Treasure Stick

Like a homeless man scanning the pavement for a durry, we peeled away the leaves and matter of the forest floor, only to find decaying tins of beer, screws, nails and rabbit traps - anything but gold. I was an apprentice to the fanatic named George, who ran a surf school on the Gold Coast. A pervert in the entire sense of the word, devouring everything in sight, as if he were a white ant around soft wood. While he wasn't staring between the cheeks of Scandinavian women learning to surf, he'd scour the sand, searching for fossilised crabs. Someday, I expect to hear he's found something truly remarkable - I just don't expect it to happen on this trip...