Out of line

Every so often, I run into a claim that some archaeological site aligns with a particular astronomical object, and all too often, everyone decides that the alignment is why the site was built where and how it was.

Trying to parse the motives of long-dead people who left nothing in the way of written records is a dicey business.  In fact, sometimes it's hard enough even when you're talking about extant cultures.  This was brilliantly lampooned in Horace Miner's rightly famous 1956 article "Body Ritual Among the Nacirema," which appeared in American Anthropologist, and took a rigorous and scholarly look at the mysterious "shrines" we all have in our houses...

... better known as "bathrooms."  And, of course, reached the wrong conclusions about the purposes of nearly everything in them.

The problem arises because the human brain is a pattern-finding device, so it's often hard to resist our tendency to see a pattern when there is none there.  This is the origin of the phenomenon of ley lines -- which I wrote about twelve years ago, in one of my earliest Skeptophilia posts -- the claim that towns, cities, and religious sites are laid out along "lines of power" generated by some unknown forces in the Earth itself.  There are a couple of completely prosaic reasons this alignment happens:

1. Populated sites in areas with relatively flat topography are frequently connected by straight lines, because as Papa Euclid taught us, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
2. More interestingly -- and germane to the pattern-finding tendency referenced above -- if you aren't given any constraints about what particular places you're trying to connect, you can almost always find completely accidental correlations that look like deliberate alignment.

The latter is why the whole topic comes up, because of a fun site I stumbled on called Spurious Alignments: Bad Archaeoastronomy At Your Fingertips.  What this site does is allow you to overlay various astronomical benchmarks (e.g. sunrise on the Winter Solstice, the northernmost point on the horizon where Jupiter rises, and so on) on top of particular geographic locations -- and see what correlations you can find.

One of the best ones anyone's found so far is the airport in Palermo, Italy.  Here are a few of the relevant discoveries:

• Runway 07/25 tracks the relative motions of the Moon.
• Runway 02/20 aligns with the rise of the star Capella.
• Taxiways Bravo and Charlie align with the setting of the star Procyon.
• Taxiway Delta points directly toward the setting of the star Arcturus.

From this, we can clearly see that the Palermo Airport is a site built by ancient astronomers, and the whole complex is an observatory, or possibly the center of a sky-worshiping cult.

The difficulty, of course, is some sites were created because of astronomical alignments.  Many of our distant ancestors knew the motions of the skies better than your average person does today.  A good example, not really explainable any other way, is the famous Sun Dagger on Fajade Butte in New Mexico.  A spiral design carved into the side of a rock facing is across from a crack between two stones, and -- only on the Summer Solstice -- this crack allows light from the Sun at midday to form a "dagger" that perfectly bisects the spiral.

The Sun Dagger is pretty clearly a solstice marker, allowing people to keep track of the seasons in a climate that was hostile to say the least.

But as for most of the other "ancient astronomical observatory" claims -- well, maybe.  It's too easy to find spurious correlations and alignments, especially when there are no rules about what you're trying to get the site to align to.

Or, maybe, the people who built the Palermo Airport really were trying to tell us something.  You never know.

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Heavy-duty nonsense

Yesterday I ran into a claim that, even by comparison with most alt-med nonsense, is way out there. The gist of it is that you can fix all your physical ailments if you just stop drinking water with deuterium in it.

Deuterium, as I probably don't need to explain, is "heavy hydrogen" -- hydrogen atoms whose nucleus contains a proton and a neutron (rather than only a proton, as in ordinary hydrogen).  Heavy water has a few different physical and chemical properties from ordinary water -- such as (unsurprisingly) being 10.6% more dense and being more viscous.  It has an ability to slow high-energy neutrons down without absorbing them, making heavy water important in nuclear fission reactors. Additionally, deuterium forms stronger bonds to carbon and oxygen than ordinary hydrogen.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Dirk Hünniger; Derivative work in english - Balajijagadesh, Hydrogen Deuterium Tritium Nuclei Schmatic-en, CC BY-SA 3.0]

The "Beginner's Guide to Deuterium and Health," however, has some information that would be seriously scary if it weren't for the fact that nearly all of it is wrong.  It starts with a definition of "deuterium," which is correct, and is honestly the last thing on the entire webpage that is.  You're put on notice about the veracity of the site in the first paragraph, wherein we find that the details of how awful deuterium is for you is only accessible to "those with an understanding of advanced bio-chemistry, bio-physics and quantum health."

What, pray, is "quantum health?"  The health of your subatomic particles?  The health of people who are so extremely small that they can only be detected with sensitive instruments?  The health of people who jump from "sick" to "well" and back again without passing all the stages in between?

Or, perhaps, does it refer to someone who is both sick and well at the same time until they go to a doctor, at which point the Alt-Med Wave Function collapses, and they become one or the other?

Then we find out that our health depends on how fast our mitochondria are spinning.  No lie, here's the relevant passage:

At a quantum level hydrogen plays a vital role in mitochondria function.  Mitochondria are the powerhouse batteries of the body.  They ultimately facilitate energy production.  Within the mitochondria there is a spinning head that rotates very fast, the rotation speed of this spinning head determines how efficiently you create energy.  The faster the spinning head rotates the more energy you make and the healthier you will be.  The slower the spinning head rotates the less energy you will make and this leaves you more susceptible to chronic mismatch diseases and faster aging.

What this is referring to, insofar as I can understand it, is the electron transport chain, wherein electrons in your mitochondria give up some of their energy through a series of oxidation/reduction reactions, and that energy is used to shuttle hydrogen ions across the mitochondrial membrane.  The ultimate result is the generation of ATP, a crucial energy storage molecule.

The amusing part is that the rate of this reaction is controlled incredibly tightly.  You need about seventy million ATP molecules per second, per cell, and you use them equally quickly -- ATP doesn't store well.  If your rate of production went up without your rate of consumption going up, you wouldn't be healthier; the ATP would break down, liberating the energy as heat, and you'd spontaneously burst into flame.

So the site is right to the extent that if this happened, worrying about illness and aging would be down near the bottom of your Priorities List.

Anyhow, what we're told is that deuterium kind of gums up the works, making the "spinning head" run more slowly, giving us chronic diseases.  What kind of chronic diseases is never specified, because apparently they're all caused by the same thing, whether you're talking about arthritis or high blood pressure.

The pièce de resistance, however, is when the website tells us what to do about all this.  In order to avoid this bad stuff, the solution is simple: we have to start drinking water with the deuterium removed.

But how do you do this?

Easy.  You take ordinary tap water, and freeze it.

If you put water in the freezer, they say, the heavy water will freeze first.  So you wait until a crust of ice forms, and either chip off and remove that, or else pour off the still-liquid part of the water.  Do it again and again, and eventually you'll have healthful "deuterium-depleted" water.

It works even better, they say, if you start with water "from glacial regions," because it's already been de-deuterium-ized naturally.

I know that the people who construct nuclear reactors would be glad to hear this.  The current method of producing heavy water for industry is called the Girdler sulfide process, which produces one ton of heavy water for every 340,000 tons of water you start with.  This means the stuff's expensive -- one place I looked is charging $680 per liter.  If all they had to do is freeze regular water and pull off the ice, it'd be quite a cost savings.

As with many wacky claims, there's a (small) grain of truth to this stuff.  Heavy water does have a higher freezing point than ordinary water (3.7 C as compared to 0 C).  It's also toxic, but only if you replace 25% of your body's water content with heavy water -- an expensive proposition given its cost.  (One source said, "accidental or intentional poisoning with heavy water is unlikely to the point of practical disregard.  Poisoning would require that the victim ingest large amounts of heavy water without significant normal water intake for many days to produce any noticeable toxic effects.")

What about our consumption of heavy water from contamination of ordinary water?  Well, since in virtually all tested water sources, the concentration of heavy water is one part in 3,200, I don't think you have much to worry about.  But if it amuses you to partly freeze your drinking water and throw away the icy part, by all means have at it.

Oh, and the website also says that once you "flush out the deuterium" from your body, your "energy level will increase, along with your magnetic field."  Which sounds potentially dangerous to me.  I would hate to have just made myself all healthy and deuterium-free, then I walk into Home Depot and my magnetic field starts attracting metal implements, and I get impaled in the forehead by a screwdriver or something.

So there you have it.  How to go through a lot of folderol to remove something from your water that (1) is there in vanishingly small amounts, and (2) has no toxic effects at that dosage.  Me, I'm more inclined to eat right and exercise regularly, but maybe I'm only saying that because the deuterium has gummed up the "spinning heads" in my brain's mitochondria and I'm not thinking straight.  You can see how that could happen.

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Kablooie

I'm kind of an excitable type.

I think that may be why I went into science.  The rigorous, evidence-basted methods of science were a nice antidote to the fact that my natural state is having my emotions swinging me around by the tail constantly.

Even after years of studying (and teaching) science, and twelve years of writing about it here at Skeptophilia Central, I still have the capacity for going off the deep end sometimes.  Which is what happened when I read a paper (a preprint, actually) from the Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society called "The Evolutionary Stage of Betelgeuse Inferred from its Pulsation Periods," by Hideyuki Saio (Tohoku University) and Devesh Nandal, Georges Meynet, and Sylvia Ekström (Université de Genève).

The constellation Orion.  Betelgeuse is in the upper left corner of the image.  [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Mouser, Orion 3008 huge, CC BY-SA 3.0]

First, a little background, before I get to the squee-inducing part.

Stars exist in a state of tension between two forces -- the inward pull of gravity and the outward pressure from the heat produced by fusion in the core.  At the very beginning of their lives, stars form from a loose cloud of mostly hydrogen gas that collapses under its own attractive gravitational force.  That collapse increases the pressure and temperature, and -- if the initial cloud was big enough -- eventually they rise high enough to trigger the fusion of hydrogen atoms into helium.  This is a (very) energy-releasing reaction -- physicists call such reactions exothermic -- and that energy pushes outward, balancing the inward pull of gravity.  The star goes into equilibrium.

But there's not an infinite supply of hydrogen.  The hydrogen fuel in the core is eventually exhausted, so fusion slows down.  The temperature drops, as does the outward pressure, so -- for a while -- gravity wins.  The star collapses, heating the core up, until the temperature and pressure become sufficient to fuse the helium "ash" in the core into carbon.  (This process, incidentally, is where the carbon in the organic molecules in our bodies comes from; Carl Sagan was spot-on in saying "We are made from star stuff.")

Helium fusion is also exothermic, so once again, the star goes into equilibrium.  But then the helium runs out, and the collapse resumes until the pressure and temperature are high enough to fuse carbon into oxygen. 

Then oxygen into silicon.  Then silicon into iron.

Two things are important here.  The first is that each of the reactions -- from hydrogen fusing into helium through silicon fusing into iron -- produces less energy than the one before it but requires higher temperatures and pressures to make it happen.  The second is that something happens when you pass that final reaction, which is that any subsequent fusion into heavier elements is an endothermic, or energy-consuming, reaction.

So when the silicon is used up, and the star's core is made mostly of iron, there's pretty much nowhere to go.  The gravitational collapse picks up again, and there is no "next reaction" that might produce energy to balance it.  So the collapse continues until finally there's such a tremendous temperature spike that the entire star goes kablooie.

This is called a supernova, and it releases more energy in a few seconds than the star liberated in the entire rest of its life.  The unimaginable pressures do fuse some of the iron in the core into those heavier elements, despite the energy required, and that's where all the elements on the periodic table with atomic numbers higher than 26 come from, from the gold in our jewelry to the silver in our coinage and the copper in our electrical wires.

With me so far?  Because there's one more thing I haven't told you.

Each stage in a star's life takes much less time than the one before it.

The hydrogen to helium stage lasts millions to billions of years.  (The Sun is in the hydrogen-burning stage, and is estimated to have another five billion years to go.)  Higher-mass stars have higher pressures and temperatures, and consume their fuel at a greater rate, but we're still talking tens to hundreds of millions of years.  Helium-to-carbon lasts maybe a million years; carbon-to-oxygen, we're talking decades.

After that, it's pretty much a ticking time bomb with a very short fuse.

Now for the punch line: the Saio et al. paper suggests that the pulsation periods of the red supergiant star Betelgeuse indicate that it is nearing the end of the carbon burning stage.  So we might actually have a shot at seeing one of the brightest stars in the sky go supernova in our lifetimes.

This paper has even the scientists flipping out.  One of my favorite science vloggers, astronomer Becky Smethurst of Oxford University, did a YouTube video about this paper and you could tell she was barely keeping it together.  Ordinarily, whenever you hear about anything impressive in sciences like astronomy and geology -- such as a supernova or gamma-ray burster, or the Yellowstone Supervolcano erupting or the East African Rift Zone tearing Africa apart -- the scientists will respond with a deep sigh and a monotone "as we've explained many times before, blah blah blah astronomical/geological time scales blah blah blah."

Now, though, the astronomers are actually acting like this is the real deal.  (And in fact, if Saio et al. are right, Betelgeuse has probably already blown itself to smithereens; at six-hundred-odd light years away, we just haven't gotten the memo yet.)

When this happens, it's gonna be spectacular.  A supernova that close will be bright enough to read by at night, most likely for months, and will be easily visible during the day.  The happy news is that it's not close enough to do us any damage; a supernova under twenty-five light years away could be catastrophic, doing nasty stuff like blowing away the atmosphere.  (Fortunately, there are no supernova candidates anywhere near that close to us.)  Betelgeuse will just create some amazing fireworks, as well as permanently changing the contour of the familiar constellation of Orion.

So my opinion is: bring on the supernova.  We could use a little excitement down here.

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Walkabout

I'm always amazed at the depth of information paleontologists can glean from fossils.

And I'm not even including the ones that show exceptional preservation, like the ichthyosaur fossils I mentioned in a post a couple of days ago, that were so well preserved that they could even determine features like countershading.  Ordinary fossils contain a wealth of information about the organisms they came from -- if you know where to look, and how to interpret it.

Take, for example, the paper by a team from the University of Bristol and the University of Uppsala that appeared last week in the journal Alcheringa: An Australasian Journal of Paleontology.  Conducted by Christine Janis, Adrian O'Driscoll, and Benjamin Kear, the study analyzed the bones of prehistoric kangaroos, and reached a rather startling conclusion: a good many ancient kangaroo species didn't have the group's signature hop.

The determination came from looking at the strength and articulation of the leg bones, as well as the animal's overall size.  In particular, the short-faced kangaroos, or sthenurines, may have preferred to walk on all fours -- or might even have had a bipedal stride like a human.

The skeleton of Simosthenurus occidentalis, which I find vaguely terrifying. [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Ghedoghedo, Simosthenurus occidentalis, CC BY-SA 3.0]

You can see why they're called short-faced kangaroos in the artist's recreation of Procoptodon goliah below, in which I notice two things:

1. These creatures looked like a cross between a bunny rabbit and Godzilla.
2. The woman posing next to it has a stance like a Glamour magazine model, which is an odd thing to do if you're confronted with an eight-foot-tall kangaroo with giant claws.  Me, I'd be running like hell, if I didn't just wet my pants and then faint.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Nobu Tamura, Procoptodon goliah NT, CC BY-SA 4.0]

The striding kangaroos seem to have split off from the hopping kind about fifteen million years ago, during the Miocene Epoch, when Australia was a lot wetter than it currently is.  The climate back then would have favored large herbivores like the sthenurines (thank heaven these things weren't carnivorous), and they simply became too heavy to jump efficiently.  Even smaller sthenurines, though, had a different leg articulation -- they all appear to have been walkers rather than hoppers.

The last of the striding kangaroos went extinct during the last Ice Age, when the climate took a turn toward more arid conditions.  Aridity meant fewer plants, and slower growth for the ones that survived, and the largest marsupials in Australia died out.

Just as well.  Even the kangaroos that are left can kick you into the middle of next week; every year people, mostly stupid tourists, are injured by kangaroos.  Australians also have to contend with the various venomous snakes, spiders, and jellyfish, a relative of the nettle (the gympie-gympie) whose spines inject a neurotoxin that causes intense pain for years, and a highly-aggressive bird called the cassowary that looks like the bastard child of a turkey and a velociraptor.  The last thing those poor people need is giant kangaroo-bunnies striding around like they own the place.

Because the kangaroo-bunnies probably were vicious.  Down there, it's kind of an inevitability.

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Trompe l'oeil

I have a fascination for optical illusions.

Not only are they cool, they often point out some profound information about how we process sensory input.  Take the famous two-and-a-half pronged fork:

The problem here is that we're trying to interpret a two-dimensional drawing as if it were a three-dimensional object, and the two parts of the drawing aren't compatible under that interpretation.  Worse, when you try to force your brain to make sense of it -- following the drawing from the bottom left to the top right, and trying to figure out when the object goes from three prongs to two -- you fail utterly.

Neil deGrasse Tyson used optical illusions as an example of why we should be slow to accept eyewitness testimony.  "We all love optical illusions," he said. "But that's not what they should call them.  They should call them 'brain failures.'  Because that's what they are.  A clever drawing, and your brain can't handle it."

(If you have some time, check out this cool compendium of optical illusions collected by Michael Bach, which is even more awesome because he took the time to explain why each one happens, at least where an explanation is known.)

It's even more disorienting when an illusion occurs because of two senses conflicting.  Which was the subject of a paper out of Caltech, "What You Saw Is What You Will Hear: Two New Illusions With Audiovisual Postdictive Effects," by Noelle R. B. Stiles, Monica Li, Carmel A. Levitan, Yukiyasu Kamitani, and Shinsuke Shimojo.  What they did is an elegant experiment to show two things -- how sound can interfere with visual processing, and how a stimulus can influence our perception of an event, even if the stimulus occurs after the event did!

Sounds like the future affecting the past, doesn't it?  It turns out the answer is both simpler and more humbling; it's another example of a brain failure.

Here's how they did the experiment.

In the first trial, they played a beep three times, 58 milliseconds apart.  The first and third beeps were accompanied by a flash of light.  Most people thought there were three flashes -- a middle one coincident with the second beep.

The second setup was, in a way, opposite to the first.  They showed three flashes of light, on the right, middle, and left of the computer screen.  Only the first and third were accompanied by a beep.  Almost everyone didn't see -- or, more accurately, didn't register -- the middle flash, and thought there were only two lights.

Sorry, I had to.

"The significance of this study is twofold," said study co-author Shinsuke Shimojo.  "First, it generalizes postdiction as a key process in perceptual processing for both a single sense and multiple senses.  Postdiction may sound mysterious, but it is not—one must consider how long it takes the brain to process earlier visual stimuli, during which time subsequent stimuli from a different sense can affect or modulate the first.  The second significance is that these illusions are among the very rare cases where sound affects vision, not vice versa, indicating dynamic aspects of neural processing that occur across space and time.  These new illusions will enable researchers to identify optimal parameters for multisensory integration, which is necessary for both the design of ideal sensory aids and optimal training for low-vision individuals."

All cool stuff, and more information about how the mysterious organ in our skull works.  Of course, this makes me wonder what we imagine we see because our brain anticipates that it will there, or perhaps miss because it anticipates that something out of of place shouldn't be there.  To end with another quote from Tyson: "Our brains are unreliable as signal-processing devices.  We're confident about what we see, hear, and remember, when in fact we should not be."

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Mysterious network

Back in 1850, Italian paleontologist Giuseppe Meneghini found a peculiar fossil in the early Cambrian rocks of Sardinia.  It had a very distinctive appearance -- a set of what appeared to be tubes arranged in a network of perfect hexagons, regular as a honeycomb -- and Meneghini named it Paleodictyon, which means "early net."

The problem was, no one could quite figure out what it was.  There was speculation that it was the skeleton of a sea sponge, that it was some kind of filter-feeding trap laid down by peculiar giant single-celled organisms called xenophyophores, or that it was the tunnel network of some burrowing creature like a tube worm.  None of these hypotheses had much in the way of direct evidence in their favor, and all had significant arguments against.

Then Paleodictyon was found in Devonian rocks.  Then Carboniferous rocks.  Then Triassic rocks.  Always in sedimentary strata associated with deep marine environments -- and never with the slightest evidence of who might have created it.

So it went into the catalogues as a "trace fossil" -- a remnant of some unidentified organism.  This didn't mean the paleontologists were giving up, however; the origins of other trace fossils have been solved, most notably the incredibly common conodonts, small, spiky fossils found in oceanic sedimentary rocks up through the Triassic Period, and which were finally determined to be the teeth of primitive fish a little like today's lampreys.

But Paleodictyon proved more difficult, despite the fact that pretty much everywhere -- and everywhen -- you look in deep-ocean sedimentary rocks, you find it.  Here's a specimen from the Miocene Epoch:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Hectonichus, Palaeodictyon, CC BY-SA 4.0]

Then a survey of the seafloor near volcanic vents on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge -- in very recent sediments -- came across a series of regularly-spaced holes.  Curious, the oceanographers studying the area devised what amounted to a giant water gun to blow away the sediment and see what was beneath the mud, and hopefully, what might be creating the holes.

And underneath...

... was Paleodictyon.

Here, though, there was an additional clue; at each of the nodes in the network was a small upward-facing tube.  It was the openings of the tubes, poking above the sediment, that had attracted the attention of the scientists.  Naturally, they took samples (not to mention a closer look) to see what was in there.

Nothing was.

Detailed DNA analysis was performed on the samples, looking for anything that might give a clue as to what had made the network.  All three of the most commonly-held hypotheses -- sponges, xenophyophores, and tube worms -- came up negative.  There were traces of DNA present, but all of it seemed to be from bacteria and protists living in the tubes, not the creature that made the tubes.

To cut to the punch line: we still have no idea what Paleodictyon is, or who made it.

But whatever it is has been around for a very, very long time -- at least 540 million years -- substantially unchanged.  It's true that there are lots of things in nature exhibiting hexagonal tiling; it's the simplest way to tile a two-dimensional surface, and is seen in everything from quartz crystals to the symmetrical cooling cracks in the Giant's Causeway in Ireland.  But the fact that this trace fossil is only found in deep-sea sedimentary rocks is certainly suggestive that its origin is biological.

In the end, we're left with a mystery, and are honestly no closer to figuring Paleodictyon out now than we were when Giuseppe Meneghini first discovered it over 170 years ago.  So we'll continue looking -- and trying to determine the origin of one of the most persistent and widespread fossils ever found.

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A new view of the "eye lizard"

I am forever astonished at the level of detail we can infer from fossils that are hundreds of millions of years old.

The most recent example of this came from analysis of a fossil of Stenopterygius, an ichthyosaur that lived during the Jurassic Period (this particular fossil has been dated to about 180 million years ago).  We usually think of fossils as preserving bones and teeth, and occasionally impressions of scales or skin or feathers -- but this one was so finely preserved that researchers have been able to make some shrewd inferences about color, metabolism, and the structure of soft tissues.

Artist's conception of Stenopterygius [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Nobu Tamura (http://spinops.blogspot.com), Stenopterygius BW, CC BY-SA 3.0]

We've known for a long time that ichthyosaurs are bizarre animals. They were streamlined predators that look remarkably like dolphins, although they are only distantly related (making the two groups a great example of convergent evolution).  A number of them had an even stranger feature, which is the largest eye-diameter-to-body-size ratio of any animal known -- the well-named Ophthalmosaurus (Greek for "eye lizard") was six meters long and had eyes the size of basketballs.

Stenopterygius was a bit smaller, with an average adult size of four meters.  But up until recently, all we've been able to do is speculate on what it might have looked like, and how it behaved.  A discovery in Germany, described in a paper in Nature called "Soft-Tissue Evidence for Homeothermy and Crypsis in a Jurassic Ichthyosaur" and authored by no fewer than 23 scientists, has given us incredibly detailed information on these oddball dinosaurs.

The authors write:

Ichthyosaurs are extinct marine reptiles that display a notable external similarity to modern toothed whales.  Here we show that this resemblance is more than skin deep.  We apply a multidisciplinary experimental approach to characterize the cellular and molecular composition of integumental tissues in an exceptionally preserved specimen of the Early Jurassic ichthyosaur Stenopterygius.  Our analyses recovered still-flexible remnants of the original scaleless skin, which comprises morphologically distinct epidermal and dermal layers.  These are underlain by insulating blubber that would have augmented streamlining, buoyancy and homeothermy.  Additionally, we identify endogenous proteinaceous and lipid constituents, together with keratinocytes and branched melanophores that contain eumelanin pigment.  Distributional variation of melanophores across the body suggests countershading, possibly enhanced by physiological adjustments of colour to enable photoprotection, concealment and/or thermoregulation.  Convergence of ichthyosaurs with extant marine amniotes thus extends to the ultrastructural and molecular levels, reflecting the omnipresent constraints of their shared adaptation to pelagic life.

So from a 180-million-year-old fossil, we now know that Stenopterygius (1) was a homeotherm (colloquially called "warm-blooded"), (2) had a blubber layer much like modern dolphins and whales, and (3) were countershaded -- dark on top and light underneath, to aid camouflage -- similar to dozens of species of modern fish.

This level of preservation is extremely unusual.  "Both the contour of the body and the remains of internal organs are clearly visible," said paleontologist Johan Lindgren of the University of Lund, who co-authored the paper.  "Surprisingly, the fossil is so well preserved that it is possible to observe individual cell layers inside the skin."

"This is the first direct chemical evidence of warm blood in an ichthyosaur, because a subcutaneous fat layer is a characteristic of warm-blooded animals," said Mary Schweitzer of North Carolina State University, also a co-author.  "Ichthyosaurs are interesting because they have many features in common with dolphins, but they are not related at all to these mammals that inhabit the sea.  But the enigma does not stop there...  They have many characteristics in common with living marine reptiles, such as sea turtles; but we know from the fossil record that they gave live birth to their young...  This study reveals some of those biological mysteries."

Which is pretty astonishing.  I've always had a fascination for the prehistoric world, and have spent more time than I like to admit wondering what it might have been like to live in the Jurassic world. This research gives us one more piece of information -- about a fierce prehistoric predator that shared some amazing similarities to creatures that still swim in our oceans.

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