Marty & Rick Lagina’s Hunt for the Lost Ark of Oak Island:Treasure FINALLY Found!

It is significant opening. This could be the offset chamber. Another anomaly. It’s this one in the northern tip of the swamp. This could be the Jack Adams box. The box.

Jack approached her father and said, “Hey, I’ve got a metal target.”

After more than a decade of digging, drilling, and decoding one of the most mysterious islands on Earth, the breakthrough no one thought possible has finally happened.

Marty and Rick Lagginina weren’t just chasing rumors. They were chasing something bigger, something biblical.

Hidden beneath centuries of secrecy, booby traps, and ancient engineering, the trail may have led them straight to one of history’s most sacred relics—the Lost Ark.

That’s right. New evidence uncovered in Season 11 has triggered the most shocking discovery in Oak Island’s history. Not gold, not manuscripts, but a sealed chamber, strange energy readings, and a relic unlike anything they’ve ever seen.

This isn’t just treasure. This is a revelation.

In this video, we break down the biggest clues, the wild theories, and the moment that left even the Lagina brothers speechless. Like and subscribe now.

Is the mystery of Oak Island finally solved? Or is this just the beginning of something far greater?

Oak Island, July 17, 2025.
The air was thick with anticipation as the crew gathered around Shaft 9, their machines humming softly in the early morning haze.

Years of searching, digging, and decoding had led them here—to the very heart of the Money Pit. A place steeped in legend, mystery, and whispered secrets.

What started as another ordinary day in the relentless pursuit of Oak Island’s treasure soon twisted into something no one could have predicted.

At exactly 9:47 a.m., without warning, a sudden tremor rippled beneath their feet. It wasn’t a rumble large enough to register on distant seismic stations, but it was enough to shake helmets, make chains rattle, and send drills grinding to a halt.

The Earth seemed to push back, resisting their intrusion with an almost sentient force. The heavy equipment stuttered and stalled, not from wear or malfunction, but as if an unseen hand was holding them back from piercing deeper into the earth’s secrets.

Rick Lagina’s voice cut through the tense silence. “Pause everything. Let’s not force this.”

On the surface, workers exchanged uneasy glances. There was something unnatural in the air.

As the machines fell silent, a strange phenomenon caught everyone’s attention. The copper dowsing rods—brought on a whim by a local mystic hoping to lend some insight—began to twitch, and then violently spin, completing full 360° rotations.

It wasn’t the first time the rods had moved during digs, but this was different. Wild. Unrelenting. Like they were desperately signaling a warning.

Beneath their feet, a faint, almost imperceptible sound pulsed rhythmically through the bedrock. At first, it was a low vibration—like the heartbeat of the island itself.

The audio technicians captured the hum and slowed it down in the lab later that evening. What emerged from the static was chilling: subtle chanting. Human voices singing in a cadence both hypnotic and ancient. Barely audible, but undeniably present.

Marty Lagina sat frozen in front of the monitors, eyes wide. He whispered, barely audible, “This isn’t natural.”

Hours passed, and then something unprecedented happened. The water level in the Money Pit began to drop.

No pumps had been activated. No storms had rolled in to shift the tides. The water—which had dogged explorers for centuries, flooding shafts, swallowing equipment, and drowning hope—began to recede silently on its own.

The crew stared in disbelief. For over 200 years, the Money Pit had been a watery grave. But now it seemed to be revealing its secrets willingly.

The following day, sonar scans revealed an impossible void beneath the pit at a depth of 160 feet: a perfectly circular chamber, smooth and intact, completely absent from any prior scans or maps.

It was as though it had been hidden in plain sight, only now revealing itself to those persistent enough to awaken it.

The team cautiously lowered a snake cam into the abyss. The small camera descended into the darkness, flickering in and out as it struggled to focus.

Then, in the eerie glow of the lights, the lens caught something that made every heart stop—a flash of gold gleaming from deep within the chamber walls.

It was not a mineral vein or a natural formation, but something crafted—an artifact forged by human hands.

Gary Drayton, the team’s metal detection expert, was the first to react. His detector’s readings shot to levels never seen before in Oak Island’s modern digs, surpassing even the legendary 1795 discovery.

“This isn’t coins or simple relics,” Gary said with disbelief. “We’re looking at something much bigger.”

Back in the war room, Rick pored over old French naval maps dating back to 1710—documents once dismissed as irrelevant. One map caught his eye. A cross symbol was marked precisely where the new void had appeared.

An ominous sign, perhaps. Or a forgotten clue.

Rick’s mind raced back to an ancient phrase from the Templar texts studied by historian Zena Halpern: “Where the island drinks, the chalice sleeps.”
A riddle whispered across centuries now making terrifying sense.

The island, it seemed, had a secret cup. And it was lying dormant beneath their feet.

Excavation resumed with renewed urgency—but tempered with caution. Every shovel of earth, every creak of wood was measured and recorded.

The team’s pulse quickened as they unearthed a massive stone slab: 20 feet of cold, heavy rock, covered in intricate engravings that told a story older than the island itself.

The slab was covered in unmistakable Templar crosses, interwoven with celestial symbols marking the sun and moon’s alignment—a calendar of sorts, etched with precision that defied explanation.

Doug Crowell ran portable gas analyzers across its surface, detecting subtle traces of radon gas. This suggested that the chamber beneath was airtight—preserved through centuries, with secrets locked away from air and light.

But it wasn’t the carvings or the gas that stunned the team most. It was the stone itself.

The slab was composed of Jerusalem limestone—a geological impossibility in Nova Scotia. Samples confirmed that it had to have been quarried thousands of miles away, transported across oceans, and buried deliberately beneath Oak Island.

Beneath the slab lay black oak beams soaked in resin and perfectly preserved. Carbon dating placed them before the 1200s—a match for Templar shipbuilding methods recorded in long-forgotten Vatican archives.

Even more eerie was the slab’s weight.

Equipment logs recorded exactly 666 stone—a number steeped in myth, symbolism, and conspiracy.

Nobody voiced the unspoken thought aloud. But everyone felt it hanging in the damp air like a specter.

Someone—or something—had placed this here with purpose. And somewhere, someone had gone to terrifying lengths to keep it hidden.

The atmosphere was thick with a strange energy. As the floodlights illuminated the slab’s carvings, the faint subsonic chant returned, weaving into the night like an ancient spell.

The island itself seemed to hold its breath.

The search was no longer just for treasure.
It was for truth.
And now that truth was ready to be revealed.

Slowly, with a grinding groan that echoed through the silence, the slab was lifted—revealing the mouth of a chamber untouched by time, a subterranean vault carved with impossible precision.

The air that poured out was ice cold and dry, as if sealed away for centuries.

What they saw next halted every breath in the room.

Beneath the stone barrier was a room no one could have imagined—a perfect circle cut with a precision no ancient tool should have allowed. Its floor was smooth, polished limestone.

Embedded into the floor were seven massive iron rings, arranged symmetrically like points on a compass.

They weren’t bolted. They weren’t fused. They were part of the stone itself—forged into the foundation as if by magic or technology lost to time.

Each ring was carved with strange, ancient markings.

Rick knelt, brushing away the dust.

The outer ring bore Phoenician symbols, flowing and elegant. The second carried jagged runes, cracked and weathered. The third, even older, held characters no one could immediately recognize.

Marty called over Dr. Spooner and the archaeologist from Halifax. Under magnification, the deeper rings revealed a hybrid language—a blend of pre-Christian symbology, Templar glyphs, and something… alien.

At the center of the room stood a hollow marble pillar, waist-high, its interior exposed through a broken side.

Resting inside was a perfect metallic sphere.

No seams. No markings. Just an impossibly smooth object that floated gently above the base.
Not rolling. Not sitting.
Floating.

When Rick reached toward it, the sphere rose half an inch, responding as if sensing human proximity.

Static electricity crackled across the room. Flashlights flickered. The moment his hand drew back, it settled again—motionless and inert.

The team rushed tests. The shadow lines curved and intersected until one formation stood out: a compass rose, pointing directly toward Smith’s Cove.

No one said a word.
They didn’t have to.
The chamber had given them a direction.