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Greenie
- Jan 14, 2013
- 11
- 10
- Primary Interest:
- All Treasure Hunting
I believed that this vacation was going to be paid for by my "treasure hunting" finds with my metal detector. With dreams of gold rings, ruby bracelets, Spanish doubloons and diamond tiaras just beneath the sand, it was just a matter of time before I'd be up there with Mel Fisher in notoriety. After all, I bought the "best" detector for the money according to the salesman. This was going to be easy.
Nothing like a fat, bald American treasure hunting on the beach to attract attention and snide comments. Wife won't be seen with me and either stays at the pool or sits on the sand pretending no to know me. Of coarse the topless French babes must think I'm cool (or so I tell myself).
I've developed a routine for my treasure hunting. Each morning I read up in my "How to" books the secrets of the worlds greatest treasure hunters. This inspires me (and gives me the courage) to go out searching for the lost treasures of the beach. I wait until late in the day when the beach clears to begin my actual efforts. By then all of the day's beach goers have "deposited" their valuables just for me to find. Maybe it also has something to do with when I get the least dirty looks. I work a piece of the beach or the shallows methodically. Back and forth. Listening for the change of tone in my headset. When I hear the telltale high pitch of GOLD I dig with my scoop. With each shovel full I sweep the detector coil over the hole to determine if I have the treasure in the scoop. Deeper says the coil. And so I dig more. Bending lower into the water until the next wave pounds me and fills in the hole I have just dug. But with the "gold" just inches away I begin the dig again. After repeating the exercise several time I have finally reached a depth where the coil tells me I have the find in my scoop. I sift through the sand in my bucket until I find my treasure. Another bottle cap - ****. Move along. Nothing to see here. And so it goes.
My effort has not been entirely without success though. Last night we bought our dinner (a pizza) with some of the coins I have found. Below is a photo of my booty to date. I know its just a matter of time before that diamond tiara ends up in my bucket. A sign that it didn't have a chin strap.
Nothing like a fat, bald American treasure hunting on the beach to attract attention and snide comments. Wife won't be seen with me and either stays at the pool or sits on the sand pretending no to know me. Of coarse the topless French babes must think I'm cool (or so I tell myself).
I've developed a routine for my treasure hunting. Each morning I read up in my "How to" books the secrets of the worlds greatest treasure hunters. This inspires me (and gives me the courage) to go out searching for the lost treasures of the beach. I wait until late in the day when the beach clears to begin my actual efforts. By then all of the day's beach goers have "deposited" their valuables just for me to find. Maybe it also has something to do with when I get the least dirty looks. I work a piece of the beach or the shallows methodically. Back and forth. Listening for the change of tone in my headset. When I hear the telltale high pitch of GOLD I dig with my scoop. With each shovel full I sweep the detector coil over the hole to determine if I have the treasure in the scoop. Deeper says the coil. And so I dig more. Bending lower into the water until the next wave pounds me and fills in the hole I have just dug. But with the "gold" just inches away I begin the dig again. After repeating the exercise several time I have finally reached a depth where the coil tells me I have the find in my scoop. I sift through the sand in my bucket until I find my treasure. Another bottle cap - ****. Move along. Nothing to see here. And so it goes.
My effort has not been entirely without success though. Last night we bought our dinner (a pizza) with some of the coins I have found. Below is a photo of my booty to date. I know its just a matter of time before that diamond tiara ends up in my bucket. A sign that it didn't have a chin strap.
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