My grandfather was a man of more happiness than monetary wealth.

He reasoned, my father told me, that knowledge is the heated, padded seat in the outhouse of life — you can’t find the swallowed diamond until you sift through a lot of BS.

Granddaddy kept a lot of secrets along the way of gathering facts.

One day, while standing the backyard, looking at the canal but, in his thoughts, staring out at the sea, a fellow old seaman walked up to Granddaddy and told him a wild tale about a plot of land up in New Hampshire owned by a family named Winthrop something or other.

The land itself was not remarkable except for one small fact — every 100 years, a bright light appeared on the horizon, rose into the sky and shone down on a certain spot of the family plot.

My grandfather, ever the realist, asked why the seaman was sharing this information with a sailor and not someone more authoritative.

Well, this seaman, he was known in those parts for his notorious behaviour, having crossed paths with the law a few too many times, but he didn’t mind sharing this information with my grandfather, a nice man who had only beaten this fellow a few times in acey-deucey.

My grandfather asked what the man knew about the farm.

“It’s not exactly a farm.  Not anymore.  A few years ago, they converted it to a golf course.”

My grandfather had a soft place in his fact-filled thoughts for the irrational sport of golf.  “Okay, so tell me what you know about this light.  Anything you know for a fact?”

The man shared a document with my grandfather.

Yellowed and torn, the document described a treasure that was like no treasure that had been seen before — not only a map of the stars but instructions for how to travel through space from one planet to another.

My grandfather was a loving, trusting man but he had his skeptical side, too.

What proof did the man have that the document was authentic?

The man said that his grandfather had worked on the farm and found the document buried in the wall of an old, abandoned well, long since dug up and removed from history.  No one living knew about its existence.

The man said that the next 100-year visit was fast approaching.  All the man asked was that my grandfather visit the golf course, take pictures and share whatever information he gleaned.

Granddaddy was also a curious man, having learned that behind every legend or myth is a nugget of truth.

He had already accumulated enough material wealth to last the rest of his lifetime, but what about the lifetimes of his son and his grandchildren?

He accepted the document, bid the man goodbye and, when my grandmother returned from her garden club meeting, suggested they consider taking a vacation to New England in the next year.

My father had heard this story only a few times from my grandfather, assuming it was more parable or metaphorical tale than anything real.

Dad told me that in every life we’ll encounter people who belief wholeheartedly in family lore.  We are not to disapprove or discourage these people from holding their stories on the highest pole, flying them as flags of faith and family honour.

Dad said that Granddaddy promised the story would have a happy ending but he wouldn’t tell my father what was discovered one night in New Hampshire, only that a few photographs he took barely document the event which cemented my grandfather’s belief in one fellow sailor’s tall tale.

Dad didn’t have an ending to share with me.

However, he did said that Granddaddy hinted the answer would be found on his property in south Florida.

Lo and behold, I think I have the first evidence of that fateful, faith-filled evening.

I present to you, dear reader, the images to which my grandfather eluded:

I have more to go through to determine if the map and other information are in the chest and I’m just not seeing it.