Mallorca in the 1970s was a world unto itself—a strange mix of expats, eccentric locals, and tourists, all carving out their lives under Franco’s regime. For families like ours, it was a tight-knit community. Everyone seemed to know each other, or at least knew someone who did.
One of those people was Peter Winter, a British ex-Marine captain who owned a big boat—and more importantly, had access to Cabrera, a restricted military island just off Mallorca’s southern coast.
His daughter, Carol, was dark-haired, blue-eyed, and effortlessly charming. We got along well, though at that age, I wasn’t quite sure why I liked her so much. Looking back, I can see now that she was truly something special.
So when she invited me on a trip to Cabrera, I didn’t hesitate. It was exactly the kind of adventure I dreamed of—a real-life treasure hunt.
We set off at night, sailing through the dark, and by the time we reached the island, the first light of dawn was breaking.
I climbed up on deck and found Carol already there, gazing out over the still, blue sea. Ahead of us, Cabrera rose out of the water—wild and uninhabited, except for the crumbling ruins of an ancient castle perched high on a hill.
There wasn’t a breath of wind. The water was smooth as glass. The morning was perfectly still, and everything around us seemed to hum with a quiet sense of possibility.
Peter Winter lowered the dinghy into the water, and we clambered in, gripping the sides as he rowed us toward shore. The gentle dip and pull of the oars cut through the silence, and with every stroke, my anticipation grew.
I didn’t know what I was going to find. I just knew—deep in my bones—that something was waiting.
The castle ruins loomed above us, weathered by centuries of storms and silence. Below the crumbling walls, we spotted a pile of earth and rubble—what we immediately decided had to be the castle’s ancient rubbish dump.
It felt like a place where secrets had been buried and forgotten.
We got to work, sifting through centuries of discarded history, scanning every bit of rubble, every broken shard of pottery, every rusted nail. The hours slipped by as we dug, brushed, and searched, lost in the thrill of possibility.
And then—I saw it.
A small, dark coin, lying in the dirt as if it had been waiting there all along.
I held my breath as I picked it up. It wasn’t gold or silver, but it was perfect. A cross on one side, a bearded king on the other.
At the time, I had no idea how old it was, but I knew it was something special.
I turned it over in my palm, feeling the weight of time itself pressing against my skin.
I’d found it.
We carried on searching with renewed excitement, but apart from more broken pottery, old nails, and bits of rusted iron, we didn’t uncover anything else quite like the coin.
Still, it didn’t matter.
The day had already given me everything I could have asked for.
By evening, we returned to the boat, exhausted but satisfied in the way only children at the tail end of a perfect adventure can be.
After a delicious meal, I climbed into my top bunk, tucking the coin into the narrow gap between the mattress and the wooden cabin wall.
Then, looking down to where Carol lay in the bunk below, I whispered, “Goodnight.”
She replied softly. And in that moment—without her having to say anything more—I knew the day had been just as special for her as it had been for me.
A few days later, something strange happened.
I was sitting on an olive wood bench at the second tee of the Son Vida golf course, waiting to ply my trade selling golf balls. Absentmindedly scuffing my feet in the dirt, I kicked up a little cloud of dust—and something caught my eye.
I bent down, brushed the earth away—and there it was.
Another coin.
A near twin of my Cabrera treasure. Same weathered patina. Same markings.
At the time, I still had no idea how old either of them were. That discovery wouldn’t come until years later, when my father and I found them listed in a catalogue of ancient Spanish coins—one dating back around 600 years, the other 500.
I kept those coins for years, carrying them with me through all the twists and turns of my life.
Eventually, in my late teens, I gave them away.
But that’s another story.
For now, what matters is that Cabrera gave me one of the happiest days of my childhood.
Simple. Pure. Unforgettable.