Tug and the Holy Grail

by D.T. Iverson

Copyright© 2017 by D.T. Iverson

Romantic Sex Story: The title tells the tale. The wife is from Atlantis. So, there are some unavoidably sci-fi aspects. But, this is actually nothing more than pure romantic adventure. I hope that you enjoy reading it, as much as I did writing it. D.T.

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual   NonConsensual   .

My wife Maria was once a Priestess of the Sun, on the lost continent of Atlantis. She was also the concubine of Alexander the Great. Her fling with the Great Conqueror might bother me. But, it took place a few years before we met; two thousand three hundred and thirty-nine to be exact.

I am a nerd from Ann Arbor Michigan. I have been one my entire 33 years. In fact, when I met Maria I had recently moved out of my parent’s basement. I was only 31 at the time. By nerd standards, I faced life early.

Maria can control people with her mind. I don’t have her mental abilities. But I DO rule cyberspace. More interestingly, I haven’t aged a day since my visit to the Fountain of Youth. So, I suppose I’m semi-immortal.

Consequently; it is probably safe to conclude that we are not your typical married couple.

How I ended up with this stunning woman is another story. But the reality is that, we live on our 109-foot ocean-going tug. My wife calls it “Pegasus.” I told Maria that the tug was too ugly to be named after a legendary flying horse. But Greek Mythology doesn’t feature any flying hippopotamus’s. So, Maria’s choice won.

The tug is also the source of my name. I have a real name. But, after I bought my boat, the people on Bimini started calling me “The Tugboat Man.” That quickly got shortened to “Tug.”

Falling deeply in love with Maria was a surprising state of affairs, since I spent the prior thirty-one years deeply in love with MYSELF. Nerds are like that. We are disconnected from others because we feel superior. My genetics might account for some of that; it turns out that I really AM not like any of my friends. But I had to admit that most of it was just me being an asshole.

My connection with Maria is so deep that I could have happily spent the rest of my life living on a desert island with her. We never run out of things to talk about. Three hundred years of life have given her a profound grasp of the human experience. Perhaps that’s because she has lived through the momentous events we are discussing, like the Revolutionary War.

Nonetheless, my use of the term “human” is somewhat qualified. I don’t push her on that. But I am almost certain that she is NOT human. She behaves like a normal woman and her plumbing works the same. But I get the feeling that whatever offspring she produces will be able to trace their lineage to the stars.

Because Maria was a Priestess of the Sun, the Atlantean Elders had to release her from her vows. We were almost shot up by the Cuban Air Force as a result. But, in the end there were no hard feelings. In fact, the High Priest of Atlantis presided over the marriage ceremony.

We were wed in a three-day celebration of gorgeous music and finery. That was at Our Lady of Peace Chapel on the south coast of the island of San Miguel in the Azores. That site was chosen because the original Atlantean Temple of the Sun is only two miles away – straight down on the bottom of the Atlantic. But the Atlanteans can access its aura from there.

Marrying me meant that Maria was committed to living out her long life in my era, not 13,000 years in the past, in New Atlantis. Over her lifetime, she plans to produce generations of pure Atlanteans to restock the gene-pool. That’s’ the fun part of our obligation.

Maria is stunningly beautiful. She has the perfect face and the hard body of the hottest Chiquita on the Copacabana. And she can fuck you in more interesting ways than Messalina on hashish. Nevertheless, the one thing that I know for sure is that she will never leave me. Atlanteans marry for life. Even though that life is thousands of years long.

After she returned from Atlantis, we had a bit of a problem. The concern was that, everybody on the island of Bimini thought she was dead. After all, her yacht HAD disappeared in a huge fireball; and terrorism WAS suspected. So, I knew, her sudden resurrection would be hard to explain.

Of course, what REALLY happened was that they were launching into the time-space continuum. Maria told me that it used to be easy to jump home, because the people who witnessed the event thought that the flash-bang was religious.

She said that; when she disappeared in a puff of smoke her boyfriend Alexander thought he had been fucking the goddess Theia. He even built a temple in Sogdiana in her honor. We visited its ruins in our time; notwithstanding the severe jealousy pangs that caused me.

We spent a week laid up in the shallows off the southern tip of Andros Island. We made love, talked and grew closer together. Given that I had thought I had lost her, the interlude gave us time to reconnect; get reacquainted with all the old emotions; like passion, companionship and hope.

After that, it just seemed prudent to move on to another place. Fortunately, that was easy to do. The tug was our home and all our worldly possessions were sitting in it. I was going to miss my friends, especially my buddy Reg. But that friendship was an insignificant drop in the bucket compared to the love of my wife. So, we planned to never go back to Bimini.

We talked it over and decided that Bermuda was the best alternative. It’s remote, subtropical and roughly 500 nautical miles East-Northeast of North Carolina. So, we could make it there without refueling. The tug had a 200-gallon main tank and we could make the trip across in three-or-four days. Maria knew Bermuda well. She said it was the lip of a dormant volcano. A lot of sheep and cattle were raised on is verdant slopes.

We left Cape Lookout under beautiful blue skies. I had been watching the weather patterns for a couple of weeks. The tug could handle high waves. But since we would be on the edge of our range, I didn’t want to burn any extra fuel maneuvering through rough weather. Running out of fuel in the middle of the Atlantic could be hazardous to our health. So, burn rate is more of a “staying alive” issue, than it is some fussy nerd concern.

The crossing took almost four days and it was night when we detected a faint glow on the horizon. We were still some 40 miles out on a course 80-degrees east-northeast. But the lights of St George’s Island were reflecting off the clouds. The island itself rose over the horizon as the sun began to come up. The first signs of life were the Long-Tail Birds of Bermuda. They are basically big seagulls, with long white tails. Their habitat is Bermuda and for approaching sailors, they are the ambassadors of the place.

We circled north of St George’s and approached from the northeast to avoid the reefs. I was at the helm and Maria was carefully studying the approach chart. You enter Bermudian waters through a narrow channel between St George Island and Higgs Island. There are treacherous reefs in the area. So, you approach carefully. Once we cleared the channel, we proceeded to Ordnance Island and the Custom Dock.

They went through our paper work; clearances, immigration and health documents. The main hassle was over Bastet. Bastet is our ships cat. She’s Egyptian; hence, the name “Bastet.” And, in the dictionary under “imperious” it says, “See Tug’s cat.” However, like everything else in my life, she isn’t exactly a cat. Bastet is larger than a domestic feline and more closely related to the cheetah.

We had a health certificate for her and I had to promise that I wouldn’t take her ashore; which was ludicrous. Bastet is the Egyptian Goddess of War. I can’t pet the beast without losing a limb. So, I couldn’t imagine what would happen if I tried to stuff her in a cage.

Bastet doesn’t allow anybody to touch her, except Maria. Bastet is perfectly sympatico with Maria. There are many similarities between the two. Both are self-contained to the point of mystery. Bastet has huge amber eyes, just like Maria. Maria has a sinuous grace, just like Bastet and my wife is as ferocious in bed, as my little killing machine.

Once we cleared customs, we pulled the tug into the Bermuda Yacht Services dockage. We selected that service because it is a short walk to Kings Square. More importantly it was the nearest dock that could handle the tug. At 109 feet, we were slightly over their length requirements. So, we were berthed with the big yachts. That was both expensive and humiliating, because my rusty old girl stood out among the gleaming white mega-yachts, like Rosie the Riveter in a crowd of super-models.

Once we were berthed we had some decisions to make. I had given up nothing to bring this beautiful and vibrant woman into my life; whereas Maria had made a huge sacrifice leaving New Atlantis for my imperfect world. So, I wanted to do whatever I could to make her happy.

Money was no issue. I had lots of it thanks to my larcenous exploits prior to meeting her. For her part, Maria seemed to be able to access billions. I suppose that a girl can pile up a lot of wealth over 13,000 years.

Maria might be a former Atlantean priestess, but she works like a deckhand. We had come in from a long sea voyage and there was a lot of scrubbing, polishing, coiling and battening to do. That’s the reason why Maria was on her hands and knees cleaning salt off the afterdeck of the tug.

I couldn’t help stealing the occasional glance in her direction. Her thick sheaf of sun streaked hair falls to the middle of her back, in rich cascading waves. It is probably the most remarkable thing about a very extraordinary woman. Celebrities pay a fortune for hair like hers. For the moment that bounty was secured by a bandanna and a long thick pigtail.

Her big hard buns were clad in a pair of boat shorts and those huge tits were constrained by nothing more than a wife-beater. As she worked, she was sweating under the increasingly hot afternoon sun. That turned the t-shirt transparent and I could easily make out her delectable brown nipples as her succulent tits swayed back and forth.

She is five-six with very well-proportioned, muscular legs, long, narrow supple waist and large melon-like breasts. It was obvious from the way those big things were swaying that she was not wearing a bra.

Fortunately for the sanity of any male in the vicinity, she was beneath the gunwale so it blocked everybody’s view except mine. I had to take a long gloat at her wriggling buns; which she had elevated in the air as she concentrated on her work.

It was such an inspiring sight I was thinking of going over there and pounding on them. Of course, I temporarily lost track of Maria’s mind reading ability. Her voice in my head said, “Don’t even think about it while I’m so dirty and sweaty!!!”

Once we got the boat shaped up, we showered together; which provoked a wild bout of passion. Most guys would remember that afternoon for the rest of their lives. However, with Maria it was just your average Tuesday. Then we dressed for a casual dinner. We walked over to Kings Square and the White Horse Pub.

Bermuda is a diverse culture. But, its bones are as deeply Rule Britannia as Winston Churchill. So, the pub-life is as pervasive as downtown London. The White Horse might be the best pub in Bermuda and it is certainly one of the oldest. It was just a few hundred yards from where we were docked and it looked like the perfect place to post up for the duration of our stay.

The White Horse is an English river pub; if you picked the building up and dropped it on an island in the middle of the Atlantic. The outdoor deck looks out over St. George’s harbor and it hosts a wonderful mix of Bermudans and tourists. More importantly, the beer is English, meaning it’s smooth and nutty and served at cellar temperature without fizzy carbonation.

I had never been to Bermuda. In fact, I had never been anywhere until I went to Bimini. Maria had been exactly where we were sitting. But that was back when it was the top of a dormant volcano. We sat and drank. Eventually we ordered dinner. It was a wonderful evening, just putting our roots down in a new place. I was thinking, “Maybe we’ll settle here. It IS in the middle of Maria’s former homeland; even IF most of that homeland is a couple of miles under water now.”

Maria likes to dive. I first noticed that when I took her diving on the Bimini Road. She was hovering over those stones like she had been there. It wasn’t until later that I found out that she HAD been there; about 13,000 years earlier.

It was also the first time I saw her lithe body in a microfiber swimsuit. The sight of her smooth muscled back and full shapely hips is a sight I will treasure forever.

I said, “How would you like to do a little diving?” Her odd amber eyes flared with interest. She said eagerly, “I’d love to. When can we go? Let’s go tomorrow??” I laughed and said, “I need to do some research first.” Maria might read minds but I have the internet.

I am not Atlantean in the sense that I didn’t inherit their psychic powers. But I have an uncanny ability in the virtual world. So, I’ve always been able to visualize complex problems in concrete terms. I wonder if abstract visualization might be my version of Maria’s ability; now that I understand that there might be more to my genetics than pure nerd.

There are perhaps 300 wrecks surrounding Bermuda; because it has so many deadly reefs. In fact, the first settlers ended up on the island because they were wrecked on a reef. Maria played with Bastet, while I did some basic exploration of dive sites.

I am always amazed by Maria’s adoring relationship with that creature. I only get recognition from Bastet when she has depleted the mouse population and wants to be fed. She will normally announce that by spearing me in the leg.

If Bastet wasn’t such an efficient killer, there would be a weighted bag in her future. But Maria has one of her world-famous psychic bonds with the beast. So, I could look forward to a millennium of abstinence if I dropped her cat over the side.

I didn’t want to unhook from the power and sanitary lines. Instead, I planned on using our 25-foot RIB 7.8. I keep it on a davit in the foredeck for in inshore transportation. It also serves as a diving platform. It has a 300 horsepower Yamaha on the back and it can fly. In fact, it was a much more powerful version of the boat I used to snatch Maria from the Cubans.

The ocean on the other side of the reefs is nasty. So, I wanted to stay close to shore. Fortunately, there were a couple of interesting wrecks in Turtle Bay. That Bay is on the other side of the long peninsula that forms Castle harbor, which was St. George’s original port entrance. One ship was an almost 400-foot-long freighter named Pelinaion. Nearby is the wreck of the Rita Zorvetta, another 400-footer.

But, I actually chose that spot for another reason. The “Cathedral” is in the area between the two wrecks. The Cathedral is a series of vast underwater caves near Gurnet Rock, the largest of which looks like a Cathedral. It is a huge underwater dome with several “openings” where shafts of light penetrate the gloom.

When you are inside that structure, you get the sense of being in a vast church, hence the name. It was probably a natural formation. But I was wondering what Maria would make of it, given what she had told me about the area.

The next morning, I woke to the wonderful feeling of somebody lightly teasing me to “battle-stations-torpedo.” My first waking image was her gorgeous face, eyes stoned with lust as she inserted the tent-pole that she had just created. The heat and wetness instantly transferred most of my blood and all my consciousness to my lower brain.

She gave a lurid groan of pure sensation; put her hands on my shoulders, thereby dangling the fullest, most perfectly shaped and firmest mammary glands ever mounted on a female frame. The red-hot nipple was hanging in front of me so I began sucking and gently biting on it. Maria shrieked and started an out of control back and forth motion. It was so rapid that we BOTH got to the end of the line a little faster than either of us wanted.

That was understandable. Prior to our gymnastics yesterday, it had been almost a week since we had made love. Our abstinence was an artifact of the vigilance required for an ocean crossing, not a lack of interest on either of our part. NOW we were making up for lost time.

An average bout of sex with Maria is like the hottest night of your honeymoon. She is totally wild and uninhibited. But it is her unearthly orgasms, and they might BE from another planet, that differentiate her from every other woman. We showered together and of course that led to a much more satisfying second round.

Ninety minutes later we moved past Channel Island and entered the passageway between Smiths and Paget Island, thence around Little Head to the area off Clearwater Beach. We anchored next to the bow of the Pelinaion. It would be hard to miss a ship that massive and the part we were sitting over was only twenty feet below us under clear water.

Maria was wearing her dive harness and one of her black microfiber swimsuits. Maria likes, the feel of the water sliding past her with only one micron of material separating her skin from the elements. She wasn’t specifically trying to be erotic. In fact, it would be an extremely modest little outfit if it weren’t for the fact that the fabric was so thin. This one looked like she was wearing nothing more than a coat of black paint on her magnificent body.

We both use a Dive Rite O2ptima Rebreather, which is expensive but gives us a much more pleasant dive experience. We went in backwards, turned and swam the 400-foot length of the freighter. We marveled at the still intact cranes and engine room. The bottom was sand so the water was perfectly clear. Then we finned through the crevices and canyons of the reef, over to the Cathedral cavern. It was indeed impressive. But it was clearly a natural phenomenon, not Atlantean.

After we surfaced I told Maria that I was hoping that it was an Atlantean structure. Maria said that the only significant building in the area was a temple to Mars the Destroyer. But that was beyond the outer edge of the Challenger Bank, which was a high plateau 13,000 years ago.

The Atlanteans “communicated” with their war god” Mars” through that Temple; which implies the existence of a powerful transmission device. Of course; if that device was still active it might ALSO explain the happenings of the Bermuda Triangle.

It was a beautiful sunny day, not as hot as it had been the day before. So, we decided to make our leisurely way down the eastern shore toward the wreck of the Virginia Merchant. I was particularly interested in that, because it reputably had the greatest loss of life; very few people could swim in the 17th Century.

The trip to the wreck was ten miles but we broke up the journey by stopping by the Pollockshields, which was a World War I ammunition ship. What the guidebooks didn’t tell us was that artillery shells were still scattered around the bottom. So, we didn’t linger. Then we stopped at the sunken, Forceful.

Forceful is a 70-foot harbor tug, sunk in 2008 by the Bermuda diving industry. It gives divers the chance to explore a fresh wreck. It is perfectly preserved and the stern is a well-known place for divers to photograph each other. So, you see pictures of the Forceful all over Facebook.

Maria posed at the stern looking like a mermaid in her skin-hugging suit. I took a close-up picture and then backed up fifty yards to get the whole thing in perspective. As I turned to swim back I saw a truly spectacular reef system perhaps 200 yards to the southeast. It looked interesting so I thought I would just fin over there and explore. Truthfully, I was still looking for signs of old Atlantis.

Just before I reached the reef I glanced down. There was a depression in the sand, perhaps thirty feet below. Maria still had some distance to cover, so I swam down to take a look. To my surprise, I discovered another wreck. It was clearly wooden and it must have been there for a long time. There was nothing left of the actual ship. But there was what looked like a capstan and some ballast stones. There were also the brass spikes that once held the ship together. They were scattered everywhere.

I fanned the sand to see what else might be around the wreck and it revealed nothing. I picked up a ballast stone, just to feel something that had been last touched by human hands centuries ago, and there was a flash of metal. I fanned the sand and uncovered the lid of a small copper box. It was a two-foot, by three-foot, rectangle and had been sealed along its lid by lead solder.

Wreck divers are supposed to leave anything they find where they find it. But, Seriously??!!! This was a genuine ancient artifact and it was too intriguing to just let it sit. I anchored a marker buoy and swam back in Maria’s direction.

She gestured quizzically and I pointed up. As soon as we got out of the water I said with excitement in my voice, “There’s something down there.”

She said concerned, “You aren’t supposed to remove things. We could go to jail for that.”

I said, “Nobody will ever know. It was buried under the ship’s ballast. I just want to examine it. If there is anything inside that’s worthwhile I’ll turn the thing over to the authorities.”

She continued to look unhappy. I moved the skiff over to the buoy and dropped a heavier line with a net. I went back in the water, carefully dug up the chest and moved it into the net. I swam back up, dropped the rebreather and winched the chest up onto the boat. I DID keep the RIB between the shore and my activities. The chest was surprisingly light, so it probably didn’t contain any gold doubloons.

I placed it on the deck of the skiff and started the engine. I wanted to get back to the tug as fast as I could. So, I had the wick turned up as we flew along the eastern shore of the main Island; then, around St. David’s to our anchorage at St. George’s.

I have almost 300 horsepower on the back of the skiff. So, it took less time to return home than it would have if I had driven. Once we got the skiff on its davits I took the box down to my little workroom, which is below-decks next to the diesels.

Maria was following in my footsteps, trailed by Bastet. That animal was stalking along like Cleopatra among her minions.

The chest was so captivating that Maria had lost any prior hang-ups. It was the kind of mottled blue-green that copper turns when it oxidizes. The seal was brazed and the box still had its integrity. It had been buried in the sand resting under a considerable weight of stones. So, it would be safe to assume that the contents had not been touched.

I inspected the seal carefully prior to lighting up my little plasma torch. I wanted to make a quick cut through the brazing without heating the metal of the box. That took time and a lot of patience; since the aim was to be as non-destructive as possible.

I finished the last cut and let the area cool down for a minute. Then I carefully lifted the lid using a small portable maintenance hoist. There was the sound of a vacuum unsealing. I was, puzzled, “That was an odd phenomenon?” It wasn’t until the machine age that vacuums could be created and this box pre-existed that capability by hundreds of years.

The box was also strange. It had normal copper sheeting on the outside and I had assumed that it would be wooden inside. But instead, it looked like the box was made from a light alloy like aluminum, or titanium and then sheeted with copper to blend with the technology of the time.

However, aluminum couldn’t be refined into any practical use until the 19th Century; and titanium much later than that. Since titanium is non-corrosive, the makers must have wanted to protect whatever was inside from the elements.

A single ancient leather book, or more appropriately ledger, was inside the box. I put on a pair of surgical gloves, very gingerly removed the book from the box and laid the thing out on the workspace bench. We both stood there gazing with awe. Even Bastet seemed mildly impressed.

I was certain that the thing would have to be conserved before we could read it. But, the leather cover was the finest grade of cowhide and it seemed brand new. There was no dirt or any other contaminant. In fact, the book looked pristine. That wasn’t hard to accept. The fact that it was not exposed to the environment, thanks to the vacuum, would preserve it.

I put the book under the illuminated magnifier, which I keep on the workbench for detailed work. The instant I turned on the light I could see a large seal embossed in the leather. Maria let out a loud gasp and put her hands over her mouth, staring in abject astonishment. She said, with reverence, “That’s the great seal of Atlantis!!! This is something MY people created.”

That explained several things. The book was in perfect shape, which would be the case if it had been packed in a vacuum. It also explained why the container itself had managed to survive underwater in such unspoiled condition, since it was pure titanium. More importantly, it explained why the book was easily readable; not by me, of course.

Embossed on the cover was something that looked like cuneiform mingled with Egyptian hieroglyphics. It had Sumerian type wedges and lines. But it also had glyphs like you see in Olmec.

Sumeria is in modern Iraq and the Olmecs lived in Mexico. So, it didn’t take a genius to figure out who the Sumerians, Egyptians and Olmecs picked up writing from. Atlantis has been underwater for thirteen millennia. But its diaspora is everywhere in human history.

Maria said with wonder in her voice, “This is a journal of one of our people.” Clearly, she could read what was written.

I said, “Is this what Atlantean writing looks like?”

She said, “Yes, this is High Atlantean script.”

I said, “What does it say?”

She said, “It says that this is the Journal of Bertrand de Saint-Clare, Grand Master of the Knights Templar.”

Wow!!! That was interesting. It implied that one of the Knights Templar was Atlantean; maybe ALL of them were!!! It would help explain the odd history of that order.

After the First Crusade, the Templars took up residence on the Temple Mount. The, site was reputedly where Solomon’s Temple was located; hence the name. Then, oddly, they spent the next nine years excavating under their headquarters.

Eventually they “found” something. Scholars speculate that they might have dug up the “Sangreal,” better known as the “Holy Grail.” Given its mystical powers, the Grail would likely be Atlantean; if it existed at all.

But the Temple supposedly housed one other legendary artifact; The Ark of the Covenant. The Ark is undoubtedly real and based on the miracles described in Exodus it is no doubt Atlantean. That would explain phenomena, like the rain of frogs, the parting of the Red Sea and the “tumbling down” of the walls of Jericho. Maybe, Moses himself was Atlantean?

Whatever they dug-up helped the Templars grow into one of the richest and most politically influential groups in Europe. In fact, they had amassed so much wealth and power, that Pope Clement V decided that something had to be done about them.

The guy who did the dirty work was Philip IV of France. Philip owed the Templars a lot of money. But the purge wasn’t about money. Scholars theorize that Philip was after the Grail; and the church backed him on his play, to wipe out evidence of its existence.

So, on Friday, October 13, 1307; yes, THAT Friday the 13th, the armies of France attacked the Templars. I was hoping that Bertrand’s Journal would clarify what happened after that.

Maria said, in an uncharacteristically humble tone of voice, “This book must be very important to my people. We communicate telepathically, or by devices that you would call computers. We haven’t kept paper records in 10,000 years.”

Well, that sort-of made sense. The Atlanteans fled to New Atlantis 13,000 years ago; they had an advanced technology then. One can only imagine how they communicate now. It was certainly NOT by paper records.

She said, “I must find out what Bertrand was trying to tell us.” By “us” I understood her to mean the Atlanteans.

I said, “I’m as curious as you are. But if you haven’t noticed, I don’t speak Atlantean.”

She gave me one of her inscrutable cat glances and said, “I’ll read this and tell you what it says.” With that, she scooped up the book and disappeared out of the engine room hatch.

I found her curled up on the big sectional couch. She had a blanket over her legs a pillow propped under that gorgeous body and her cat sitting cuddled between her and the book. Maria looked fascinated, completely absorbed in the narrative.

Bastet was just sitting there glaring contemptuously at me. It was like the varmint was basking in the glow of Maria’s obvious excitement. I went to bed with the reading light still glowing in the lounge.

I woke in the morning to find Maria asleep on the couch with Bastet curled up on her delectable chest and the light still on. She was sleeping with the closed book in her hand. I tiptoed around getting coffee. Then I went up on the pilot house deck. We have an open air lounge up there, for when we are docked.

My love finally appeared on deck, I was watching the island of Bermuda wake up. She was dressed in a long sweater and, from the smooth gleaming thighs that were protruding out the bottom, nothing else. She was carrying her morning coffee. Bastet was stalking imperiously along behind her.

She sat and stared at the world for a couple of minutes. It was like she was trying to formulate what she was going to say. She finally said, “I read the whole journal last night.” I looked at her, patiently waiting for her to continue. She added, “The story is almost too incredible to believe.”

My stomach growled. I said, “Why don’t you tell me the condensed version while I rustle us up some breakfast.” She had done all the work. I wanted her to relax before she told me the story. So, I cooked a perfect Prawn Masala omelet.

I have always been good at cooking. It is a very un-nerdlike skill; most of us exist on Skittles and Mountain Dew. But, I have several inexplicable characteristics, which are generally frowned on in hackish culture. That was mystifying; until I learned about my real heritage.

Maria had changed into her usual tasteful, but deliciously revealing, sleeveless top and shorts. It’s an outfit that she wears when she is being casual. Bastet was sitting expectantly at her feet. Maria would occasionally drop a prawn. Bastet would grab it and give me a low guttural warning growl and drag her captive off to be devoured in private.

Maria’s face is an absolute work of art. You just KNOW that the term beauty was invented to describe her. She has that glorious mane of hair over an intelligent brow; huge cat-like golden eyes a long narrow exotic nose and the widest, fullest and most kissable mouth. All that glory rests over a dimpled chin.

Her features are so precisely sized and arranged that they evoke an innate response in me. I could just look at her all day, like a painting in the Louvre.

Right now, she was looking like she was about to burst from all the things she had to tell me. I said by way of introduction, “So, do you want to sit on the couch over there and you can tell me the story.”

She looked at me with those enigmatic cat eyes and said, “It will take a while. So, let’s get comfortable. You won’t believe what I have to tell you.”

She rose and swayed over to the roomy outdoor couch on the pilot house deck. I sat next to her and put my arm around her smooth shoulders. Then she proceeded to tell me the fascinating tale of the treasure of the Knights Templar.

The Templars had their own spies in Philip’s court. So, the evening before the raid, they loaded their vast wealth and holy relics onto wagons. Those wagons wound their way out of Paris, 250 miles to the Templar naval base at La Rochelle.

Eighteen large ships were waiting there. The wealth of the order was loaded on those ships and the fleet simply disappeared into history. Bertrand de Clare’s journal told us what happened next.

Maria snuggled herself further into me and said, “Bertrand was born in 1340, 33 years after the Templar’s fatal day. His rise to Grand Master was engineered by his cousin and patron Henry Sinclair of Rosslyn, Earl of Orkney.”

I saw the Da Vinci Code I knew that name. I walked over to the laptop and googled it. I learned that Henry Sinclair was a player in many of the conspiracy theories that surround the Templars; and Rosslyn is purported to be one of the places where the Templar treasure was located.

Bertrand’s journal explained how Sinclair and the treasure came to be linked. The Templar’s knew their treasure was too valuable to store anywhere in the known world. So, the eighteen ships headed west.

The route across the Atlantic was pioneered by the Carthaginians. The Romans learned about it after they conquered that nation. That’s why Roman artifacts are found all over the New World.

Still, it’s a one-way journey. Based on Bertrand, the Templars followed the Eastern Boundary Current southward to the Canary Islands; off the coast of Africa. That led them to the North Equatorial Current and the westerly trades. Those winds and the very strong westbound current, inevitably sweep all ships toward North America.

The Templar fleet joined the Gulf Stream off the Windward Islands. They followed it up the coast to the St. Lawrence inlet where the Gulf Stream intersects the Labrador Current, making it difficult to travel any further north.

Knowing that they would be swept back to Europe, the Templar ships turned into the St. Lawrence and landed in the Quebec region of Saguenay. The Templars likely didn’t stay long enough to build permanent lodging. But they were witnessed by the local natives. Then, they continued along the North Atlantic current back towards Europe; specifically, Scotland.

Scotland was one of the few places that didn’t recognize the authority of the Pope. So, the Templars found refuge among the Saint-Clairs of Rosslyn. Three generations passed. Meanwhile the Scottish St-Clairs Anglicized their name to Sinclair. Bertrand kept the family name to preserve the connection with Henri, the first Grand Master of the order.

Bertrand was of the Atlantean noble line; as was Henri and all the Grand Masters, including De Molay. Bertrand’s cousin, Henry Sinclair, was a major force in middle-ages politics. But, he wasn’t hereditary Atlantean nobility. So, in return for future considerations, Henry used his influence to promote his cousin Bertrand to the position of Grand Master.

As a quid-pro-quo, Bertrand accompanied Sinclair’s fleet on their voyage west. His role was to show Henry where the Templar treasure was hidden. That secret was passed from one Grand Master to the next as part of the Templar’s order of succession. So Bertrand was the only man on earth who knew

Bertrand’s journal said that, “We took our departure with a fayre wind and sailed 6-days westward; but the winds afterward shifted to the southwest, and the sea became rough, we sailed 4 days with the wind aft and by the grace of God, we finally sighted land.”

After a brief stop in what seems to have been Iceland, they continued west. According to Bertrand, “As the sea ran high and we did not know what country it was, we were sore afrayd. But, by God’s blessing the wind lulled, and there came on a great calm.”

Finally, On June 2, 1398, the explorers arrived at a, “Fertile land, myld and pleasant beyond describing.” Some of the crew went ashore and, “After eight days, the soldiers returned, and brought word that, there was a large river, and a very good and safe harbor, the mouth of which is marked by an Oak Island.”

Sinclair stayed there while his workers dug up the Templar treasure. Henry didn’t intend to take it back to Europe. He only wanted to ensure that its artifacts were, “Forever kept out of the hands of men.” Henry was referring to non-Atlanteans; the Grail and the Ark allowed the holder to wield too much power.”

Bertrand provided a detailed geographic account, including compass readings. I raced over to Google Maps. Based on Bertrand’s description; Sinclair and his men had indeed, landed at the mouth of what is now called the Saguenay River.

Strangely enough, there was a tidbit further down the page that confirmed this. The Micmac tribe in that area have a legend about a kingdom of blond haired white men who had landed in a place they called Saguenay. These white men bore valuable jewels and possessed great material wealth.

Nonetheless, Henry knew that people would continue to pursue the Templar wealth. So, he arranged to move it to a new place; one where nobody could EVER find it. If you look at a map you can see that the mouth of the Saguenay is the first real significant geographic feature after the St. Laurence starts to narrow. Henry was looking for a hiding place that was a lot more remote; just in case later explorers visited the Saguenay.

That proved to be a very prescient move. Jacques Cartier landed there in 1535, and was told about the treasure by the Iroquois Chief Donnacona. Cartier even brought Donnacona back to France to tell the King. But of course, nothing was ever discovered because the treasure wasn’t there anymore.

Sinclair, sailed out of the mouth of the St. Lawrence, around The Gaspe and down the coast of what is now New Brunswick. He passed around Cap Pele and into the Northumberland Strait. He planned to return to Scotland once the treasure was re-hidden. So, once he saw open ocean to their northeast, he landed in the first sheltered cove,.

Sinclair hid the bulk of the treasure there, including all the artifacts. The engineering skills to do that, were known to the Templars, and of course developed thousands of years previously in Atlantis.

Sinclair’s time in Nova Scotia was almost exactly one year. He placed the Templar treasure, including both the Sangreal and the Ark of the Covenant, in a booby-trapped vault. These were pure Atlantean relics and considered too powerful to be used by anybody but Atlanteans.

But, Henry was very shrewd. So, he had his workers dig another shaft. The second shaft was more noticeable and it was marked with mysterious clues. This pit was a decoy. It was designed to lure any potential treasure hunters away from where the important stuff was buried. Sinclair even seeded it with some of the Templar gold, just as bait. That shaft later became known as the “Oak Island” mystery, and it has been attracting treasure seekers since 1795.

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