Rubbernecking the Shipwreck

One of my guilty, guilty, off-brand pleasures is watching treasure hunting shows on History Channel or Discovery. I do it knowing I'm rubbernecking the shipwrecked scene of colonialism. So I am disgusted with myself, and soothed.

Most treasure hunt shows repackage adventures of European men with highly romanticized, well-produced reenactments: the man holding a compass, jug of rum, leather-bound map, and a shameful bounty of Indigenous treasures. I know this. I hate myself for finding escape in the literal plundering of continents.

And sunken treasure shows are the worst–the water's so blue, so gorgeous. The captain of the ship has a painful, narcissistic father-son abandonment backstory. They’re chasing treasure, chasing love, chasing the same high their father was after. But treasure hunting is low-key a pyramid scheme. A fleeting fancy.

These captains are shit at pep talks because they're overextended, and there’s usually a literal storm pending. Their teams consist of guys who are seasoned at some niche historical expertise: Nazi weaponry, medieval coins, Aztec civil planning, military button identification geniuses. Meaning, you can't tell them shit. These cats are old coin, ancient artillery lovers, and they don't feel time. Seconds are decades, eras are minutes to these historically unmoored treasure junkies. 

There are always a few underwhelming team members. For a viewer, nothing is a better call-in than "look at that 'ordinary' person—if they can do it, I can surely seek and find treasure myself, right?! I'll start tomorrow!"

The Underwhelmer. They look familiar. Isn't that the guy my sister drove her friend to meet in Montana? Her friend met him online, but no one should trek to Billings solo for a first encounter, so my sister offered to roadtrip from Colorado in her brand new Subaru. She described the scene perfectly: the sound of gravel crunching under the Subaru's tires, the co-mingling scents of pepperoni stick wrappers and new car as they pulled up with a clear view into the living room…and there it was. The lion pride blanket pinned to the living room wall—the sole decor element. My sister's friend survived the encounter, but if that's not a girl's trip wrapped inside of a potential true crime adventure, I don't know what is. If The Underwhelmer can become an expert shallow sea diver in landlocked Montana, treasure hunting is within all of our reach.

So, I am hooked on the hunt. I know the drama, the storm, and the crew of misfits are a contrived formula, but it still gives me a serotonin hit. I am genuinely curious about the historical events. I like when the team has to take themselves to an actual library to find a ship's manifest, and the rabbit holes of inferences made from the cargo list.

I don't know why we consume stories we morally oppose. I might as well confess: I'm also a True Crime consumer. Is it because my nervous system is stuck in survival mode these days? Perhaps. Is it because I am exhausted, and an uncomplicated “who-did-it,” or “will-they-find-it” narrative arc is just what my brain needs? Is it because even when it's time to relax, my brain still wants to solve a puzzle? Maybe “survival mode” depletes willpower, and complicitly watching escapism shows becomes easier to justify.

Here's the kicker: sunken treasure hunting is a rock hunt. Seven guys, tons of gear, and what they are most likely to find, if anything, are ballast stones. The stones that were used to stabilize and lower the center of gravity on wooden sailing vessels. Adults high-fiving when they find a debris field of basalt stones is gut-punching—it's so sad. It's the anti-climactic ending in the most picturesque setting… exactly what this guilty pleasure deserves. It makes me feel relieved and disappointed. When they don't find the stolen natural resources, it's the ultimate cliffhanger.

Season 13 of The Curse of Oak Island premieres on November 4, 2025. I will be watching, alone. Just me and my cats snuggled under blankets, eating gluten-free pizza (topped with fresh arugula so it's basically a salad), and having a package of Trader Joe's Organic Beary Tiny Gummies for dessert. Maybe having a glass of vinho verde—pour some out for the East Wing (RIP). I haven't been able to convert any friends or family over to my guilty, guilty, off-brand pleasure. My poor sister, listening to secondhand recounts of a treasure show that's really become a vanity vehicle for massive excavation equipment, has to be its own kind of torture.

Colonial violence mystery escapism. Now you know my secret.

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Hasina is a generalist with a specialist’s attention span. A certified project manager, communications strategist, and former pop music manager, she is also a neurodivergent storyteller who believes most human systems could be improved—with more honesty, more humor, and a few well-placed Venn diagrams. She approaches complex communications challenges with one guiding principle: understand deeply and explain simply. Hasina is committed to making professional spaces more inclusive—one impactful project, one empowering message, and, when necessary, disrupting outdated stereotypes (one or several at a time).