Monster Monday: The Serpent of the Pacific

Cadborosaurus and the Long Memory of the Sea

Along the rugged coastline of the Pacific Northwest, the ocean feels older than most of the towns that overlook it – which of course it is. But here, its ancientness seems to seep into the landscape, untroubled as it is from development and civilisation.

Here the mountains fall directly into deep water. Fjords cut into the land like knife wounds. Offshore, the seabed plunges quickly into abyssal depths where cold currents move through darkness few people ever see.

It is exactly the sort of place where stories grow easily.

And for more than a century, sailors, fishermen, and coastal residents have reported seeing something unusual moving through those waters – a long, serpentine creature now known as Cadborosaurus, or simply Caddy.

Whether it is a real animal, a misidentified whale, or simply a recurring maritime legend remains unresolved. But the sightings themselves are both surprisingly persistent and at least in some ways, consistent.

A Name Born in a Newspaper

The creature takes its name from Cadboro Bay, near Victoria on Vancouver Island in British Columbia.

In 1933, several witnesses reported seeing a long, serpent-like animal moving through the water. The story was picked up by Archie Willis, editor of the Victoria Daily Times, who coined the name Cadborosaurus – literally “the lizard of Cadboro Bay.”

The name was first suggested in a letter written to the Victoria Daily Times by a I. Vacedun in the same year (1933).

The nickname Caddy quickly followed. And, it must be said, the appearance of Caddy in the newspaper, just a few months after the infamous Spicer sighting of the Loch Ness Monster is unlikely to be coincidence.

Victoria Daily Times Headline, October 20, 1933.

But the sightings themselves are known to predate that newspaper headline.

Some of the earliest documented accounts date back to 1897, when witnesses Osmond Fergusson and D. Mattison produced sketches of a strange serpentine animal they had observed in the water.

Since then, reports have surfaced periodically along the Pacific coast from Oregon to Alaska, though most cluster around Vancouver Island and the inland waters of British Columbia.

Some researchers estimate more than 300 sightings across the past two centuries. Which raises a simple question. What exactly are people seeing?

What Witnesses Describe

Descriptions vary, but the core image remains remarkably consistent. Witnesses often describe a creature between 15 and 45 feet in length, moving through the water in a series of vertical undulations. In short, the accepted, looping motion of a sea serpent we imagine when the subject is raised.

Common details include:

A long neck and horse- or camel-like head
A series of vertical humps or coils trailing behind the head
Small flippers positioned near the front of the body
A tapering tail ending in a fluke
In some cases, spines or ridges along the tail

Some reports claim the animal can move with surprising speed, as much as 40 knots. However, it has to be considered that these estimates could be exaggerated guesswork made in the excitement of the moment.

Interestingly, the movement described by many witnesses, the vertical undulation, is not typical of most large marine animals.

It is, however, exactly how a long, flexible body would move if it were swimming close to the surface. But, it should also be said that many of the sightings veer from this generalised description. Some are clear cases of misidentified debris or known animals – especially out of place ones like swimming deer.

You can find reported sightings here.

The Kemp Sketch, Victoria Daily Times, October 20, 1933. Image sourced from Cadborosarus.ca.

The Scientists Who Took It Seriously

Unlike many cryptids, Cadborosaurus did attract serious scientific attention. Two Canadian researchers became particularly associated with the phenomenon:

Dr. Edward L. Bousfield, former chief zoologist at the Canadian Museum of Nature
Dr. Paul H. LeBlond, an oceanographer at the University of British Columbia

Beginning in the late 1960s, they collected eyewitness accounts and attempted to build a biological profile of the creature.

Their research culminated in a controversial proposal: that the sightings might represent a real but unrecognised marine animal, which they formally named Cadborosaurus willsi.

They even suggested the creature might be a surviving lineage of marine reptiles related to ancient sauropterygians, though this interpretation was widely criticised by other scientists.

Most marine biologists remain sceptical.

But one particular piece of evidence kept the debate alive.

The Naden Harbour Carcass

In 1937, workers at a whaling station in Naden Harbour made an unusual discovery.

While processing a recently harpooned sperm whale, they found an unidentified carcass inside the whale’s stomach.

The animal was about 10 feet long and appeared largely intact. Witnesses described it as having a dog-like or horse-like head, a long body, and a tail resembling that of a serpent.

Photographs were taken, and the carcass was transported to the American Pacific Whaling Company headquarters before being examined in Victoria.

The official verdict from the Royal British Columbia Museum was straightforward.

It was declared to be a fetal baleen whale.

And then, as happens frustratingly frequently for anyone interested in solving mysteries, the specimen disappeared. There was no museum accession record, and the carcass itself was apparently discarded.

Bousfield and LeBlond later argued, along with other scientists and researchers since, that the specimen did not match known whale anatomy, and they considered it potential evidence for Cadborosaurus.

Most zoologists remain unconvinced.

But without the specimen itself, the question cannot be settled.

The Naden Harbor Carcass: Image Credit: Cadborosaurus.ca

Could It Be a Known Animal?

Over the years, researchers have proposed a long list of explanations.

Among the most commonly suggested:

Giant eels. Large eels can reach impressive lengths and have flexible bodies that could create the looping motion reported by witnesses.

Basking sharks. When decomposing, basking sharks can lose their snouts and fins in ways that make their skeletons resemble long-necked sea serpents.

Oarfish or ribbonfish. These extremely long, ribbon-shaped fish occasionally surface in northern waters and can appear startlingly serpentine.

Unusual whale behaviour. Pods of whales or porpoises surfacing in sequence can create the illusion of a single long animal.

There are also more speculative ideas. Some have suggested a zeuglodon-like whale, similar to the extinct Basilosaurus, whose body shape was remarkably serpentine.

Others favour large conger eels, though the known breeding grounds for Atlantic eels, the Sargasso Sea, make this explanation less convincing on the Pacific coast.

In truth, every proposed solution solves some details and fails to explain others.

A Coast Made for Mysteries

Part of the reason the legend persists is the incredible geography of the region.

The Pacific Northwest coastline is immense and complex. Thousands of islands, fjords, inlets, and deep channels cut through the region. Offshore, some of the deepest trenches on Earth descend quickly to depths and regions that remain unexplored.

Many of these places are remote, difficult to access, and rarely surveyed in detail. Even today, new marine species are still being discovered in the Pacific.

That does not mean a sea serpent is waiting just beyond the next headland. But it does mean the ocean remains a place where surprises are still possible.

The Long Life of a Sea Serpent

Modern sightings of Cadborosaurus still appear occasionally, though they rarely gain much media attention. More often they pass quietly through local news, online forums, or the memories of fishermen who know these waters well.

Whether those witnesses saw a giant eel, an unusual whale, or something genuinely strange and unknown is impossible to say.

But the story itself has endured for over a century. And perhaps that persistence is the most interesting part of the mystery.

Because long before the name Cadborosaurus appeared in a newspaper, the coastal peoples of the Pacific Northwest had their own stories of serpentine creatures moving through these waters.

Stories passed down through generations. Stories of long shapes moving just beneath the surface.

Stories that still surface, now and then, whenever the sea is calm.

Monster Monday: The Beast of Exmoor

Rumour, Release, or Something Wild?

Today, we’re going to look at one of the more (or should that be moor?) well-known of Britain’s best-known cryptids. A mystery cat that’s right up my alley. But, before there was a beast, there was a landscape.

Exmoor is open, wind-cut, and exposed. Sheep move across long lines of sight as they graze, perhaps in a false sense of security that Britain’s predators are long-banished. Granite outcrops and banks of heather hold the last of the day’s light. When something crosses that horizon, it might be seen but just as quickly, it can slip back into the many shadows and hiding places on the moor.

In 1983, Devon farmer Eric Lane began losing young lambs. The predation was both serious and mysterious. Then, larger, full-grown lambs began to be taken. Ultimately, Lane reported losing more than fifty sheep. And across the region, estimates suggested over one hundred full-grown ewes were killed in what the press began calling the Beast’s “rampage”. Carcasses were found with throats torn and little meat consumed. Some reports described clean kills. Others suggested variation. No body was recovered. No animal was conclusively identified.

The police took the matter seriously enough to organise searches and vigils. And then, as the death toll of livestock mounted, they called in the army. At least one patrol involved a former Royal Marine, John Holden, who was later interviewed in the documentary Panthera Britannia: Declassified. Holden described seeing a large cat-like animal during a night patrol. A shot was reportedly taken by another member of the patrol. After that incident, sheep losses diminished. But no carcass, no blood trail, and no confirmed remains were ever found.

Absence became the defining feature of the case.

A Naturalist’s Theory

Among those who treated the killings as a wildlife question rather than a ghost story was Devon-based zoologist, naturalist, and conservationist Trevor Beer (1937-2017), who investigated sightings across the region for decades.

Beer did not dismiss the accounts outright. Nor did he frame them as folklore. Based on reported behaviour and differences in sightings, he suggested that two separate large cats — possibly a puma and a leopard — might explain the variation. It was a practical hypothesis. If attacks differed in method, perhaps more than one animal was involved.

Importantly, this was not a claim of proof. It was an attempt to reconcile inconsistent details with ecological reasoning. And that matters.

Because Britain in the 1970s and early did have privately owned exotic cats. Before the Dangerous Wild Animals Act of 1976, keeping such animals was not uncommon. Archival BFI footage (also from early 1976) exists of a puma being walked in Barnstaple. After the Act tightened licensing requirements, stories began circulating that some owners released animals rather than surrender them, and this has become a fundamental and foundational part of the British big cat phenomenon.

What is documented is patchy. What is alleged is plentiful.

Release Stories and Blurred Memory

Over time, rumours became interwoven with the facts and real investigations.

A Barnstaple butcher who supposedly owned a puma and a leopard and got in trouble with the law was said to have released his pets as he fled the country. A zoo owner alleged to released animals onto Dartmoor rather than face an unknown fate. Stories of circus transfers, licence losses, and midnight liberations threatened to blend fact with fiction.

For instance, I think it’s no coincidence that there is archival BFI footage of a man walking his pet puma in Barnstable and there is a story about the supposed butcher and his ‘guard panthers’. But I think it’s a blurring of memory. In 1976, the population of Barnstable was that of a small country parish, a little over 10,000 people. It’s hard to believe there were two individuals with a pet puma. And there is no documented evidence of a butcher with two big cats – surely that would have made at least one local paper?

Benjamin Mee is the owner of Dartmoor Zoo, which became famous after the film ‘We Bought A Zoo’ put its story in the spotlight. Again, for Panthera Britannia, Mee recounts a sighting of a big cat in the village, shortly after moving to Dartmoor. There is also a reference to the former zoo operator Ellis Daw, who was alleged to have released three pumas onto Dartmoor. But again, does that conflate events and allegations surrounding Mary Chipperfield, who was also said to release three pumas, among her favourite animals, whilst transferring them from Plymouth Zoo after it closed in 1978, which was owned by the Chipperfield family at the time.

The difficulty is not that these names appear. It is that the stories begin to overlap.

Separate incidents, across counties and years, begin to compress into a single narrative mass. Exmoor and Dartmoor become interchangeable in casual retelling. A puma becomes “a black panther”. Two animals become one roaming shadow.

Memory simplifies. Landscape absorbs detail.

Could a Big Cat Survive?

Ecologically, the idea is not impossible. In fact, it’s very probable.

The Cougar is highly adaptable. In North America, it occupies deserts, forests, mountains, and the fringes of cities. It can take deer and livestock. It is solitary, elusive, and capable of travelling large distances. In turn, leopards are found from the desserts of Africa through to the Siberian plateau and are considered one of the most adaptive of the big cats.

A released animal, in theory, could survive, at least for a time. And, the sheep kills are suggestive of a released animal with limited experience taking easy prey. It is widely reported that wild big cats avoid taking sheep, as they find the wool problematic to remove, and don’t like the texture of it in the mouth. However, there is enough of an issue of pumas taking sheep in Chile for there to be a government-backed guardian livestock dog programme, documented by National Geographic’s ‘Up Close with Bertie Gregory’. So, we know sheep are on the menu, at least for some big cats.

@bertiegregory
We used military-grade thermal imaging cameras to allow us to film guardian dogs protecting sheep from pumas in the middle of the night. This strategy is good news for farmers and good news for pumas, alongside the dogs. However, it is also critical that farmers manage their land to support wild puma prey populations. 🎥: #AnimalsUpClose
♬ original sound – Bertie Gregory

But survival is not proof of presence.

And livestock predation patterns are not always straightforward. Dogs, foxes, and even corvids can complicate carcass interpretation once an animal has fallen. Bite placement, caching behaviour, feeding style… these details matter, but they are rarely preserved cleanly in open moorland.

What Remains

What is harder to dismiss is the shift in perception.

Farmers scanned ridgelines differently. Dog walkers reported silhouettes where before there had been none. The moor, already vast, felt less empty.

Whether the Beast of Exmoor was:

A released exotic
Multiple animals folded into one legend
A misidentified large dog
Or a solitary cat that came and went without leaving a body

…the story altered how people saw their landscape.

That is often how monsters begin.

Not with certainty.
Not with spectacle.
But with a disruption, a suggestion that the familiar ground may not be entirely ours.

In my own fiction, I’m often less interested in proving the beast exists than in exploring what changes in us when we believe it might.

The Beast of Exmoor remains ultimately unproven. But the space it opened, between where we live and wilderness, between rumour and ecology, still lingers across the moor. And sightings still continue, as does the mystery.

Monster Monday: The Yeti — Footprints in the Snow

Footprints are powerful things.

They suggest presence without confrontation — a body that was there, but no longer is. In high mountain places, where weather erases evidence quickly and distances distort scale, a single line of tracks can feel profoundly unsettling. It is no surprise that the Yeti, more than almost any other cryptid, has been defined not by clear sightings, but by impressions left behind.

The Yeti does not announce itself. It lingers at the edge of vision, half-formed in snow, mist, and memory.

The First Western Encounter

The modern Western story of the Yeti is often traced to 1921, during a British reconnaissance expedition to Mount Everest led by Charles Kenneth Howard-Bury. While crossing the Lhakpa-La pass at around 20,000 feet, members of the party observed dark figures moving across a distant snowfield. They also noted a trail of large footprints, unlike those of any animal they recognised.

Local guides described the tracks as belonging to something known in regional folklore. Through mistranslation and embellishment, this was rendered in Western newspapers as the “Abominable Snowman” — a phrase that would stick, despite being at odds with the more nuanced local descriptions. Some researchers have since suggested that elements of the original terminology may have referred more generally to wild or bear-like creatures, an ambiguity that would echo through later attempts to categorise what was seen.

What is striking about these early reports is how restrained they were. There was no claim of attack, no dramatic encounter. Just distance, scale, and uncertainty. Something large had crossed the snow.

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One Name, Many Creatures

One of the enduring problems in Yeti research is the assumption that it refers to a single, clearly defined animal.

Across the Himalayan region, different cultures describe different beings: some tall and upright, others smaller and more animal-like; some solitary, others encountered in pairs; some associated with high snowfields, others with dense forest. Hair colour, gait, and behaviour vary widely between accounts.

Rather than weakening the Yeti legend, this diversity strengthens it.

It suggests that “Yeti” may be a category rather than a creature, a name applied to unfamiliar encounters in extreme environments. In this sense, the Yeti functions much like other global wild-man traditions: a boundary figure, occupying the blurred edge between known animals and imagined ones.

Where the Yeti Really Lives

Popular imagery places the Yeti high on frozen ridgelines, silhouetted against endless snow. In reality, this is one of the least likely places for a large, undiscovered mammal to live year-round.

Modern thinking increasingly suggests that if a Yeti-like animal exists at all, it would spend most of its life below the snowline, in remote forests and rugged valleys where cover, food, and shelter are more reliable. Seasonal crossings of high passes could account for the famous footprints, while keeping the creature largely hidden for the rest of the year.

This reframing does not make the Yeti less mysterious, it makes it more plausible.

Footprints, Photographs, and the Problem of Proof

The most famous Yeti evidence remains the footprint photographs: oversized impressions in snow, often distorted by melt, refreeze, and shadow. These images have been endlessly reproduced, debated, and dismissed.

But footprints are inherently deceptive. Snow stretches, collapses, and reshapes under weight. Familiar animal tracks can appear enormous under the right conditions. Perspective plays tricks in featureless landscapes.

It is also worth noting that some famous Yeti evidence has been questioned long after the fact. In a handful of cases, relatives or associates of expedition members later suggested that footprints may have been exaggerated, staged, or misinterpreted. Claims that emerged decades after the original events, often when those involved were no longer alive to respond.

Whether these retrospective doubts reflect new information, fading memory, or a desire to impose rational order on unresolved stories is difficult to say. What they do illustrate is how cryptid encounters rarely end when the expedition does. They continue to evolve, shaped by cultural pressure, reputation, and our collective discomfort with uncertainty.

The footprints endure not because they are conclusive, but because they resist tidy explanation.

From Mystery to Caricature

Once the phrase “Abominable Snowman” entered Western culture, the Yeti’s fate was largely sealed. It became a creature of novelty and spectacle, sometimes threatening, often comic.

Films and television leaned into this transformation, from light-hearted moments in One of Our Dinosaurs Is Missing, to outright creature features like Abominable, and later family-friendly reimaginings such as Smallfoot.

Entertainment keeps the Yeti visible, but it also flattens it. Complexity gives way to costume. Mystery becomes marketing.

Modern adventure shows, including series like Expedition Unknown, walk a sometimes not-so-careful line between curiosity and spectacle. They undoubtedly keep public interest alive but in doing so, they risk turning genuine mystery into a checklist of expected outcomes.

A Monster That Refuses to Settle

Perhaps the Yeti’s greatest strength is its refusal to be pinned down.

It does not fit neatly into zoology, folklore, or fiction. It shifts between categories depending on who is looking, and from where. In this way, the Yeti mirrors the landscapes it is said to inhabit. Places where maps end, weather dominates, and certainty is a luxury.

The Yeti endures not because it has been proven, but because it remains unresolved. A set of footprints leading out of sight. A shape moving where nothing should be. A reminder that even in the modern world, there are still edges we do not fully understand.

If you enjoy this kind of grounded monster storytelling, my novels explore similar themes of wilderness, fear, and folklore, where the line between the known and the unknown is rarely clear.