PJ Vogt

I stepped into the scanner.

I planted my facial width apart.

I put my hands over my head.

It whooshed, and the screen turned green.

I made it through.

I did not get a box over my dick.

I didn't get boxed over my ass.

I just walked out like a normal person.

And all it took was a stop at the bathroom to dry off my genitals and then change into shorts and a short sleeve shirt and fresh underwear.

I'm a free man.

That last voice, of course, was Travis, our first listener.

He too had passed.

So this was our answer.

The Bermuda Triangle, at least for these two listeners, was resolved.

Sweat.

In a world full of so many unsolved mysteries, the drones haunting the skies of New Jersey, the silver monoliths in the desert of Nevada, our little anomaly had finally actually been resolved, which felt like a huge relief.

Because to be honest with you, I've not been entirely confident we get to the bottom of this one.

And I've known many otherwise great journalists who have given into temptation and in stories like that just budge their facts a little bit, not for a political agenda, just to make a neater story.

On Wednesday, when we'd been waiting for our listeners' results, I had felt the call of that siren, just faintly.

I was just so worried about ending this week having to tell you that the real Bermuda Triangle was the friends we made along the way or something like that.