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The Beachcombers
You never know what you’ll find buried in the sand, at least that’s what my experience has been. My brother, Dan and I, have been combing the beach every week for ages now, and believe it or not, I support myself and my family. Of course, we live on an island with beaches on all sides, which are packed every day during the season, and most every weekend off season.
Our routine has become a ritual for us. We each buy a six pack of whatever is our current beer of choice, and start on opposite sides of whatever beach we’re combing. Using our metal detectors and our shovels and a sieve, we move back and forth across the beach, from shore to the end of the sand, back and forth, strip by strip, until we meet in the center. Then whatever we’ve found goes into the chest, until we go through it later, evaluating what has promise, and discarding what does not. When I say discarding, I mean, we put those items into our flea market booth. The rest of the loot, the stuff with true value, we hold on to for awhile.
We always scan the papers and local Facebook groups for tourists offering rewards for lost items. That’s our first choice, unless the reward is not up to the value of the item. If we can make more pawning it, or selling it to the highest bidder, then that’s the direction we go.
It has proven to be very lucrative, so far.
We find watches of all sorts, but keep our eyes out for Patek Philippe, Audemars Piguet and Rolex watches. They bring in the money. We find wedding bands, and engagement rings, and family heirlooms. Why does anyone bring such things to the beach?
We also find flip flops, Crocs, sneakers, and sandals. Hats of every kind. Towels. Swimsuits, even. But the other day topped them all.
Last Tuesday, we found a corpse.
To be continued…
