I just spent an entire evening deep in a type of thought that best can be classified as controlled-reminiscing. I say controlled, because I tried to focus on the history, development and perpetuation of my hobby; or probably better referred to as my addiction. You see, I confess that for nearly half a century I've been a victim of the 'Hidden Treasure Syndrome'. Expressed most simply, my White's MXT metal detector has become my third arm, my source of therapy and/or- Escape and perhaps a few other factors, short of being a bedfellow. So, as I sprawl on my chaise lounge and apply Neosporin to the dozens of sand-fly bites accrued in this afternoons beach hunting, let me give you an overview of this evenings reverie.

It all started unexpectedly a few decades ago. While plodding along the beach searching for sharks teeth, I spied what looked like and extraterrestrial who had just landed. He was dressed like a bowery bum; wires dangled from bulging earphones, and a cumbersome pack of some sort encircled his mid-section. In one hand he dragged a gadget that was half shovel and half cane and like a scythe-wielder, he was swinging and intently watching a long metal wand that had a large ping-pong paddle-like thing on the end. Sheer ignorance on my part set off sort of a fascination coupled with curiosity, as to what this character really was doing. So I approached him. He saw me and sensed I had made, or was about to make an inquiry or two. He pointed to his earphones. That stopped me. Was he indicating that he couldn't hear me? Or, was he saying, ' Get lost, dummy!'

Of course, now, as a seasoned treasure-hunter, I fully realize that I present that same picture to curious or pitying-onlookers, and often react in the same manner.

In a few moments, Mr. Extraterrestrial (who, incidentally goes by the name of Bill) stopped, pushed back his earphones, looked at me and smiled. Then with a chuckle, he said, "I know what you're thinking, but let me show you something." He slipped off a sort of short apron he had tied around his waist. That apron was just like the change-holding thing used by the man who sells newspapers on the street corners. The apron had two large pockets. From one, he displayed a silver ring, two match-box toy cars, a silver charm bracelet, and well over three dollars in change.

"You got any holes in your pockets?" he asked. "Several people have!" Then he let me look in the other pocket. Dozens of pull-tabs, bottle caps, two lead sinkers at the end of several feet of fish line, four salt-encrusted keys, two small cigarette-lighters, and twelve badly bent pennies. Would that the conversation that followed could have been taped. Not only were all my questions answered, but his words ignited and envious fascination, which turned into almost a hunger to be able to do what he does. That afternoon, a long-lasting friendship materialized, during which Bill tutored me into my addiction, to the disease of treasure-hunting.

Bill and I found that actually we had many things in common, and other than metal detecting, we had a similar history. This friendship still operates; and two old retirees act like two nine year old kids, as we rendezvous at places we feel might yield what only Mother Nature knows lies beneath the ground. So, I happen to know that this long-time treasure hunting friend reminisces often. In fact, many times we preface our conversations with, "Remember when we hit the glory-hole under the boardwalk at Surfside Beach?" "Remember the thrill of digging up 1880-1919 coins at the Chicamacomoco Life-Saving Station on the outer banks of North Carolina?" and never forget how we got skunked on the beaches of Key West."

There are so many hunting trips we love to relive. Incidentally, it is comforting to know what psychiatrists applaud the dynamics of pleasant memories and the therapeutic value of reliving those pleasantries of the past, and that even a touch of phantasm is not to be condemned. So, this evening, with the sand-fly bites treated and deitched, I lovingly poured another single malt, and shamefacedly added a wee dram of water. This set the stage for structuring the reminiscing into a bit more philosophical and objective mode. From within the reliving of the pleasantries of years of hunting for money, artifacts, or whatever, several question arise.

For example, what are the reasons for selecting certain places to do our digging? Then, what are the ways in which we go about the detecting process once we get there? Incidentally, since most of the memorable hunting trips have been carried out with Bill, and most answers to the above questions come from reminiscing together, detecting by myself has yielded many highlights, but looking back, reminiscing together lends more meaning, veracity and color.

The reasons for selecting certain places obviously are varied. If, for example, opportunities are provided for us, like invitations or requests to hunt by someone who has lost a valuable item, or-who has a prospective building lot that needs sweeping-well, we love to tackle these. In similar fashion, if we get permission to sweep in a public park, occasionally a state park, or a historical site, we'll certainly go. However, in most instances, we'll simply say that we feel the urge to do a beach area, particularly if said beach or beaches have inexpensive lodgings and good restaurants. Or, if we know of several playgrounds or school yards that need our attention, we'll give them a whirl. And so it goes, invitations, requests, researches and genuine gut feelings are the main determiners.

For example one of our upcoming trips presents two and a half miles of beach, which provides two long public piers, dozens of public accesses, a battery of beach volleyball- courts, and a half mile of boardwalk. All of these are seductive spots just waiting for two nosey victims of the " hidden treasure syndrome."

Now, what do we do when we arrive at a selected hunting ground? Each of has a preference here and there, but mutual planning takes place. Using the example of the invitation or request to hunt, we'll simply suggest, "You do this part of the area, and I'll do the other; and we'll meet up at a certain spot." Conversely, we may set up a grid, with eight to ten foot swaths to follow. In this case, we sweep almost side by side, thus covering the area thoroughly. An advantage of this last procedure is that if one gets a faint signal he can ask his co-worker to double check as to whether or not to dig.

I mentioned that each of us has a preference or two in sweeping and digging. Let's take a beach sweeping as an example. The questions of tide-levels arise, and are decided generally by gut level feelings. Bill feels that low or neap tide levels often create little drop off points where a tumbling process takes place, thus trapping shells, jewelry and objects too heavy to be pushed to higher tide levels. So, generally, he prefers the low tide sweeping. In comparison, I tend to prefer the high tide level, which seems to be closer to the area where the majority of beach walkers congregate. Also, with the surges of heavy storms, high tides often carry coins and light artifacts further inland with seaweed and various bits of debris. There are several experienced beach sweepers who maintain that a very productive procedure is to assume a knee-deep wading method and follow that position with the incoming tide. This turns digging into a unique and often frustrating experience as one deals with surf and muddy water.

Bill also likes the short unpaved access roads. He will also sweep around and under boardwalks and flights of stairs down to the beach. If a pier crosses the span of beach, Bill will sweep one side of the exposed pilings, while I sweep the other side; then we both check the middle. We always remember that the pier flooring has spaces between each board. Incidentally, we now have a large box, nearly full of lead sinkers, ranging from one half ounce to one pound, all dug up under and around piers. If one is supple enough to squeeze under boardwalks, and wise enough to check out the edges of beachfront shops and restaurants, you're bound to hear productive signals in your earphones.

I guess I get a bit goose-pimply as the evening reminiscing goes on. There seems to be a slight smile, and I find myself glancing at several pictures of Bill and me, in appropriate treasure hunting attire, that grace the fireplace mantle and bookcases. And there's a legion of stories that are generated by the specimens and artifacts on the shelves of the bookcases. They're special!

Lest it be concluded that Bill and I are nothing but beach bums, I want to focus on other types of places that we remember as productive. So often I recall the pattern of public school properties, particularly playgrounds, that we swept on weekends or school vacations. The schools being public property and we being taxpayers, we never felt we overstepped our choices of places to sweep. However, we were kidded now and then. Our wives, for example, make teasingly snide remarks relative to certain full-grown men having no conscience about scavenging for children's milk money.

Over the years, the variety of things that kids, and possibly teachers, lose on school property is amazing. I'll hasten to add that when we find high grade jewelry or money containers with identification data, or what might be classified as keepsakes; then we place said items in the school's outside mailbox, with the hope that what a child lost may be returned. The areas around and under playground equipment, such as slides, swings and jungle gyms, seemingly beg to be swept. In two cases, I recall, one in an elementary school, and one in a middle school, the principal asked us to give a demonstration to the students of how we swept the school playground. In both cases, we displayed the things we found, then we were able to emphasize the importance of being careful with the valuable things, and not to be careless in disposing of trashy things.

I recall, in passing, how carefully we chose certain public parks as places to hunt. We pledged ourselves to sweep at appropriate times, so as not to interfere with park activities. Sweeping appropriately after a park program that involved large crowds always was very exciting and productive. As I continue to focus on this very pleasant evening of reminiscing, many thoughts come to mind of what might seem to be rather odd places sweep and dig. For example, I find that unpaved parking areas beckon to me after they become empty and ready for characters like me to take over. I simply reason that when a car parks in a particular space, at least two doors, and very often four doors are opened and shut as people and their belongings get out. Then on their return, two to four doors are opened and shut. This activity lends itself to all sorts of things falling undetected to the ground. Bill kids me about this, but here again preference prevails.

I've been know to casually run my detector close the curb almost anywhere. Such as the place where wind, rain, and various other forces, push leaves, trash and all sorts of items into a convenient six to ten inch area close to the curb. A treasure hunter can walk along quickly and casually and retrieve all sorts of unpredictable goodies. I recall reading about one detecting fanatic who, near the end of winter, patiently waits until the huge piles of snow on streets and elsewhere melt down, thus revealing all sorts of productive items for the taking, with or without the detector. Reportedly, a couple of old-time treasure hunters have stressed the likelihood of finds around what they call outbuildings. This would mean structures like old tool sheds, well houses, potato cellars, and even what variably have been called back-houses, outdoor Johns, Nature Depositories.

In relation to the latter category, it's never mentioned whether a one, two or three seater offers proportionate probabilities for rewards.

Since Bill and I are retired university professors, we know a lot about potentially productive places to hunt on college campuses. It goes without saying that permission must be granted by the campus police and appropriate authorities. Also, it's more logical to hit the campuses on academic holidays. Nevertheless, we attack campus spots whenever we are given the go ahead signal. Most of our findings were dug up at the base of dormitories or other fallen off window ledges. So, picture two old curmudgeons snooping around all varied populace of the institution. Another fruitful searching area is around and under bleachers on athletic fields. We've been known to carefully sweep the area where students take sun baths, or well worn paths in any wooded areas on campus. One or two rather caustic friends of ours have made remarks about all this, such as "You senile clods will stop at nothing."

You know they institutionalize lesser morons than that. Nevertheless, that sterling silver bracelet there on top of the bookcase, is typical of the many unclaimed items dug up in the shrubbery around college dormitories, and during two trips to a Chancellor's home, nickels, dimes and quarters were very prevalent.

Well, here I sit recalling the various places to dig and the idiosyncratic procedures a metal detector hobbyist might use, all the time knowing full well that everything I might suggest can be contrary to what other experienced treasure hunters might believe or do. I guess what I'm saying is that each hunter develops his or her own style, preference and possibly a trick or two. For example, each hunter has an individual style of walking or sweeping. People dig differently with a variety of tools. I always maintain that whether a person uses earphones or not, that one's ears play a truly significant role in the whole operation. All due credit to the phenomenal sophistication now evident in modern metal detecting machines, the human ear gives an added dimension to any and all types of meter displays. I'll confess that at times I out think the detector, simply because my hearing has become so tuned to the tones the machine produces that I sometimes dig when the meter shows nothing positive.

An interesting dilemma presents itself sometimes when hunting for coins. Since the U.S. Mint seems to be putting less silver in certain coins, you may get a very confusing reading on the display. For instance five cents and pull tabs sometimes fight each other. The answer in such cases is to dig. The reading on a match box toy car obviously depends on how much or little metal it contains, so they generally come up surprises.

The competition among manufacturers of metal detectors is fascinating to study. Whatever brand a treasure hunter selects, he has to become accustomed to that the machine purportedly can do. Most detectors now have several operational modes. I've stuck with White's, because I almost am part of the company due to their helpful advice over the years, and their engineering excellence, which has made me a happy and productive digger. I can use three modes: 1) jewelry and coins, 2) artifacts and 3) gold. That's enough for lazy me. Only twice have I switched to gold mode. Once when an expensive gold wedding band was the hoped for target. (Immediate success). Another time, I tested it on a stream bed and received a faint, yet heart-thumping sensation. (No pan or sluice box available). Bill uses another make of detector, and like me, is too confident in what he's used to, and too lazy to explore. Prices among manufacturers are comparable. Incidentally, I have a friend who is wacky enough to suggest that some manufacturers eventually will incorporate a blood hound like scent mechanism, but can't figure how such a mode would register on the meter display.

I've reveled in my evening of controlled reminiscing and only partially covered the fun, therapy, hoped for productivity and mystery of a truly fascinating hobby. As the evening winds down, I recall many of the lighter or humorous occurrences. This always ignites a smile or giggle, accompanied by a warm feeling. So, smile, or even giggle with me, as I have the audacity to relate a few poignant incidents.

Initially, I should admit that while reminiscing, my conscience and my pride harkens back to the initial contact with Bill several decades ago. He constantly reminds me that as a full grown adult I acted like an idiot in not recognizing a full fledged treasure hunter. He's probably right, you know. However, I always hasten to remind Bill that on that first occasion he really did look like an alien or one of those horror characters in Madame Toussard's Wax Museum. My many disjointed questions put to Bill on that memorable occasion, several decades ago, remind me of the many typical and atypical questions I've had thrown at me while attentively sweeping. "Find any diamonds today?" "What's the best thing you ever found?" "What'cha doin' Mister?" "How much does one of them things cost?" "How do you know you found something if that radio is playing in you're ear?" "Doesn't your arm get tired?" "Does your instrument react to dog poop?" You find that you develop stock answers to different questions. Bill avoids most questions, as he did to me, by pointing to his earphone and staying mum. I guess I'm more gregarious and generally enjoy chatting with the cross-section of humanity you meet while sweeping and digging.

Only a few weeks ago, a gentleman about my age loudly challenged me with, "I'll give you one hundred dollars if you'll find my wedding ring." "Naturally," I said, - "Tell me roughly where you think you lost it, and I'll be happy to search." "Oh, its somewhere in my garden at home." Immediately he gave me his card, which contained his address and phone number, and abruptly departed. In about three minutes, he showed up again and shouted, "I'll give you one hundred and fifty dollars if you find it before the 28th of the month, that's my golden wedding anniversary. Then he took off again. Needless to say, I phoned him later and arranged to search his garden, which was huge and extended out over fifty yards from three sides of his house. Two hour of searching yielded several crushed Pepsi cans, a handful of roofing nails, and a handle-less iron rake; but no ring. I reported that I'd had a confrontation with two very agitated snakes and then foolishly and impolitely asked him if he looked under his bed.

To add to this wedding ring incident, I yield to temptation and tell of another ring search, which had an even stranger conclusion. While searching in a local playground, a very excited gentleman rushed up to me, as if I was a long-lost relative, and explained he had lost his wedding band somewhere under the swings, and could I please try to find it. I found it almost immediately. It was a stunning 14K broad gold band, etched with double hearts and assuredly of great value. Imagine my surprise when he gleefully kissed the ring, gave me a tremendous bear hug, plus a kiss on my lips, and then rushed to his car. I stood chagrined as I tried to diagnose the reaction of a few people who witness the attack. Of course, treasure hunters do not wear and identifiable uniform, like security guards or sanitation workers; so its their equipment - not their attire - that makes them recognizable. Actually, we dress for the occasion, which generally is far removed from socially acceptable events. Perhaps the following incident will clarify this problem.

A few years ago, Bill and I checked into an ocean-front room in a well-known Atlantic coast resort. We had an urge to sweep the beach where we figured only the rich people bathed. After a full day of sweeping, we concluded that rich people leave their belongings in their rooms, and bathe or sun in pocketless beach attire. Tired, cruddy and skunked, we called it a day. During the night I recalled having noticed a kid's playground less than a mile from hotel. I've always been an early riser, and Bill is just the opposite, so I sneaked out and hit the playground about six am. I sure I looked like a skid-row derelict (nearly three days growth of beard, a cruddy old sweatshirt with sleeves cut off at disparate angles, frayed and dirty dungarees and barefoot) all topped off by my tousled white hair that would ruin any comb. Added to all that, my headphones, the hand-held detector and digging tool gave the picture of a shoddy alien just landed.

Many coins were there under the swing and jungle gym, also match-box cars and a bracelet. In my rapt attention to such things, I didn't notice two quite mature ladies arrive, shepherding three four-to-six year old children. I fully noticed their glances in my direction, which I interpreted as disgust coupled with a touch of fear. I naturally felt I should undertake some sort of a retreat to my car. One of the kids was fascinated with whatever it was I seemed to be doing. One of the ladies then loudly cautioned the child not to bother that poor old gentleman. That hastened my retreat past the ladies. However, as I looked closely at the lady who had cautioned the child, I saw in her eyes not fear, not distaste - but sheer pity. I'm sure if I had stayed much longer, she would have offered me something - probably money for food or clothing. I'm certain that as I left, the ladies were saying something to the effect that the local social service agency certainly was delinquent.

Not too long ago while Bill and I were sweeping a section of a well-known South Carolina beach, I suddenly realized that Bill had disappeared. This was very unusual, since due to our advanced ages, we always kept within hailing distance of each other - just in case. Since Bill was no longer on the beach, I headed toward the long rustic building run by the Parks and Recreation Department, which provided beach-goers access to food and drink machines, public telephones and restrooms. Suddenly, I spied the rear section of a body protruding from a hollowed-out spot at the base of the building. The front section of the body slowly dragged the rear section under the building. Then an arm came out and hauled in a metal detector. Through the lattice work around the base of the building, I could see that the body and machine belonged to Bill. I remarked to myself that my exploring friend had gone completely daft, and undoubtedly will have to cope with snakes, scorpion and smelly toilet run-off pipes. So, I meandered over to the car and opened the beer cooler. After half hour or so, I became a bit concerned; and, perish the though, might have to set up a rescue. But the concern disappeared as Bill tunneled his way out from under the building and stood there, grimy and panting, but grinning. When he spied me, he pointed to his bulging pockets. That rascal had hit a glory hole under that building!

You see, for several years, swimmers, campers and several species of tourists has seen coin after coin drop through the cracks between the floorboards near the telephone the food and drink machines, and the restrooms. Bill gasped, "There's plenty more under there." That did it. My rear half followed my front half and twenty minutes on hands and knees produced four dollars and eighty cents in coins. Cramps, dust and sand fleas put an end to a gymnastic that two white-haired characters in the fourth quarter of their existence will talk about to the end of that quarter. From that memorable day that I first met Bill, I have been guided by the almost fatherly advice he interjected to the process of answering my endless stream of questions. For example, he emphasized that all metal detecting enthusiasts must always be considerate of private or restricted property. Too many inconsiderate diggers have searched such areas indiscriminately without having asked permission. In fact, dune areas near beaches are generally off limits, primarily since over-zealous diggers have done much damage. State parks demand permission and may choose to outlaw treasure hunting totally. Obviously, Federal land is a distinct no-no, accompanied by laws providing for heavy fines, confiscation of equipment and possible jail-time for offenders.

So, I have tried to be a model treasure hunter. On only one occasion did I become faced with being questioned about the terms "Public and Private." You see for several months I had carefully studied the extensive unpaved parking area around a church located less than one mile from my home. I saw that the extremities of that property were used only at times of heavily attended funerals or weddings. So, I was particular to sweep the area farthest from the church. Later, I found that I was on county-owned property, and the county could care less. However, on one occasion I spotted a priest - a very large priest - heading in my direction. He was walking rather stridently and carrying what appeared to be a cane. It was very obvious that his intent was to contact me. I was not at all sure what to expect, but something told me that I should make the first move. So, I hailed the priest with a cordial "Good Afternoon, Father," removed my cap and earphones, held out my hand and proceeded to introduce myself. I'm sure the good Father concluded from my white hair that a couple of decades separated us in age. The Father replied by giving his name and title, and said firmly that he felt moved to inquire about what I was doing. He mentioned a succession of experiences of dealing with disruptive trespassers in the church cemetery, so was alert to activity in relative proximity to the church. He said he assumed that I was retired and that the metal detector appeared to be sort of a hobby.

The conversation lasted over half an hour and proved to be very friendly. I had discovered that our paths had been very similar up to a certain point. He had been a public school teacher and principal before the call to the priesthood. So, we talked about public education, teacher education and the church's role in education. He chose wisely, I think, not to inquire as to my church affiliation, if any; but he graciously extended an invitation to visit his congregation. I met him once more after a funeral and chose to tell him that beaches and public parks were my current sweeping areas.

Like so many long-winded preachers and politicians, I could ramble on and probably overdo the hidden message herein - all ignited by the hours of pleasant reminiscing. I fully realize that most metal detecting enthusiasts do similar, and often more extensive, reminiscing of hunting and digging experiences; therefore, I simply say "Keep it up. It's harmless, satisfying and great therapy."