(From the Courier Times in Bucks County, Pennsylvania)

It was mid-October, and the golf season was slowing down, so I thought I would take a short jaunt to Bermuda and play some of the courses there. I was greeted just outside the air-terminal by an older, well-dressed gentlemen named Neville, a taxi-driver, who politely asked: “Where would you like me to drive you?”

Once we left the airport I couldn’t contain myself. “Tell me, what’s all this I hear about the Bermuda Triangle?”

“They didn’t name it the ‘Isle of Devils’ for nothing,” Neville laughed. “But forget that for now. This is really a golfing paradise. The sea breezes, the flora, and fauna, and the turquoise waters. They will pleasantly detract you, and play more tricks on your imagination than any ghost could.”

The roads in Bermuda are narrow and lined with coral walls, and I sat there thinking that driving must take some imagination too.

“But since you asked me about the Bermuda Triangle, I will explain. Bermuda waters have more shipwrecks than anywhere else in the world,” he said. “These coral reefs, sudden squalls, bottomless waters — these are a navigator’s nightmare. They have always been feared by seafarers.”

He scooted the cab through a series of narrow, blind curves.

“St George’s was founded by the survivors of a shipwreck,” he told me. “The captain survived too, but was so traumatised that he refused to ever go to sea again.

“Instead, he built a house down in a secluded valley where, the story goes, he lived alone for the rest of his life. Not really alone though. There were three, young, agitated, female apparitions that would not leave him alone. They were the widows of some of his crew.

“They would tantalise the captain in the middle of the night by lightly touching his face and hair. Or he would be awakened by their shrill screams as they bemoaned their husbands’ deaths,” Neville calmly explained as I nervously entered my first roundabout — on the other-side of the road!

“One of the girls was named Latricia. She wore a long, flowing, sand-coloured gown, and was most often seen angrily pointing out a window toward the sea, and the ship’s ruins. Then there was Audrey, standing in a shear nightgown at the bedroom window. She would continually relight the candle on the table after the breeze blew it out. And Mary!

“She would quietly glide through the dining room, snatch the candelabra from the dining table, and then ascend the main staircase, leaving the room in darkness. These poor maidens. They wanted to be noticed! They missed their men!

‘’The screams that he heard in the night turned out to be just the cahow birds,” Neville explained. “Better known as the Bermuda petrel, the national bird of Bermuda, and a symbol of hope. They have a most lonesome, eerie cry.”

As we pulled up to my hotel he said in jest: “Hey, Bermuda is better known as a hangout for golfers than poltergeists. It’s about 8 to 5 in favour of the golfers.” He laughed.

“There are seven beautiful golf courses on Bermuda, and beings how this is your first visit let me suggest a few that you may enjoy.” He handed me a little printed card with his name on one side, and on the other side, Belmont Hills Golf Club, Riddell’s Bay Golf and Country Club, Mid Ocean Club, and Port Royal Golf Course.

As Neville got out of the cab to get my bags, he hollered to me: “When you finish playing go to Henry VIII and enjoy a chilled Dark ‘n Stormy. It’s rum and ginger beer. The locals drink it both to celebrate a good round and brighten a bad one.”

When I got out of the cab, and went to pay him ... he was no where to be seen!

I looked over to the hotel’s Bell Captain for assistance, but he just stood there smiling.

“It’s very rare for a ghost to be seen and heard at the same time,” he explained. “Except maybe in Bermuda.”