Free Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter by Josh Gates

hard to confirm. We’re then told that the bones are actually buried between two palm trees on the beach, and while I have little hope of finding anything, my team and I take turns digging, to the sheer delight of the locals. It’s not that they don’t believe in the creature: they absolutely do. Ardently. They just can’t imagine why anyone would toil in the hot sun for evidence. The longer I dig, the more I agree with them.
    Coming up empty-handed, we attempt to verify additional sightings by scuba diving in the waters of nearby Elizabeth Bay. We explore untouched corals and hover over the carcasses of massive troop transport boats from World War II. The underwater investigation, while breathtaking, yields no actual mermaid sightings.
    Back onshore, however, we do see something significant bobbing at the surface, which, for an instant, appears humanoid. Careful observation reveals that it’s something else entirely. The animal is a dugong: a marine mammal, relative of the manatee, and a strong candidate for what the locals are seeing. Additional research reveals that the dugong species is of the scientific order Sirenia. Sirenia are named for the Sirens of Greek mythology, since it is theorized that Mediterranean sailors historically mistook manatees as, you guessed it, mermaids. But the question remains: How did remote Papuans in the Pacific come to perfectly describe a creature from Greek mythology? The answer lies in the same cultural cross-pollination that makes pidgin such a bizarre hybrid language.
    As the war’s Pacific theater unfolded on Papua New Guinea’s shores, the local population struggled to make sense of modern boats and futuristic-looking aircraft. Tribes famously created “cargo cults,” believing that arriving food rations and military gear were actually from God and meant for the Papuans themselves. They believed the soldiers were intercepting these holy supplies, and, in an effort to cut out the middleman, locals hastily constructed useless boat docks and primitive airstrips in the hopes that more cargo would simply, well, show up. These coveted supplies offered clues to a world that these people never knew existed. Many shipments included cans of tuna fish, on which they would have noticed the same logo that persists on packaging to this day: a reclining mermaid. The villagers in PNG are simply carrying on a muddled tradition of misidentification as old as Homer himself. So the next time you’re at the supermarket buying a can of Chicken of the Sea, take stock of the power of myth.
    Satisfied at our explanation of the Papuan mermaid, we turn to face another creature on the nearby island of New Britain. The daylong drive back to the airport in Kavieng is going to knock us off schedule, so we decide to simply travel in a direct line, taking a boat between the two islands. I’m advised that the crossing can be rough and should be attempted just before dawn.
    We wake up at 3:30 a.m. under the cover of darkness and haul our equipment down to the beach. It’s pouring, and even with rain gear, we’re drenched in minutes. I hike down over the rocks to get a look at the water; what I see is not overly encouraging. The ocean is dark and churning, and the banana boats the locals sourced don’t look particularly seaworthy. We try to wait out the rain for another half hour, but it’s relentless. Finally, we give it a go. We lash the gear under tarps and carry the boats to the water’s edge. It’s hard to tell if the ocean is getting worse or if the morning light is just revealing how bad the conditions really are. Either way, we don’t last long. After struggling to make it across the breakers, Neil and I take a rogue wave to the face. About $10,000 worth of gear is destroyed in an instant. We return to shore. So much for the boat idea.
    Back on land, we dry off as the sun begins to break. The ocean remains rough, and the swells are worse than ever. I ask the villagers if there’s a field in the