Telepylos: Gateway to a Lost World

Introduction

Humanity has always shared a profound, unbreakable bond with water. We build our lives along its shores, draw sustenance from its depths, and trace our stories by its edges. A shoreline on a map isn’t just a line—it’s a frontier that has guided our survival and sculpted the course of history. The Mediterranean Sea, with its vast, shimmering reach, has long been a cradle for civilizations and a wellspring of enduring myths. Yet there’s a persistent chasm between the oral traditions we’ve inherited and the physical evidence of the past, leaving most of these tales dismissed as mere fantasy. Beneath those calm waves, however, lies a discovery that could challenge our understanding of the Mediterranean’s shifting boundaries and open a window into a forgotten chapter of humanity—one that might finally reconcile the threads of legend with the truths of history.

A Link to the Deep Past

In November 2024, while generating topographic maps in QGIS for my book on Atlantis, I uncovered something truly extraordinary. I was tracing what I believed to be an ancient shoreline, a line where I had long suspected there might be a slim chance of finding evidence. Yet, I had all but abandoned hope, convinced that time, combined with the limitations of resolution, had buried any traces of human activity from that era beyond recovery. I’d resigned myself to the idea that expecting to find anything would be a fool’s errand—until this discovery proved me wrong.

Forty kilometers south-southeast of Portopalo, Sicily, at the edge of the Malta-Sicily Escarpment, a submerged site rests in silent mystery. I believe this to be Telepylos, the legendary city of the Laestrygonians from Homer’s Odyssey—a land of flesh-eating giants, defined by a sheltered harbor and encircled by towering cliffs. The name “Telepylos,” meaning “far-gates,” likely stems from the narrow, natural passage into its harbor, a feature that could trap ships within, rendering it both defensible and remarkable.

Spanning 17.64 kilometers in length and 4.41 kilometers in width, its dimensions align precisely with ancient measurements: 100 stadia by 25 stadia, based on the commonly accepted 176.4 meters per stadion. These figures aren’t arbitrary—the city’s layout reveals a carefully structured grid, reflecting a sophisticated grasp of urban planning and design. This precision debunks any idea that the site is a random anomaly; its unmistakably human-made features point to deliberate craftsmanship and advanced engineering. With a scale and complexity that rivals the grandeur often tied to Atlantis, Telepylos emerges as one of the most extraordinary examples of ancient construction ever unearthed, sparking deep questions about the capabilities of its architects and the cultural significance of its form.

Encircling the entire city is an immense canal, over half a kilometer wide and stretching 51.5 kilometers—about one-quarter the length of the Suez Canal, yet more than twice its width. Rising some 50 meters above the water below, the city’s elevated terrain, combined with this formidable waterway, created a nearly impregnable fortress. The sheer effort and resources required to carve out such a defensive ring offer a vivid glimpse into the adaptability and determination of its builders, hinting at both their technological prowess and a pressing need for security in an unpredictable era.

Fig 1 – Bathymetric shaded relief map. Dimensions shown are Metric and Ancient Greek (1 Stadia=176.4m).

The main gate—a narrow passage framed by sheer cliffs—leads into an inner harbor. A continuous row of cliffs defines the northern edge, while a headland juts southward, shaping a protective bay. Although there is much accumulation of sediment, using a simple process I call digital dredging, underwater landscapes were virtually reshaped by removing layers of soft, loose sediment from bathymetric data to reveal underlying structures or features. Using high-resolution heightmap data from EMODnet—a comprehensive resource for European marine bathymetry—I imported the raw depth measurements into Unreal Engine, a powerful tool for 3D visualization and terrain manipulation. Within Unreal Engine, I applied a targeted editing process, stripping away up to 50 meters of accumulated sediment in specific areas where soft, unconsolidated material typically gathers, in this case, the inner bay and perimeter canal. This digital excavation enhances the visibility of harder, potentially significant formations beneath, offering a clearer view of the seabed’s natural or artificial contours. The result is a refined, interactive 3D model that simulates what the bathymetry might look like after such sediment removal, blending scientific precision with creative exploration.

Though the current survey remains incomplete, several large, potentially intentional formations beg further exploration.One structure that is hard to ignore appears to be a central temple, positioned directly opposite the entrance to the main gate. A time may come where it is revealed to rival the Great Pyramid in scale. Standing over 150m above the ancient waterline, it must have been a sight to behold.

Another structure, also nearly 150 meters above the ancient sea shore, positioned at the headland’s tip, might be interpreted as a massive lighthouse. If further exploration confirms these possibilities, they could reveal a city designed with maritime precision and advanced planning, amplifying its historical weight.

Fig 2 – Isometric 3d view of site using a Mean depth rainbow colour shaded relief map (https://emodnet.ec.europa.eu/)

Fig 3 – Central temple, positioned directly opposite the entrance to the main gate. (https://emodnet.ec.europa.eu/)

Telepylos stands out not only for its discovery but for the enigmas it poses. How could such a sprawling settlement exist in this location, now lost beneath the sea? When did it meet its end, and what forces conspired to bury it in the Mediterranean’s depths?

Odysseus at Telepylos

The tale of Odysseus’ encounter with the Laestrygonians, as told in the Odyssey, blends terror with a hint of dark humor. He describes a harrowing ordeal—giant, flesh-eating inhabitants raining destruction on his fleet—but a closer reading suggests he may have stretched the truth, perhaps to save face or heighten the drama. His account demands careful scrutiny.

Odysseus, the wily hero, moors his ship at a rocky outcropping and sends two scouts and a herald ashore to meet the locals, keeping himself at a cautious distance. A young girl—notably not a giant—guides the men to her parents. Then, the story takes a grim turn: the Laestrygonians attack, allegedly devouring some of Odysseus’ crew, while the survivors flee to their ships, only to be bombarded by massive boulders from above, shattering the fleet. Odysseus, watching from his strategic perch, swiftly cuts the mooring line and orders his crew to row for their lives, abandoning the rest to their fate.

How does he know what happened ashore? No one survived to report back. From his distant vantage point, he could only piece together a narrative, likely shaped by fear, survival instinct, or the haze of memory. Giants might have been imposing statues, misread in panic. Hurling stones could point to early siege weapons—catapults or trebuchets—rather than superhuman strength. Cannibalism? Perhaps an embellishment to underscore the brutality of an unknown foe. Odysseus’ instincts secured his survival, but the details of his tale invite skepticism, refined over centuries by oral tradition and Homer’s dramatic flair.

Some might argue I’m shaping the story to match the site, but my intent is to place Homer’s words within their geographical context—to explore how the landscape itself might have inspired the narrative, not to force an interpretation.

From the Odyssey (paraphrased):

“When we arrived at the well-sheltered harbor, sheer cliffs flanked both sides. Along the north, a continuous wall of stone stretched unbroken. On the opposite side, a great headland jutted into the sea, enclosing the bay. The fleet sailed ahead through the narrow passage into a peaceful harbor, where ships lay in still waters. Sensing caution, I stayed back, mooring our black ship at a rocky outcropping near the entrance and climbed to a rugged height to scout the land. Initially, I saw no fields or farmland—only mountains and thick forests stretching far. Yet beyond the trees, faint spirals of smoke curled into the sky, suggesting life. Hoping for answers, I sent two men and a herald to seek the locals and learn what kind of people dwelt there. They rowed a small boat ashore, and from my perch, I watched them step onto a well-worn road along the forest’s edge—a smooth, deliberate path, not the wilds of an empty land, but a sign of human hands. It led away from the shore, vanishing into the dense trees, toward what I could only guess was the city beyond.”

Odysseus’ View: A Glimpse Through the Fog

How closely does the submerged site south-southeast of Portopalo align with Odysseus’ fleeting visit to Telepylos in Homer’s Odyssey? The connection is striking, yet tantalizingly incomplete—much like the hero’s own experience. Odysseus, ever the cautious navigator, never ventured deep into the heart of Telepylos. As he recounts, he noted the numerous ships moored within its sheltered harbor—a sight that likely signaled both opportunity and danger. Instead of pressing inland, he chose to anchor his black ship at a rocky outcrop along the northern edge of the bay, a decision shaped by his approach from the east. This vantage point, likely the eastern shore given his trajectory, offered safety and a clear view of the harbor’s entrance without committing his crew to the unknown depths beyond.

The landscape he describes matches the underwater terrain with uncanny precision. The “sheer wall of stone” stretching along the north corresponds to the towering cliffs that still define the site’s submerged profile, their imposing forms enduring despite 50 meters of sediment piled atop them over millennia of rising seas. This buildup, a slow burial rather than a sudden collapse, cloaks the city’s grandeur but leaves its skeletal outline intact. The main gate—a narrow passage flanked by cliffs—remains discernible, leading to the inner harbor just as Homer depicted. Nearby, the headland jutting southward into the bay mirrors the “great headland” of the tale, enclosing the waters in a protective embrace. These features anchor Odysseus’ words to a real place, suggesting his account wasn’t mere fancy but a distorted reflection of an ancient reality.

Fig 4 – Visualization of Telepylos circa 9,600 BC.

Yet what Odysseus saw—and what Homer preserved—is only a sliver of Telepylos’ story. Unlike Plato’s vivid, almost encyclopedic portrait of Atlantis, drawn from a wellspring of detailed tradition, Homer offers a fragmented glimpse, filtered through Odysseus’ narrow lens. The hero’s perspective was inherently limited—he stayed at the periphery, peering into a world he never fully grasped. Had his scouts and herald survived their ill-fated meeting with the Laestrygonians, the Odyssey might never have emerged as we know it, leaving us with even less to decipher. Instead, we inherit a visceral, savage impression: a city of chaos and barbarity, its inhabitants hurling boulders, its harbor a trap. This portrayal masks the true scale and sophistication hinted at by the site’s engineered canals and structured layout—a grandeur Odysseus couldn’t fathom from his distant perch.

Had Homer known the city’s vastness—its 17.64-by-4.41-kilometer expanse, its half-kilometer-wide canal—he might have crafted a tale of awe rather than terror, celebrating Telepylos as a marvel of human endeavor. Odysseus’ restricted view makes sense in this light; he never breached the harbor’s edge or traced the roads winding inland. His survival hinged on that caution, but it left him blind to the city’s deeper truths. By contrast, Plato’s Atlantis sprang from a richer, more intimate source—perhaps a priestly record or a cultural memory passed down with care. If Odysseus had sailed to Atlantis instead, his account would likely remain just as superficial, confined to fleeting impressions from afar, unable to capture the intricate rings and towering temples Plato describes.

This disparity underscores Telepylos’ enigma. Odysseus’ tale is a shadow on the cave wall—vivid, gripping, yet incomplete. The submerged site fills in the gaps, bridging myth and reality with its silent stones. It invites us to see beyond the hero’s fog, to imagine a Telepylos not of giants and ruin, but of ingenuity and ambition, lost to time yet waiting to be reclaimed.

Telepylos: A Submerged Legacy

How does a city “sink” beneath the waves? The city never sank as much as it succumbed to the rising waters. There are countless myths regarding flooding events in the Mediterranean, and this gives them proper context.

During the last Ice Age, the Mediterranean was cut off from the Atlantic as global sea levels plummeted. Its waters receded further, unveiling vast stretches of fertile plains where civilizations took root and flourished. As glaciers melted, the sea slowly reclaimed these lands—not through a sudden catastrophe, but in a steady transformation stretching across millennia. Even the Mediterranean’s gentle microclimate couldn’t stem this inexorable rise. Periodic surges of peak flooding left their mark on our ancient memory, yet they linger like a fading dream, easily swept away by the dawn of a new era.

The Zanclean megaflood hypothesis suggests that 5.33 million years ago, after the Messinian Salinity Crisis, the basin refilled in a dramatic surge as Atlantic waters breached Gibraltar within a few years—one of Earth’s most striking geological shifts. But I propose an alternative timeline.

The Bolonia–Tangiers Land Bridge Hypothesis

It is commonly accepted that during the Ice Age, global sea levels dropped approximately 125m below current levels. Prior to the Ice Age, the Mediterranean was like it is today generally, but as the sea level dropped, a land bridge was exposed and cut off the Mediterranean from the Atlantic.

Sea levels may have fallen as much as 250 meters—double the widely accepted 125-meter drop. Cut off from the Atlantic, the basin became a closed system, with evaporation outpacing inflow from rivers and rain, exposing broad coastlines ripe for settlement.

The Strait of Gibraltar’s inflow governs Mediterranean water levels. If blocked, the basin would settle into a lower equilibrium as levels dropped. Bathymetric maps hint at an ancient land bridge linking southern Spain (near Bolonia) to northern Morocco (near Tangiers). At the -275m depth contour, a continuous shoreline emerges, suggesting a connection that may have risen to -60m, isolating the Mediterranean for up to 80,000 years.

Fig. 5 – Plan and Profile of the Mediterranean during the Last Glacial Maximum.

While global seas fell by about 125 meters, the Mediterranean plunged to 250 meters below current levels, reaching stability for possibly 80,000 years. This extended window allowed civilizations to establish, flourish, and innovate. The exposed plains, fertile and tempered by a predictable climate, became cultural and economic hubs. Telepylos stands as a monument to this era—its construction spanning generations, a feat defying the simplicity often ascribed to prehistory. Likely abandoned by 8,600 BC, its origins stretch far earlier, perhaps thriving for millennia before the sea overtook it. Its timeline intriguingly overlaps with Atlantis, another lost maritime titan.

Though parallels between Telepylos and Atlantis remain speculative, both are depicted as thriving ports along vital trade routes, surrounded by rich lands. Telepylos, with its monumental scale and intricate design, offers a tantalizing glimpse into the potential of ancient societies, urging us to rethink what was possible in the distant past. Could it be the key to merging myth with history? Its questions—of origin, fate, and ties to other legendary cities—beckon us to probe deeper into the Mediterranean’s submerged secrets.

Telepylos in Context: The Mediterranean’s Hidden Network

Telepylos’ story extends beyond its walls—its existence hints at a broader, hidden Mediterranean world. If the Bolonia–Tangiers Land Bridge Hypothesis holds true, the Mediterranean basin during the Last Glacial Maximum was not the sea we know today. Its shores stretched far beyond their current bounds, its plains bloomed with life, and its waters were hemmed in by a natural barrier that severed it from the Atlantic. This wasn’t a desolate void but a vibrant crossroads, potentially teeming with early human societies. Telepylos, with its vast harbor and engineered defenses, was likely no solitary marvel but a key node in a now-submerged network of settlements.

Archaeological parallels paint a broader picture. In southeastern Turkey, Göbekli Tepe—dated to around 9,600 BC—stands as proof that monumental architecture thrived in an era once deemed too primitive for such feats. Its carved pillars and enclosures mirror the ambition seen in Telepylos’ canal and cliffs. Elsewhere, submerged sites like Japan’s Yonaguni Monument or France’s Cosquer Cave—flooded as seas rose—suggest a recurring theme: coastal cultures flourishing during the Ice Age, only to be erased by the same unstoppable tides that claimed Telepylos. These parallels frame it as a maritime hub, possibly a linchpin in a chain of settlements that dotted the basin’s expanded shores.

Bathymetric data deepens this vision. The -250m contour along the Malta-Sicily Escarpment reveals a sprawling shelf—hundreds of kilometers of once-habitable land that could have sustained a constellation of communities. If the land bridge held for 80,000 years, as proposed, this prolonged stability would have nurtured a thriving prehistoric world. Farmers likely tilled the fertile plains, their crops feeding growing populations. Sailors navigated the reduced sea, their vessels threading between ports like Telepylos, guided perhaps by that potential lighthouse at the headland’s tip. The canal, a half-kilometer wide, speaks of wealth and power worth defending—whether from rival groups or the sea itself.

This network’s scale is staggering yet plausible. Telepylos’ precise layout and monumental features suggest it was built to endure, a testament to a society that mastered its environment. Its fate, though, was shared by its unseen neighbors. As the Ice Age waned and the land bridge gave way, rising waters didn’t just swallow one city—they drowned an entire cultural landscape. Telepylos endures as a rare, detectable relic, its submerged ruins a window into this lost era. It hints at a Mediterranean not of scattered outposts but of interwoven societies—a tapestry of human endeavor now hidden beneath the waves, awaiting rediscovery through modern exploration.

Correcting the Timeline

In Greek mythic tradition, Plato’s Timaeus and Critias place Atlantis’ fall 9,000 years before Solon (ca. 600 BCE), while Odysseus and Heracles roam the Late Bronze Age (13th–12th century BCE). But what if this chronology is misaligned? Telepylos, built at -250m, could only have thrived during a prolonged era of shoreline stability. As Earth warmed post-Ice Age, global seas rose from -125m. When the Atlantic breached the land bridge at -60m—its precise timing uncertain—that stability crumbled, and the sea swallowed coastal worlds. This suggests Telepylos was uninhabited until 8,600 BCE, with roots stretching thousands of years earlier.

Fig. 6 – Bathymetric map showing the Mediterranean basin at 250 meters below current sea levels, illustrating hypothesized exposed landmasses during the Wisconsinan glacial period. Credit: Data from EMODnet Bathymetry Database (www.emodnet-bathymetry.eu)

If Telepylos predates the Bronze Age by millennia, the Odyssey and Iliad may reflect a far older world—one where the Mediterranean’s shores stretched vastly different. This implies Odysseus, and the myths tied to him, have been misplaced in time, echoing a distant era lost to rising tides. It’s a seismic shift in perspective, suggesting countless “mythical” cities and peoples lie submerged, waiting to be found.

By revisiting Homer’s Odyssey through this lens and cross-referencing modern geospatial data (like EMODnet and GEBCO), we can re-evaluate countless mythological tales, mapping their ancient narratives onto tangible landscapes and uncovering new insights into how these stories reflect humanity’s evolving relationship with the physical world.

This claim challenges orthodoxy, and I’m no master of classics—nor is anyone, truly. Our knowledge rests on fragile assumptions, gaps in evidence, and unchallenged narratives. The scale of this discovery staggers even me. Yet history evolves with each breakthrough— heliocentrism, evolution, quantum physics—all once unthinkable. If Telepylos demands a rewrite, we must heed the call, however daunting.

A New Dawn for the Ancient World

For centuries, we’ve cast humanity’s oldest myths as mere stories—tales to amuse or explain the unknown. But what if they’re rooted in reality? Telepylos stands as tangible proof that entire chapters of our past, once labeled “myth,” lie dormant beneath the waves.

The next step is clear: Telepylos needs exploration. Plans for a full underwater survey with ROVs and submersibles are underway, though funding remains uncertain. This isn’t just a pursuit of knowledge—it’s a challenge to historical norms. Telepylos’ scale, its link to the Odyssey, and its breathtaking mystery hold the makings of an archaeological revolution—ripe for books, documentaries, films, even interactive games. Imagine strolling its harbors in VR or watching its rise and fall on screen. With Nolan set to adapt The Odyssey, I’d love to share this find’s potential to reshape that epic.

Beyond lies Atlantis. I’m growing certain of its location, possibly sharing a shoreline with Telepylos, yet it had a much different fate. Proving one city’s existence strengthens the case for another. Telepylos is the gateway—the first step to rewriting our past and reclaiming truths long submerged. We can cling to a world where myths stay myths, or embrace a dawn where the ancient world is rediscovered. In archaeology, one truth endures: the deeper you dig, the older the story gets.