The Oak Island Mystery - Curse, Conundrum, or Con?

 

I am a latecomer to the History Channel’s reality-TV-style documentary The Curse of Oak Island, but not a latecomer to the treasure hunter’s story of the so-called “Money Pit” which is thought to be located there, on Oak Island, just off the coast of Nova Scotia in Canada. I first read about the Money Pit mystery in a kid’s history book about pirates and buried treasure when I was at school. I found the book in the school library and I’d often seek it out and sit reading it, engrossed in the various stories it contained, until sadly one day I found the book had been long laboured over by another pupil, who had graffitied every page to such an extent that the book was ruined and no longer readable.

The story of the Money Pit though was one of the more intriguing chapters it contained. It begins in the 1790s, like something out of the pages of Robert Louis Stevenson or R. M. Ballantyne, with a group of boys led by Daniel McGinnis finding a depression in the ground beneath the broken branch of a tree with a discarded block and tackle mechanism lying nearby. The boys began to dig and soon uncovered a shaft with pick axe marks still visible in the pit’s vertical sides. As they continued to dig, they hit a platform of oak beams or logs. Further excavation revealed similar platforms every ten feet as the shaft descended. Some of these were sealed with clay, others with coconut fibre. Eventually the boys were unable to dig any further by hand, but they’d dug deep enough to plant the seed of a very fertile mystery which has continued to grow over time. 

 

The Money Pit, 1931

Subsequent searchers using a variety of tools, techniques, machines, and motivations have attempted to reach the bottom of the original shaft, but all to no avail as the removal of one of these oak platforms is thought to have broken a seal and set in motion a suspected “booby trap” which flooded the shaft with sea water. Reports of a stone slab engraved with mysterious hieroglyphs found lying on one of the oak platforms has simply added to the speculative allure of the Money Pit. No one alive now knows what the stone inscription actually looked like, and, of course, no one knows where the original stone is today; although someone is supposed to have deciphered it and claimed it read as follows: “Forty feet below two million pounds are buried.” Over the decades treasure hunting fever has led to the area becoming dangerously honeycombed with other shafts and tunnels which have long since flooded, been abandoned, collapsed and obscured the location of the original Money Pit. Proving that the more people searched for it, the more the mystery receded from anyone’s reach. Surely, whatever treasure lies at the bottom must be cursed!

 

The Money Pit, 1947

In 2014 The History Channel began to broadcast The Curse of Oak Island. The show, now beginning its eighth season this month, follows the exploits of two brothers, Rick and Marty Lagina from Michigan, who, like me, first read about the Oak Island mystery when they were young boys. Intrigued and enthralled by the story all their lives, the Lagina brothers have managed to unite various interested local parties and other Oak Island landowners who have been involved in the search for the Money Pit over generations. This combined force is a formidable one, extremely well-funded and supremely motivated, they are apparently stinting no expense in their search. From simple prospecting on foot in the woods, swamps, and foreshores of the island with handheld metal detector machines, to giant earth-boring engines and mechanical excavators, they are seemingly pursuing every lead they can in the search, and, similarly, in the pursuit for top-ratings-winning TV. However, for anyone with even a passing acquaintance with professional archaeology, or avid viewers of popular archaeology TV programmes such as the UK’s Time Team, watching The Curse of Oak Island is rather like very slowly passing a huge car crash on a busy road – you know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help looking, watching aghast at what horrors you might possibly see …

 

The "Lost Works" of William Shakespeare?

All sorts of outlandish theories have arisen around the ‘mystery’ of Oak Island. Everything from the seemingly straightforward pirates’ treasure of the 18^th century (Captain Kidd’s perhaps?), looted gold from a Spanish Conquistador treasure ship, or (try not to raise an eyebrow) Marie Antoinette’s lost jewels, to the even more unlikely ‘lost manuscripts’ of William Shakespeare or Francis Bacon, or perhaps the fabled treasures of the Knights Templar – the lost Ark of the Covenant or the Holy Grail. Decidedly Dan Brown-esque ideas are regularly considered a distinct possibility in each episode. As the Laginas like to repeat, they are keeping very open minds about what might lie at the end of their search; that is, if they ever succeed in locating and reaching the bottom of the original Money Pit. 

 

The Lost Ark of the Covenant

Their dedication to the search and the evident expense it entails is a remarkable thing to behold. Yet what I find most fascinating is when they stray off on tangents, exploring the foreshore and interior regions of the island. Some of the smaller finds they make, notably a small lead cross, coins, pieces of jewellery, to the far more prosaic iron chisels and quarry hammers or swages, etc., are the things which fascinate me the most, and not least as someone who has spent his whole life working on archaeological excavations and in museum stores.

 

Conjectured sectional plan of the Oak Island "Money Pit"

They’ve also made some significant archaeological discoveries too, in-situ features such as a wooden slipway and a wooden revetment in an area of the island known as Smith’s Cove. Plus, the environmental investigations they’ve undertaken in an area of swampland which seems to have been artificially made, or is a wetland environment inadvertently induced by some sort of human activity thereabouts. These are the really interesting elements which the more they find, the more the island cries out for a proper professionally led scientific investigation. Instead, the island is being ripped to shreds by a bunch of otherwise well-meaning enthusiasts. That said though, it could be a lot worse. They do appear to make an effort to consult with ‘experts’ – some of the finds are taken to local university labs and analysed, dated, etc. And the team do take time out to sit down at collective team briefings to talk through their findings, to evaluate theories, and to come up with next-steps and plans of action. But really, the educational value of this programme is virtually nil.

 

Marty & Rick Lagina (centre) and the Oak Island Search Team (History Channel)

The whole enterprise is ultimately an exercise of carefully staged and heavily stylised ‘gung-ho’ masculinity, of men and machines (there are seemingly very few women involved), with team meetings in their man-cave-like “War Room.” Every sequence ends with someone decisively motivating everyone else to “Get to it!”, “Let’s do this thing!” – Yet each piece of evidence they uncover appears to be used to fit a preconceived idea of what they are already very definitely looking for, or what they most want to find – namely, treasure! … Every artefact examined is automatically assumed to date from the earliest point in its possible date range, even when that date range can span several centuries. Oddly unconnected and widely disbursed items and ‘pieces of evidence’ are quickly tied together in a kind of quantum leaping exercise in joining the dots. And always, everything seems to circle back to that mesmeric and mystifying term – the Templars!

Seal of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon - the Knights Templar

The Oak Island team may well be seeking to rewrite history, and some of their findings so far certainly have the potential to do that, both locally and perhaps even more broadly within the immediate region. The Laginas are right to keep an open mind, and I wouldn’t fault them in that respect; but it’s the show’s tendency to chase wishful projections, constantly pushing tendentious theories, and making overly assertive speculations based on the slimmest evidence in an exhausting effort to ratchet up and maintain the tedious cliff-hanger or 'click-bait'-like hype which winds me up the most. As every archaeologist knows, older things can end up in newer (later) places and positions in time on any given site, and so that is why every archaeologist will tell you that “context is key.” Hence, poking about in the earth with a shovel following the indication of a metal detector’s bleep will never give you the full story. That’s why in the UK, since the advent of the Treasure Act in 1996 and the subsequent setting up of the Portable Antiquities Scheme, professional archaeologists have sought to find a way to work in tandem with metal detectorists to get the most out of such finds for both parties – treasure and fame for the treasure hunter, and scientific information properly recorded for the greater benefit of all.

 

Aerial view of Oak Island, 1931 (note distortion from double exposure)

I realise one shouldn’t expect too much from the History Channel, which at times feels like it’s directed by the likes of Erich Von Däniken or David Icke, but the format of this show is very pointedly all fluff and padding. It’s TV aimed at credulous people with goldfish-like attention spans. The programme makers seem to assume the viewer’s minds will constantly be wiped blank by the all too frequent commercial breaks. We get constant repetitions of things we saw only moments before, reiterations of simple facts and finds with which even the casual channel-hopping viewer has probably already managed to get their head around fairly quickly, let alone those who have actually been following the show for any length of time. I’ve seen frustrated viewers following the show’s Facebook page complaining in the comment sections about these repetitive 'dumbed-down' elements of the show. Plus, the Oak Island team’s ever-excited obsession with finding “wood” in every core sample sucked, pulled and bagged from every bore hole they drill or each context destroying bucketload they drag out with a huge one-armed digging machine.

 

Plan showing 18th Century Oak Island Landowner Lots (Chester Municipal Heritage Society)

It’s interesting to note though, for all those long strenuous stretches of imagination they make when joining the dots, they almost always circumvent the more readily apparent or everyday explanations. We sit and listen to presentations about how random stones found on the island seem to mark out ‘cross formations’, or more spookily yet geomantic ‘pentagrams!’ and ‘sephiroths!’ – Yet we are constantly shown useful graphics, such as maps delineating the plots of the island’s landowners from the 18^th century, without any thought or effort to see if the placing of these random stones might conform to such maps, thereby indicating their possible purpose as simple boundary markers. For me, watching such scenes is like listening to fingernails being dragged down the face of a blackboard. But still, I can’t look away – still I watch, fascinated by the conflicted emotions and thwarted intellectual interests this travesty of a TV show slowly drip, drip, drip-feeds us each week. It can be excruciating to watch, like a kind of history lover’s masochistic form of Chinese water torture!

 

Map showing Oak Island and Louisbourg (Chester Municipal Heritage Society)

For me, the most interesting angle that they have touched upon is undoubtedly the French colonial connection. In one episode they listen to a presentation given by Chipp Reid, an independent researcher specialising in naval history, who shows them plans and drawings of similar wooden revetments to the one they have uncovered in Smith’s Cove, which conform to French military water batteries or fortifications. Such large-scale earthworks, wharfs or slipways would require substantial time, labour and materials to construct. The French military, as Reid demonstrated to the Oak Island team, are known to have undertaken such large scale works further up the coast, notably the Fortress of Louisbourg on Cape Breton Island. Hence, I think this offers the most plausible archaeological lead yet for much of what they have found so far in terms of structures and subterranean engineering works (drainage tunnels, etc.), but … of course, the Oak Island search team instantly make the quantum leap from the 18^th century French colonial military to the Medieval era ‘L'ordre du Christ’, supposed successors to the Knights Templar, and there the treasure hunter’s fallacy comes neatly (and perhaps all too predictably) full circle once again. 

As The X-Files knew only too well and adeptly proved every episode, the allure of a mystery isn’t found in solving, answering, or understanding its truth – the allure is in the never-ending search and the myriad speculations such a mystery can inspire: “The truth is (still) out there” … like a dog chasing its tail.

 

Billy Bones, by N. C. Wyeth

I wouldn’t mind betting that even if “the Laginas and their business partners” ever reach the bottom of the original ‘Money Pit’, the mystery of what it was, or why it was constructed will always remain unsolved. Sidestepping the serious scientific job of archaeology on such a site is definitely one way of ensuring that particular outcome. Much like the kid’s history book which I was fascinated by in the school library all those years ago that was thoughtlessly graffitied over and ruined, I fear The Curse of Oak Island will end up destroying the history they are seeking, and, with it sadly, the very thing which makes the Oak Island mystery so intriguing.

Blind Pew, by N. C. Wyeth

~

Also on 'Waymarks'

Missing Man - Colonel P. H. Fawcett

Searching for the Real Robinson Crusoes

Robert Drury - Madagascar

Where possible the images used above have been linked to their original sources, please click on the image to follow the link.

The Zocalo - Mexico City

Anyone who has watched the opening scene of the James Bond movie Spectre (2015), starring Daniel Craig, will be familiar with the central square of Mexico City – the Zócalo. It’s where James Bond pursues a baddie clutching a walking cane with a silver skull for a pommel amidst crowds of revellers out celebrating Mexico’s famous ‘Day of the Dead’ festival. The chase ends up with Bond finishing the baddie off in a highly improbable but palm-sweatingly tense punch-up in a helicopter perilously swirling about over the heads of the many people gathered in the city square below. For me though, first watching that iconic opening – which cleverly appears to have been shot as a single take – on the big screen of the Cathay Cinema in Singapore it was oddly nostalgic, as it took me back to the Zócalo.

I first visited Mexico City in 2011 shortly before the Day of the Dead. My Rough Guide to Mexico gives a somewhat understated description of the annual festivities: “Día de los Muertos: If visitors know just one Mexican holiday, it’s probably the Day of the Dead, when families honour and remember those who have died. Actually taking place over two days, November 1 and 2, it’s an indigenous tradition unique to Mexico. […] it’s usually a private rite. In every home and many businesses people set up ofrendas (altars) for the deceased: the centrepiece is always a photograph, lit by candles. In addition to the photo, the person’s favourite foods are also placed on the altar, as a way of luring the soul back to this world. For the same reason, strong-scented, bright orange marigolds are often laid in a path leading to the altar, and resinous copal incense is lit. On the streets, market stalls brim with eggy, orange scented pan de muertos and colourfully iced sugar skulls. Families usually gather to eat dinner on the night of November 1, then visit gravesites, which are also cleaned and decorated. Far from being a sad time, the Day of the Dead is an occasion for telling funny stories, bonding with family and generally celebrating life.” 

What the guidebook oddly leaves out is the fact that this carnival-like parade which is depicted in the opening scene of Spectre in Mexico City actually does take place each year. Not only do people get dressed up for it, but people also expend a considerable amount of time and effort creating enormous floats of the most spectacular and fantastical monsters and mythical creatures, all vibrantly painted which are paraded through the streets of the city to the Zócalo, or central square, where people flock to admire them. By a further strange coincidence, the private after-party for the London premiere of Spectre was held at the British Museum, and so for several days before and after the front hall of the Museum and the Great Court were decked out with some of the enormous skulls and dancing skeletons used in that opening parade scene ... And, judging by the stacks of empty champagne bottles I saw spilling out of the rubbish skips back of house the next morning, Mr Bond must have hosted quite a good party!

Zócalo is an unusual name – it actually means ‘plinth’ – and the central square of Mexico City originally got this name from a proposed monument to commemorate Mexico’s Independence, the base of which (long since demolished) was the only part which was ever constructed. By some strange twist of logic though, this nick-name for the central square became the standard term of reference for all city and town squares throughout Mexico. Mexico City’s Zócalo is one of the largest city squares in the world, comparable to Moscow’s Red Square and Beijing’s Tiananmen Square. And, just as with Beijing’s Tiananmen Square, the centrepiece is a truly huge national flag which is ceremonially raised and lowered each day by a goose-stepping military guard of honour.

Catedral Metropolitana

The Zócalo is flanked by two buildings of central importance to modern day Mexico – the Catedral Metropolitana, and the Palacio Nacional. Thought to have been built on the site of Moctezuma’s Palace, the Palacio Nacional was also the site of Hernan Cortés’s first residence after he defeated the much maligned Aztec ruler in the 1500s. Since 1562 the Palacio has been the official residence of the Spanish Viceroys, and since Mexico’s Independence in 1821 the presidents of the Republic. Today it’s most famous for a spectacular sequence of murals painted by the artist, Diego Rivera, who began painting them shortly after the Mexican Revolution in 1929 (I’ve written about these murals previously on Waymarks here). 

Palacio Nacional

Jesús Nazareno Church

The Catedral Metropolitana which is visually very striking – and holds centre stage in the movie fight-sequence opening Spectre – was begun in 1573, although the front towers weren’t completed until 1813. The building contains a plethora of different architectural styles which make it one of the most distinctive and interesting buildings of its kind. I rather like it, even though I’m not usually a fan of garish and over-the-top cathedrals – I tend to prefer a sparer sort of sanctity, something more airy and austere (think Durham or St. Alban’s Cathedrals perhaps). A few streets away from the Zócalo is a very simple and austere church and hospital, called Jesús Nazareno, which were both founded by Hernan Cortés in 1528. Hence this church with its rather fortress-like thick walls is one of the oldest Spanish buildings in the city. It has a wonderfully cool and dimly lit interior, perfect for escaping the midday heat and sun. It is also the last resting place of the famous Conquistador himself. He’s commemorated very simply by a modest bronze plaque set on a wall near the altar, which is presumably located close to the place where he is buried. 

For a long time it was assumed that much of the stone used to build the Cathedral and other Spanish buildings was taken from the huge Aztec temples which had stood here at the heart of the Moctezuma’s capital which the Conquistadores had usurped, and so there would be little left of the original city of Tenochtitlan left. But happily the nearby ruins of Templo Mayor, which have been under archaeological excavation since 1978, have proved that this wasn’t entirely the case. Thankfully the remains of quite a few Aztec temples have since emerged, teaching us much about the ways of life – and death – which flourished in the Mexican capital before the arrival of the Spanish Conquistadores. More animated reminders of the original Aztec city and its culture are commonly found most days on the side streets around the Zócalo – where it isn’t unusual to find Pre-Columbian revivalist dance troupes, fully bedecked in plumes, dancing to intoxicating drum rhythms. They are truly mesmerising to watch.

The city of Tenochtitlan was founded, so the legend tells, when the sight of an eagle sat upon a cactus devouring a snake indicated where the wandering Aztecs were meant to found the heart of their empire. This motif now forms the centrepiece of the flag of the modern Mexican Republic. Originally the centre of the city was an island in the middle of a lake, hence a floating city grew up here. It must have been quite a sight to behold when Cortés and his men first saw it. In order to get a sense of what this waterborne world might once have been like it’s worth taking a trip out to the suburbs, to the floating gardens of Xochimilco. “The floating gardens themselves,” so my Rough Guide says, “are no more floating than the Titanic: following the old Aztec methods of making the lake fertile, these chinampas are formed by a raft of mud and reeds, firmly rooted to the bottom by the plants. The scene now appears like a series of canals cut through dry land, but the area still is a very important gardening and flower-producing centre for the city.” Here too the carnival-esque atmosphere continues most weekends, with parties of revellers in high spirits, all quaffing back tall beakers of chilli-spiked beer, as they drift along on brightly coloured raft-like boats, called Lanchas. Drifting amidst the bankside flower markets, serenaded into the night by bobbing mariachi bands who grapple alongside like marauding pirates! … It is hilarious and awful in equal measure, but thankfully there are moments of calm along the canals, and so it can feel quite peaceful and enchanting too, especially on a moonlit night when you’re in the company of good friends ... Peaceful, that is, until Mr Bond decides to rip through it all at full-throttle on a speed boat he’s commandeered – no doubt off on the start of another international, jet-setting adventure. Best hang onto your sombrero, amigo!

Also on 'Waymarks'

A Visit to Tula - Mexico

A Visit to Teotihuacan - Mexico

Danza De Los Volodores - Mexico

Frida & Diego - Revolutionary Artists