It would have been easier, of course, to make this trip at low tide, as planned. With a lower water level, we could have driven along the wet, hard-packed sand along the shore instead of being forced to follow the treacherous ruts nearer the dunes. But this is South Padre, where residents observe a leisurely way of life and rarely stick to schedules. So, if we intend on enjoying our first treasure hunt with the natives, we'll have to follow their laid-back example and roll with the waves, too.

Dreams of Treasure Island

Long intrigued by stories of lost treasure, we read an article about one of South Padre's most infamous hunters and decided to meet the legendary Steve Hathcock for ourselves.

After crossing the Queen Isabella Causeway, the only road onto the island, we made Steve's bookstore our first stop. A rickety two-story establishment, Padre Island Trading Company boasts used books, secondhand clothes, historical artifacts, and gourmet coffee. But not that day. Beneath a "Closed" sign on the glass door, a handwritten note announced the proprietors would be gone until Saturday, still a week away.

On Sunday, we noticed that "Saturday" had been replaced with "Monday", but Monday soon came and went. A lanky young man on the porch told us that Steve and his partner Kay Lay, both longtime residents of the island, had already returned and were probably unwinding in their apartment above the shop.

By Wednesday, the store was open again. After much yarn-swapping, Steve -- who is also a local historian, locksmith, and masseur --agreed to lead us on a treasure-hunting adventure in the sand dunes north of town. Exactly when was anybody's guess.

Over the next several weeks, we fell into the rhythms of the island, basking in the warm Gulf breezes and incredible sunsets over the bay. We spent many evenings with our newfound friends, sipping coffee on the back patio, making stir-fry dinners in their upstairs kitchen, playing with their three golden retrievers, and meeting locals like Steve Farrell, a wiry guitarist from New York, or Guatemalan Bob, a blue-eyed vendor of Latin American coffees. Then, after sharing countless tales of the island's history, Steve finally made good on his promise.

The Great Treasure Hunt

Just this afternoon, Steve and Mike, a treasure-hunter from Colorado, boarded Bob's SUV laden with metal detectors, headphones, binoculars, and scoops -- the necessary tools of the trade. Now, an hour later, Dan and I are following them in our own truck, toting a few essentials as well -- namely, the boards, bucket, and shovel that might help free us if we get stuck in the sand.

Numerous treasures are supposedly buried on the island, including jewels from lost Spanish ships and $60,000 abandoned by John Singer, the sewing machine inventor, before the Civil War.

But we aren't in search of such finds today; we're looking for bits and pieces of the island's history. Steve is planning to lead us to a newly discovered spot, a mudflat beyond the dunes, where a fellow treasure-hunter has recently stumbled upon a huge clay pot and a rusted chain in the sand. Today, Steve's relying on his memory to locate any markers along the route. Near the final marker, we park the trucks beside endless rows of multi-hued seashells, unload the gear, and head into the sun-bleached dunes.

We walk in single file, past snake holes in the grass and broken bottles in the sand. Deep into the wilderness, past sawgrass-covered mounds and thorny tangles of twigs and vines, we finally come to the site, where the greenish-gray lip of a large round clay pot peeks above the surface. On this history-rich island, it's thrilling to consider how long it's lain buried or what purpose it once served.

Perhaps it belonged to the Karankawa Indians, who fought against the Comanches in the vicinity. John Singer might have used it to hide away his fortune, prior to the storm that washed away all his markers. French merchants might have filled it with wine bottles, lost when a hurricane tossed their vessel ashore. It's been here so long that the clay has turned too soft to unearth without destroying it. So, the original purpose will perhaps remain a mystery.

It's a mystery, too, what else may lie hidden in the flats. So, the five of us split up, off to seek our own treasure. Bob treks away in search of old colored glass bottles. Steve and Mike linger around the pot, searching the area with their metal detectors. Dan wanders off in the opposite direction, scanning the ground for telltale bumps, while I hike several yards across a barren field of sand, aiming for a faraway band of glistening water. As I near the shimmering, tree-lined stream, I notice small deer tracks crisscrossing the earth around me, but no sign of human travelers.

After several minutes under the hot sun, I realize I've fallen for an old desert trick, having misjudged the distance to the oasis. Though tantalizing, this Mansfield Ship Channel, the manmade cut dividing South Padre Island from Padre Island National Seashore, still lies three miles ahead -- a distance I haven't time to hike. Besides, the sunlight is waning, and I'm curious about the treasure hunt behind me.

As I trek back across the sand, I spy Dan standing above a hole, beckoning me to join him before the others, still ensconced in the dunes, have gotten wind of his find. By the time I reach him, I notice an odd little smile on his face, a mixture of pride and puzzlement. He tells me he simply spotted a small lump in an open expanse of sand and began digging on his knees, soon discovering a long wooden beam and a rusted metallic fixture.

Steve and Mike appear in the clearing. Intrigued by the piles of sand at our feet, they wander over to Dan's hole, amazed that a man without the proper gear has made the most significant find. Soon, all five of us, including Bob, who's now returned with a few intact, grime-encrusted, century-old bottles, meet to uncover and examine the mysterious pieces that Dan has found.

Steve surmises that Dan's find represents the remains of a ship's mast that, with the clay pot and rusted chain, may comprise a whole ship's worth of wreckage lying beneath us. The sun's beginning to go down, however, signaling the hunt's end, so we gather as many artifacts as we can, leaving the pot and other concealed treasures for another time, and begin the long trek back towards our vehicles.

End of a Glorious Day

As we load up the trunks and shake the sand from our shoes, the sun slips slowly behind the dunes. It's time to head home, and, despite Steve's promises, the ride back is even worse. Still, despite the high tide, risky sand traps, and busted detectors, it thrills us to have searched through the almost deserted mudflats for a hint of South Padre's history, and the priceless treasures buried beneath these very sands -- treasures that could fund their finders for life.

Recalling one of Steve's confessions, that "it's impossible for a good treasure hunter to resist embellishing a yarn," I find there's no need to embellish. We haven't found any Spanish bullion or the Singer family fortune, and we aren't planning to spend the rest of our days searching for them, but, for one blessed afternoon, we've begun to understand the thrill of those that do.