Crew prepares to lower deep-ocean probe (2004 expedition)
This website was created to bring about a re-examination of the data gathered in 2004 and 2006 during successive underwater expeditions to a location on the ocean floor of the eastern Mediterranean sea. The two expeditions were initiated and led by Robert Sarmast in order to determine what remains of “Atlantis”—known to some as the Garden of Eden. Robert Sarmast’s acclaimed book, Discovery of Atlantis (Second ed., 2006), presents his rationale for the expeditions and his many findings.
The sunken land targeted in the 2004 and 2006 expeditions
The 2004 expedition was privately funded, and the second of the two expeditions in 2006 was funded and filmed by the History Channel (see Media page). Captain Robert Bates, the founder of Eden-Atlantis Project in 2016, was the original expedition leader in 2004. In 2006 he was the consultant to the History Channel for the second expedition. After many years of combing through the results, Bates has returned to this endeavor with a new interpretation of the previously acquired data.
Writing in his new book, Bates says, “My ultimate objective is to provide a novel explanation of the data acquired in the 2004 and 2006 expeditions. I offer this new interpretation not only because I played a vital part in both efforts, but because I have spent almost 15 years in ongoing reflection on our findings. This intensive focus has inspired me over these many years to embark on a journey to a wide variety of related geological and historical sources that provide support to my revised interpretation. The result today is that I believe we may have uncovered, without realizing it, unmistakable human infrastructure on this landmass that was submerged in the eastern Mediterranean at a very distant time. In particular, the data resulting from our 2006 sub-bottom profiler (SBP) survey yielded some unexpected results that have not been previously understood: It points to the existence of at least two very large human-built artifacts that were able to survive war, flooding, and violent tectonic plate activity in pre-historic times. As I will show, this new data significantly increases our knowledge about human activities on this sunken continent, and if my interpretation is correct, it points to the need for a third expedition to this site.”
Camera on a String
or … The Story of How I Got Started with the Eden-Atlantis Project
Commodore Robert Stanley Bates
It was in the spring of 2001 that an old friend, Paul Anderson, started talking about a site in the eastern Mediterranean Sea that interested him. He was extremely excited about some theory he heard from a Robert Sarmast regarding the existence of a sunken continent between Cyprus and Syria. It wasn’t quite clear why he singled me out to discuss this matter, except that he knew I had an unlimited master’s license and had recently been skipper of oceanographic research and special survey vessels. I had about fifteen years experience on vessels of this type at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute (WHOI for short) and the University of Rhode Island and Paul seeking some information about how to visit this site. He said that Sarmast conducted a study over the previous ten years that yielded the whereabouts of the lost city of Atlantis. In fact, Paul said that Sarmast actually knows the location in terms of latitude and longitude. Paul was intensely curious, and wanted to find a way to explore the alleged site of “Atlantis.” He talked of tentative plans to visit Cyprus, Syria, and even talked of chartering a boat to travel over the alleged site a mile under the Sea between the two countries. He was not a stranger to the sea; he had worked in the Alaska fishing industry some years before.
In my forty-five years of going to sea, I heard of a number of sites that were considered to be the lost city of Atlantis, and thought that his ambition, to mount a sea going adventure to a mythical site, was pure lunacy. I heard the old stories and was certainly not going to entertain this one. I advised my friend Paul to forget about it. Even if he could get to the site, there would be no way of visiting it. There would be nothing to see, and the expense incurred would constitute an expensive disappointment. I had hoped that this would put an end to his folly.
On the fourth of July 2001, I received an e-mail from Paul that indicated I had not been successful in helping my friend avert a wild goose-chase. He had the audacity to send me Sarmast’s e-mail address indicating that he is the person tentatively planning the expedition. Paul finished with: “I imagine a Captain would have a place on board. Please remember me -ex-Alaska deckhand ;)” I hoped he didn’t think that I was going to send an e-mail to Sarmast so that two loonies would then have my e-mail address. But I was polite and a few weeks later was advised that Paul was actually going to California to visit this guy with a dream to head up an expedition to Atlantis. Well, good luck to both of you, keep me posted, but I have no interest in pursuing this pie in the sky.
When my young friend returned from California, he wrote to me indicating that he was back and that Sarmast “apparently has secured some very accurate bathymetric data of the area SE of Cyprus.” “I think he has it.” he wrote. That was September 1, 2001. I realized my previous mistake in asking him to keep me posted. Maybe he just wanted to share, or did he have some hidden agenda, that’s what I wanted to know! I wrote back that day: “Hi Paul. Sounds very exciting and I am looking forward to seeing you!” Maybe I could finally talk some sense into him and dissuade him from wasting his time. But when we got together he introduced me to a bathysnap, which is a time-lapse camera system that is able to take illuminated pictures after being deployed to the sea bottom. He was not to be deterred from this quest, in spite of the unsuitability of this newfound instrument and my sagacious advice. He followed up with an e-mail: “What did you think of the bathysnap? Fun little gadget, but it performs functions unnecessary for our effort (temp, etc). If you have Woods Hole connections, we could probably have something built cheaper.” My connections! Did he not get it that I was not getting involved! I would certainly not embarrass myself in front of my colleague this way. I wasn’t even sure of what it was that he wanted to build. Eight days later, I found out what it was that he had in mind from an email in which he stated: “For pure excitement, imagine getting a boat over the area, and as cheaply as possible taking some camera shots of the bottom…full of roads, paths, irrigation channels….a chance of catching a glimpse…” Paul seemed convinced that a low-budget expedition to the area in question could be mounted, and for him that meant looking into deep-sea photography devices (obsessively so). As he researched the possibilities and the price tags, his ideas degenerated from the infeasible to the absurd. In one watershed conversation with him, he actually suggested the possibility of lowering a line over the side of a fishing boat with a special waterproof camera attached! I told him if you could theoretically lower such a camera to the site, all you would see is mud. He shot back, without even a hint of a smile, “Yes Bob, but it would be Atlantis mud”. Well, now, with tongue in cheek, I am wondering if it would be appropriate to have Paul committed to an insane asylum. It appeared to me that he was convinced he could actually get a picture of Atlantis, one mile below the surface, with a camera on a string! It is way beyond crush depth of the camera in a pitch black, watery environment that is hostile to all but the most sophisticated equipment. Now I know I don’t want anything to do with this adventure, my reputation as a responsible sea captain would be seriously imperiled.
It’s October 20, 2001 and I am really getting concerned about my friend, Paul when he wrote: “Bob, I am at a critical juncture in my life, I could either end up a scrawny, ragged homeless man having garbled conversations about “discovering Atlantis” with a lamppost, OR we could help bring this intoxicating dream to fruition. It is all up to you. Seriously, have you given any more thought to this all? I was thinking of paying a visit to Woods Hole and check out the options for sinking some cameras down around the area. Waste of time? Lampposts don’t give seasoned advice. —Paul”
The next day I sent him an e-mail to give him direction, hoping this would allow me to unhook from this maniacal situation and perhaps make him realize the scope and magnitude of a project like this. In part it said: “Hi Paul, . . . To pursue these goals, it will require a tremendous amount of work in the areas of finance, scholarly proposals, and connections in both the political and scientific arenas. I don’t say this to discourage you, but it would be a fool’s folly to go out without a sound (business) plan and like so many good ideas, it can hit the rubbish heap before it gets off the ground. . . There are so many things you could do to make this thing self-defeating, therefore extreme care in planning is essential . . . Visit Woods Hole, if you have the time; but my advice, for what it is worth, would be: make your interest a purely technical interest without disclosing your dream. You may want to see www.whoi.edu for a glimpse before you go. —Cap’n Bob”
Well, I guess that takes care of that. I thought he would visit Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute on his own, hopefully not mentioning my name, and find out how impractical his camera on a string idea really is, and how absolutely prohibitive the cost would be even if they could do such a thing. He responded the same day with: “Good to hear from you. I think I shall visit Woods Hole. Good advice re: not revealing the ‘plan.’ I usually pose as a student doing research, albeit an old one. It seems to me, with the angle of approach you favor, that a tie in with Robert might be advisable…?” and I’m thinking, go for it, Paul! I don’t care whose name you mention, as long as it isn’t mine! I told myself, this whole thing will be in self annihilation by the time he leaves Woods Hole. But a month later, November 19, 2001, Paul surprises me with the following e-mail: “After contacting a few outfits who make deep-sea cameras, I have been directed back again to Woods Hole. You mentioned you had connections there…would a visit there be spark to creative possibilities?” The holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas 2001 were thankfully upon us, and I left this e-mail unanswered, hoping the whole thing would go away.
The new year of 2002 came and went, and the respite from Paul’s dream was a welcomed relief. For a moment I felt sorry about letting my good friend go it alone at Woods Hole, when, after all, I had intimate knowledge of the operation there. I could at least lead him around and let this “student” explore the possibilities for himself with me as just a guide. It was a fleeting thought of a random act of compassion on my part which I quickly dismissed. But by the middle of the January I realized I should never have let that fleeting thought loose in the universe, for no sooner had it passed than I got an e-mail from Paul: “Bob, any time you want to go to Woods Hole-name a date that’s good for you. I can either meet you there or give you a lift there.” Where did he get the idea that I would go to Woods Hole with him on any day? But now I was somehow engaged in this scenario and I really couldn’t turn my back on Paul. So three days later, after an agonizing debate with myself, my answer was: “Hi Paul, I need to check the schedule of the OCEANUS. It would be fun to go aboard for a tour of a real research ship and talk with some of the scientists and crew. So let me find out and we’ll set a date around that. Cap’n Bob” The OCEANUS and her sister ship, the ENDEAVOR from the University of Rhode Island were two ships with which I was more than familiar; I had served as captain on both of them. Certainly I could find out when the OCEANUS returned to Woods Hole and pick a date to give Paul a tour. That would be the least I could do. And he would see the magnitude of the operation, and that would be that. But I knew deep down that would only fuel his desire and I realized with this e-mail to Paul, he had engaged me in his project. I had capitulated. I checked the schedule and reported back to Paul at the end of January: “It looks like it will be in port until mid February . . . Pick a day between now and her sailing. Probably best within a couple of days of her sailing so we can see how she looks when she’s loaded out. —Cap’n Bob”
More e-mails, rearranging our schedules and finally on the tenth of February, I nailed it down: “Hi Paul, Tuesday is looking good to go. I propose that we meet between noon and 1 PM at the Captain Kid Restaurant across the street from WHOI. I hope it is open. Some of those places close for the winter. If not, then just inside the door at WHOI at the reception desk. I’ll send you a confirming e-mail on Monday, after I make a call up there to be sure we are good to go. Bob” Only moments later, Paul replied: “Can’t wait. Tuesday looks good. . . How do I get to WHOI? My thought is to follow RT 3 down to Woods Hole and follow any signs. Just received an email from Robert, his book is in the proofing stages-due out soon. I am going to ask his permission to show you the bathymetric maps-hope I get the ok…see you soon. Paul” A day later, Paul, obviously unable to contain himself wrote: “Bob, As if Tuesday needed something to spice it up….I’m happy to report I have received permission from Robert to share the more accurate bathymetric images-I will bring them Tuesday.” Now I am getting excited and extremely curious to see what Sarmast had developed from multibeam bathymetric scans of the area. Maybe Paul and Robert really have something. I sent Paul some directions to Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute and to my own surprise let on that “I am going to love to see the detailed maps.” I called the Marine Superintendent, then Captain Joe Coburn, a fellow Alumnus of the Coast Guard Academy, and set the stage for our visit.
Paul and I met at the Captain Kid Restaurant, across the street from WHOI and the piers where the OCEANUS was tied up. We had lunch there, and Paul and I discussed the project and this guy Robert Sarmast at length. I already knew of Robert and some of his work, which I greatly respected. As we talked, it seemed as if Paul was talking about this potential maritime exploration as if I were already on board. I was only there to show Paul what was involved in undersea exploration. After lunch we walked across the street and down the pier to the OCEANUS. She had been rebuilt in the mid 1970 and was now an impressive ship. I knew every crewmember and introduced my friend Paul to everyone on board as we toured the ship from the high-tech state-of-the-art bridge to the massive deep-sea winch back aft. Paul was getting the picture, and it wasn’t about a camera on a string. It takes professional seamen, experienced ship handlers, astute scientists, computer wizards, heavy equipment and a good ship to make a simple pass with sonar over the seabed. With Paul suitably impressed with the OCEANUS, we went to the marine superintendent’s office where I introduced Paul to everyone in the office. We were cordially met by Captain Coburn who was in charge of the WHOI ships’ operations. Paul had a lot of questions about this kind of research, and Captain Coburn went the extra mile to show Paul examples of equipment like side scan and multibeam sonar and the peripheral electronics associated with processing the data. We stayed the remainder of the afternoon. I had a sense that Paul was truly impressed. What impressed him most, he confided in me later, was that everyone there knew me. I would not have guessed that was such a big deal to him. The next day he sent me an e-mail to say that he “very much enjoyed the tour. …” My good deed was done, Paul now understood the folly of a camera on a string, and I could get back to the plates that I had in the air.
A little over a week later, I heard from Paul again: “Cap Bob, chatted with Robert. He wants to send his manuscript out to a select few. . . I told him about you, and he asked if you could approach (certain parties) with the manuscript.& confidentiality agreements.(or know someone who could). Let me know your thoughts-hope all is well.” “Wait a minute!” I thought to myself. I don’t even know this guy on the west coast, and Paul is arranging for my personal involvement in his escapade? What could these two be thinking? I fired off a quick reply which said in part that “I would have to talk in depth with you and/or Robert before I jump into a mess like that. . . Good luck, Paul. I am glad you enjoyed the trip to WHOI. I’ll see you in March and we can pick up the conversation from there. Cap’n Bob” Paul agreed and shot back: “I agree that it would be good to ask him direct questions about the process, his goals. Bob, I have questions too-see you soon. ~Paul” Well, you can bet that Paul and I met in early March 2002, and I wanted to be as direct but as helpful, as possible and shared with Paul my concerns about approaching certain individuals with Robert’s manuscript. I was feeling more and more involved with the project, and to a fault, was ready, and perhaps eager, to help. Paul sensed that and wrote an e-mail to Robert that suggested I was just the one he wanted as his personal representative and agent for making important contacts on the east coast. He capped his glowing report of my maritime and administrative prowess with: “It seems at this point what we do next is in Bob’s hands, and depends on how everything unfolds.” I just wanted to be helpful, and now I am wondering how did I wind up in this position? Robert doesn’t know me and Paul is suggesting that Robert’s life work be placed in my hands. This is getting more bizarre by the minute. I don’t even have e-mail contact with Robert even though Paul gave me his e-mail address almost a year ago. So on March 5, 2002, I drew the line in the sand with a statement to them both: “Robert and Paul, I have scheduled a meeting with Bob McKenna, author of Dictionary of Nautical Literacy, (See amazon.com) who is a Mystic Connecticut resident with ties to the various nautical industries, including the prestigious, Mystic Seaport, in Mystic for Saturday morning breakfast. I am meeting him for other reasons, but if the BEST route to (certain individuals) needs to be discussed, I can put that on the agenda. I am here only in a supporting role for your projects as a colleague. I have enough on my plate with a book trying to come out on the Merchant Marine, a move to Florida and a host of other ‘stuff’ that I am involved with. If you wish me to intercede as a friend, I need know what your expectations are for the outcome . . . so I can work in fulfilling those specific goals on your behalf. I have no personal interest in being involved with your project, except that I want to see that only trusted people are contacted to protect and further your interests, and they would be very few. . . I wish you all good success in this project. Cap’n Bob” Now I think they understand and in a semi-apologetic note the next day, Paul back peddled with” “Bob, I do hope I wasn’t overzealous ( re: portraying your level of interest) in my instinctive tendency to try to “prime the pump” for this project. I am thrilled by all of this, and stand by willing and eager to assist in any possible way that I can.” I told Paul: “I think I have put it all on the table. 1) I have no personal interest in scooping his work and 2) I need to know what his expectations are from me. . .and then I can decide if they are realistic . . . and if they are not, I can’t help. That’s all. Keep me posted. —Cap’n Bob” Well finally, I had made the break! Or so I thought.
Well, I had finally made the break—for one day! The next day, March 6, I received my first e-mail from Robert Sarmast. It was three pages long and thoroughly brought me up to date on all that he was doing. His goals were vividly clear, and his e-mail was extremely persuasive. He told me more than I wanted to know if I were to remain detached, but I read it with rapped interest. He wanted me to look at his manuscript on the discovery of Atlantis. The last two paragraphs of his e-mail read: “As standard procedure, I would like to send you a confidentiality agreement (please send me your address) over the net. Meanwhile, I want to relay the manuscript to Paul, who will then forward it to you, and then you can return it to me by mail. How does that sound? The book does all the explaining and will get you familiar with the task at hand. Thank you again for the great help, I truly appreciate it. Let me know your thoughts/advice anytime.” I suppose that this was the moment that the hook was in. I was fascinated by Robert’s historical journey and as his elder, I felt a compelling need to offer him whatever support I could. Long story – short, he recanted my need for sending him a signed confidentiality agreement and said I could keep the manuscript as a gift when I received it. The sense of mutual trust between the three of us was astounding. How could Robert possibly know that my sense of personal ethics would never betray him or his work? It was a warm fuzzy, indeed. But I needed to read the manuscript before I let my emotional intuition override my intellectual quotient.
There was a flurry of e-mail between us three during the ensuing weeks. By the end of March, I had received Robert’s manuscript and read it as a teacher marking a term paper. I finished in one sitting and that was the moment I knew that the hook was not only in, but as they say in sport fishing, it was set! I was on board with these guys. They had become something that is not unlike sons to me. I offered only a few comments of critique on the manuscript. The friendship and trust escalated from there. By mid summer 2002, I met Robert for the first time in Colorado to assist in presenting the prospectus of an expedition to Atlantis for potential investors. I met the principals in the First Source Enterprises, and Robert informed me that I was to be the “expedition leader.” I knew that would mean a lot of work and commitment, but I was thoroughly prepared to do whatever was necessary. I’d had plenty of experience in similar positions. Paul was in the audience during that presentation in Colorado, and I noticed a sense of satisfaction on his face that I only understood two years later.
Fast forward to November 7, 2004, the beginning of the voyage for the expedition to Atlantis in the port of Limassol, Cyprus. The three of us were on board for the culmination of over a decade of work by Robert Sarmast. We would soon be over Atlantis, on an exciting adventure that was historically extremely significant and one that would prove Robert’s thesis. When we returned triumphantly to port six days later, I was reviewing in my mind the whole sequence of events that brought me the privilege of serving on this monumental expedition. My thoughts went back to the spring of 2001. Paul wrote: “I imagine a Captain would have a place on board. Please remember me. —ex-Alaska deckhand 😉 ” He was a sailor and understood that a camera on a string was ridiculous and obviously I was the Captain he had in mind. Did he fabricate this rouse just to engage me as a colleague in this adventure? I asked him directly if that is what he had done. Had he outsmarted me with this ploy of a camera on a string? He looked very knowingly at me and with a smile said, “I guess you will never know.”
