming highs and lows and smooth, flat stretches. Sophie couldn’t figure out what she was seeing until he tapped a few additional beats and tiny pricks of light flared at the ends of each wire, bathing the scene in vibrant colors and marking everything with glowing labels. “It’s a map,” she murmured, making a slow circle around the table. And not just any map. A 3-D map of the Lost Cities. She’d never seen her world like that before, with everything spread out across the planet in relation to everything else. Eternalia, the elvin capital that had likely inspired the human myths of Shangri-la, was much closer to the Sanctuary than she’d realized, nestled into one of the valleys of the Himalayas—while the special animal preserve was hidden inside the hollowed-out mountains. Atlantis was deep under the Mediterranean Sea, just like the human legends described, and it looked like Mysterium was somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. The Gateway to Exile was in the middle of the Sahara desert—though the prison itself was buried in the center of the earth. And Lumenaria… “Wait. Is Lumenaria one of the Channel Islands?” she asked, trying to compare what she was seeing against the maps she’d memorized in her human geography classes. “Yes and no. It’s technically part of the same archipelago. But we’ve kept that particular island hidden, so humans have no idea it exists—well, beyond the convoluted stories we’ve occasionally leaked to cause confusion.

There was a strange happening during a performance of Elgar's 'Sea Pictures' at a concert hall in Bermuda tonight, when the man playing the triangle disappeared.

The space center's proximity to my backyard came to signify an intersection between heaven and hell. Florida was somewhere between the two; it was America's phantom limb, a place where spaceships were catapulted out into the cosmos. Alligators emerged from brackish water. Vultures and hawks circled above. Mosquitoes patrolled the atmosphere at eye level. We shared an ocean with sharks and dolphins. There were no seasons, only variations of humidity. Time slithered, festering in a damp wake of recollections. I believed in the Bermuda Triangle. I thought it would move in over Florida one night. By dusk an unknown force would vaporize us through a tear in the atmosphere. We'd be stuck, wandering in a parallel version of the same place, unaware that we were dead but dreaming. People came here to vanish.

I was most pleasantly surprised, with this chart, to see a Yod pointing at the Moon. After all, what other planet influences changeable behaviour and creates a strong magnetic pull? I am tempted to say that the problem of the Bermuda Triangle has been solved: it was the Moon all along! But it is obviously more complicated than that. For one thing, there is a theory that there is an energy vortex operating through the earth, with a corresponding ‘problem’ area on the other side of the world, based near the west coast of Australia in the Indian Ocean. I noticed when I was looking at my Atlas that these trouble spots are on, or near, the Tropic of Cancer in the north, and the Tropic of Capricorn in the south. Being that these circles are the northern-most and southern-most positions of the Sun as it passes over the earth at the summer and winter solstices, there must be a residue of magnetic energy along those lines. To create a vortex, another energy line must be intersecting each tropical line at a right angle (90°). We can see this energy line on the chart: the Pluto-Midheaven opposition would be operating at full strength, as the critical degree is within 45’ of true (meaning, that the difference between the position of Pluto and the Midheaven, directly overhead, is almost exactly 180°). Because Mars is conjunct to Pluto, also opposite to the Midheaven, stormy weather, previously noted in this book, was raging: a potent combination.

I found myself in- “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!!” I found myself sliding down what I assume was the poop deck of a large boat. I don’t even know what part of the boat the poop deck is, but I’m just going to guess that’s where I was. As far as what waters we are sinking and spiraling around in a whirlpool over, I had a pretty good idea. “Hold onto something, Jeff!” shouted Jim. “I probably should have warned you first!” “No shit!” I cried. The urge to vomit rose up in my chest as I slid downward and grabbed onto the railing for dear life. “I think I’ve seen enough of this one, Jim!” “You know where we are?” “Yes, it’s the fucking Bermuda Triangle!” I bellowed as flying saucers emerged from the tremulous waters around us. “I get it! Very nice!” “Okay, sorry!

He had a heart attack here in Montevideo, barely lived to tell the tale. There is something like a Bermuda Triangle here, it’s not to be underestimated. It’s kind of the B-side of the River Plate, the side that’ll eat you right up. If you can’t handle it, it’ll kill you. You have to be careful with Uruguay, especially if you come thinking it’s like the countryside in Argentina only everybody’s good, there’s no corruption, no Peronism, you can smoke pot on the street, the cute little country where everyone is a good person and friendly and all that bullshit. If you’re not paying attention, Uruguay will fuck you in the ass.” “Enzo!” said Clara

rendered the aircraft no longer airworthy and was thereby beyond the scope of human endeavor to control.” The force that rendered the aircraft uncontrollable was unknown. Another report from a similar disappearance said that “no more baffling problem has ever been presented for investigation.” It was obvious to me that my research into the subject of missing planes had become an obsession, which had everyone concerned, because the media frenzy was over. The public’s fascination with the Bermuda Triangle had passed. I was the only one still fixated on it. One friend suggested it was pregnancy hormones, but Sarah thought I had lost touch with reality. A week ago, she’d begged me, yet again, to see a therapist. As I sat at the kitchen table, I felt the sweet sensation of my baby moving in my belly. It was like a flutter of butterfly wings. Was he kicking or rolling over? Or was he a she? I sat back and stared at those crash reports and realized how quiet the condo was. There was no music or television, laughter or conversation. It was just me, alone with the sound of pages turning. It wasn’t so bad in the daytime, but at night, in the darkness, with only one lamp at my desk or with the cold glare of the fluorescent light bulb over the kitchen table and the unbearable silence, I recognized how desperately I missed Dean.

a regular Bermuda Triangle of dull conformity.

You don’t know it, but these are the last moments of the brief courtship you get to have with yourself as a female human being in 1990s America, a courtship in which you do not “love yourself” or “hate yourself” (because those terms would not have made sense to you) but instead have a profound sense of satisfaction with the world around you and your apparent role in it. Then something happens to you. It’s not a single-event trauma. Your parents do not get divorced. No one dies. You are not abused. And yet. Something happens to you. And because you cannot trace what happens to you to a single, traumatic event, you struggle to explain it, struggle for years to admit that anything happened to you at all. But it did. It’s obvious, visible in your face, your posture. A friend in middle school tells you that her mom has asked her, “What happened to Jessica?” What happened to you? It’s a big fish of a question, large and slippery. When you are twelve years old, a book titled Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls becomes a national best-seller. The author, Mary Pipher, writes, “Something dramatic happens to girls in early adolescence. Just as planes and ships disappear mysteriously into the Bermuda Triangle, so do the selves of girls go down in droves.” Pipher argues that while adolescence has always been a difficult transition for boys and girls alike, there is something in the cultural air of the early 1990s that has spawned an epidemic of depression, self-mutilation, and eating disorders.

Gas stations during road trips are in between places, they are the Bermuda Triangles of our roads, points of fatigue, and cool air, and yellow headlights gasoline pumps, windshields caked in flying insects, and oil stains.

And it is here—on this western end of the street—that over the years has become known as Louisiana State’s most prominent breeding ground for disappearances and suicides: the delta region’s bastard lovechild between The Golden Gate Bridge and the Bermuda Triangle.

She has the magnetism of the Bermuda Triangle, and I'm a lost plane desperate to land.

Since the early 1990s, dozens of international backpackers have vanished without a trace while traveling in and around the Parvati Valley, an average of one every year, earning this tiny, remote sliver of the subcontinent a dark reputation as India’s backpacker Bermuda Triangle.

Chaos Cocktail by Stewart Stafford Herky-jerky's hanky-panky, Wakey-wakey, eggs n' bakey! Cosmic Mercury's retrograde trick, Nilsson's Brandy Alexander kick. John heard Bermuda's jingle-jangle, Storm surge in an Exorcist Triangle! Sea shanties upending Behan's hive, All stout hornets jigged and jived. Yoko's "Oh, no!" on firmer ground, Her ageing mariner didn't drown, Lonely Ringo plays bingo bongo, Paul, mugged down near the Congo. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

So this Vauchelles really isn’t far then?’ ‘It’s a fair way, twenty-five minutes I’d say. One of my sisters moved there, thirty years ago. Not seen her since.’ She made it sound like the Bermuda Triangle or a small village on a different continent, rather than actually in the same valley. ‘But why did you not see your sister since then?’ ‘What, go all the way to Vauchelles? I’m not Jacques Cousteau. Only gossipers have time for that, not us workers.

The Bermuda Triangle has migrated to China That is the only feasible explanation for so many people to go missing.

The Cryptic Sea by Stewart Stafford Walk free through Jailer's Gate, Sail to where corporeal forms fade, No longer seen as a common cutpurse, Now in a navigational cut-and-thrust. Note how the ocean heaves and boils, Swirling into towering vortex coils, With hideous creatures at every base, Bearing the haunting Kraken's face. Great ghost ships groan from the mist, And balls of light form fast betwixt, The horizon and the sea spray foam, Save us all and set sail for home. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

Heading directly into the Bermuda Triangle. Nobody pays attention. Apparently, nobody recognizes the Bermuda Triangle unless you draw a triangle on it.

She has the magnetism of the Bermuda Triangle and I'm a lost plane desperate to land.

I flip through those two “fancy” hangers again and again—and even expand the search to the “not fancy” section of the closet. I scour the “outgrew it but not ready to say goodbye” section in the way back of the closet, but the shirt is nowhere to be found. Blergh! In desperation, I drop down to my pile of “let’s see if they still smell tomorrow” clothes on the floor, pinching my nose closed as I rummage through the mountain of stinky horse-themed tops and gym clothes. “Aha!” I bravely plunge my arm into the pile of stench. There, hiding at the very bottom, is the missing white button-down. Of course! I wore it back in October for my Amelia Earhart costume at the Halloween parade! It must have somehow disappeared in my Bermuda Triangle of laundry . . . for three months. Yikes. I

to the North

The Mystery of the Howling Dog The Mystery of the Hidden Suitcase The Mystery of Treasure Island ~ Easter Holidays: The Mystery of Four Towers The Mystery of the Burning Plane The Mystery of the Russian Spy The Mystery of Ghost Island The Mystery of the Perfect Thief The Mystery of the Underwater Car The Mystery of the Crown Jewels ~ Summer Holidays: The Mystery of the Amphibious Jeep The Mystery of the Escaped Prisoner The Mystery of the Bermuda Triangle The Mystery of the Runaway King The Mystery of the Secret Lake

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The bet is that there's no such thing as original sin, a natural inclination in human nature leading to monstrous, barbarous, and uncivil behavior. Given the evidence of barbarity across the globe, one has to consider such a bet against remarkable odds, to say the least. Adrift from the Judeo-Christian ethical anchor, we seem more to be headed toward the Bermuda Triangle, ignoring the flotsam of other cultures who've ventured there before us: fascist German, communist Russia and China, the Middle East, pre-Christian India and Africa. When modern progressives are incapable of making the argument that the practice of sati in India, or the treatment of women in the Middle East, or the cannibalism of ancient Americans is evil – as seems to be increasingly the case (because given their philosophical foundations it must be the case) – the monsters have arrived. If

Kilgore Trout was born in a hospital in Bermuda, near where his father, Raymond, was gathering material for a follow-up on his doctoral dissertation on the last of the Bermuda Erns. The sole remaining rookery of those great blue birds, the largest of all pelagic raptors, was on Dead Man’s Rock, an otherwise uninhabited lava steeple in the center of the notorious Bermuda Triangle. Trout was in fact conceived on Dead Man’s Rock during his parents’ honeymoon.

The Bermuda Triangle is also known as the Devil’s Triangle. It is located off of the Southeastern coast of the United States. It’s in the Atlantic Ocean running from the island of Bermuda to Florida and Puerto Rico. It covers around 500,000 square miles of ocean. Many aircraft and ships have disappeared in this area. Many of these incidents are very strange. One of the first incidents took place in 1945. There were many strange happenings before this but the story of “Flight 19” was the first to become widely known to the public. Five torpedo bomber aircraft disappeared over the Bermuda Triangle on December 5, 1945. They had left Fort Lauderdale, Florida on a training mission and flew out over the Gulf of Florida.

How about we go scare the hell out of the Pack with the flying mangy Werewolf?" Hank's wolf grinned, which would look frightening if you didn't know him. "That is fabulous," I squealed. "While I wholeheartedly agree with the devious activity," Dwayne said with a hand on his hip and his brows raised high, "if you call me mangy one more time, I will fly over your head and pee on you." "Okay, that's just gross," I said as I shuddered. "What if we just call you nappy?" "I prefer kinky," he informed us with a grin. "Of course you do." I rolled my eyes and chuffed. "Alright, kinky Vamp, you ready to go have some fun with the wolves?" "Oh my god," Dwayne shrieked as he levitated and did flips in the air. "I haven't had this much fun since I went fishing naked in the Bermuda Triangle with Hemingway, some Pygmy fellas and a Were Skunk named Herm.

Dammit. Forgot my clothes. Again. My brain truly is the Bermuda triangle. Info comes in and poof, it vanishes. I have excellent recall for the oddest things. Mating rituals? Check. Football stats? Locked and loaded. Movie quotes? Branded in my skull. My classes at Braxton? Freaking ghost town with tumbleweeds blowing through it. That plane has flown over thr triangle and disappeard.

But a whole sea full of monsters—how could you hide something like that? Wouldn’t the mortals notice weird things happening…like, ships getting eaten and stuff ?” “Of course they notice. They don’t understand, but they know something is strange about that part of the ocean. The Sea of Monsters is off the east coast of the U.S. now, just northeast of Florida. The mortals even have a name for it.” “The Bermuda Triangle?” “Exactly.

Beware of the boss; they are like the bermuda triangle, you have to die clueless

The Disappearance of Flight 19

The Bermuda Triangle is also known as the Devil’s Triangle. It is located off of the Southeastern coast of the United States. It’s in the Atlantic Ocean running from the island of Bermuda to Florida and Puerto Rico. It covers around 500,000 square miles of ocean. Many aircraft and ships have disappeared in this area. Many of these incidents are very strange.

Skeptics say there are many natural explanations for what happens in the Bermuda Triangle. They say that compass changes are normal and that most of the accidents and disappearances are due to human error or bad weather.

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