One of the difficulties with accepting tales of the paranormal, or even ones where the paranormal isn't explicitly invoked but which fall into the "unsolved mysteries" category, is that humans just love to tell stories.
And embellish them.
Once a claim has gone through a few generations of handing down, it's often hard to tell what about it -- if anything -- is actually the truth.
Take, for example, the story of the Seabird, a sailing vessel that met a very odd fate, reminiscent of the better-documented case of the Mary Celeste. Here's a typical version:
On a strip of land near Newport, Rhode Island, there was a little settlement known as Easton's Beach. Only a few farmers and some fishermen and their families made their homes there.
One day in 1880, a fisherman working on his boat near shore suddenly sighted a full-rigged ship of very good size heading straight for land... [I]t was coming steadily and directly for shore in the on-shore breeze. He called to the other fishermen nearby and ran to the settlement above the beach to tell the rest of the people about the approaching vessel.
Soon everyone was on the beach, watching in helpless silence as the strange ship came on as though determined to wreck itself, its canvas straining and flags snapping at the mastheads.
With horror the spectators heard the grating of the hull upon the bottom as it struck. Yet the ship still bore down, keeping straight on course as it cut a keel groove in the sandy ocean bottom. When it finally came to rest, it was still on an even keel, with the bowsprit almost over their heads.
Then they recognized the ship. It was the Seabird, under the able command of Captain John Husham. It had been to Honduras, and was expected that very day in Newport. Not a sound came from the decks.
At once the crowd went on board to explain the mystery -- but it only deepened. Coffee still boiled on the galley stove, food for breakfast was on the table, all the navigation instruments and charts were in order. Yet there was no trace of the crew, nor any indication of when, why, or where they had gone. The only living thing aboard the Seabird was a mongrel dog shivering on the deck.
The sea had been calm, the breeze fine, and the Seabird had been almost exactly on course for Newport. The crew must have left only shortly before the ship had appeared on the horizon. But why should they have left the ship when they were so close to their home and families? Only Heaven and a mongrel dog knew what had happened aboard the Seabird that sunny morning.
Creepy stuff, right? And it seems like it should be easy to verify, given that "everyone" from the town witnessed the ship beach itself, and a whole "crowd" of them saw the empty decks for themselves, as well as the peculiar observation of the breakfast food laid out for the crew that indicated that whatever had caused them to vanish had just happened. It's one of those stories that when you read it, the natural inclination is to say, "There's enough detail here that it has the ring of truth." The name of the captain, the ship's origin and destination, all sound like stuff that would be simple to verify. And, after all, there wasn't any wild explanation given; no explanation at all, really. A ship shows up sans crew, with a dog as the lone survivor.
And thus, the tendency is to believe it must be true.
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But the owner of the curious site EsoterX was not content to leave it there. He started poking around to see what, if any, of the information in the story of the Seabird could be substantiated. And he found that the version I related above is far from the only one, and that those details -- the same specifics that made the story sound so convincing -- vary greatly from version to version:
This is a fairly rudimentary set of facts, but as I poked into the various accounts of the Seabird, even the simplest plot points of the narrative were found to be in dispute. The event is variously dated to 1750, 1760, and 1850... The missing captain was one John Husham. Or maybe not. He might have been John Huxham, or perhaps even John Durham of Middletown, Connecticut. The ship may have refloated itself overnight and sailed away, never to be seen again. Or, as fairly detailed accounts have it, was salvaged and used commercially for many years after without incident. Or, was parked in the Newport harbor, where it was later captured by the British and turned into an armed gunboat.
Much of human history is oral history, the tales we tell each other around the campfire or by the hearth, but for the past few thousand years we’ve tended to lionize the printed word, shuffling kings and their wars into history, and mysterious accounts passed from generation to generation by word of mouth into folklore. We substantiate the reality of history by writing it down, but the further in time we creep from events, the less we understand the minds of the men that wrote them, gleaning the odd fact here and there, chuckling at their superstitions, and manipulating the warp and weave of their remembered histories to fill in those annoying plot holes that interrupt our remembered tales.
In other words, a claim like this is only as accurate as the person who tells it -- and the person who told it to them, and the one who told it to them, and on and on back into the mists of the past. Sometimes we can learn enough from contemporaneous records to reconstruct what actually happened; but sometimes -- as in the case of the Seabird -- the truth is lost as completely as the ship's unfortunate crew members.
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