Somewhere around June 1966, my family loaded up the ’64 Bel Air wagon and headed to Rockingham, NC, from Rochester, NY, for a week’s vacation.
Now, I’d never seen a tree that didn’t grow in a park or someone’s yard — and suddenly, we were deep in the woods, staying in Hector’s old speakeasy. The “Little Bo Club” — a big wooden building in the middle of nowhere. I will say it was nice inside: pine everything from the floor, ceiling, walls, trim — all varnished pine. Wood stove, cast-iron pots, and a hand pump. The outhouse was 50 feet away, and there was a well — stone top, small roof, crank bucket. The real deal.
Now Hector was my adopted great-uncle, so to speak. Seventy-five or so, thick glasses, a ’51 Plymouth coupe, and a drinker. He took us for a ride and told me about his treasure. Said one day, if I was good, he’d tell me where it was. Oh boy—a secret that only I knew about! He opened the glove box, pulled out a pint, and killed it before telling me not to tell. I never did—until now.
The day we headed home, everyone was there—three aunts, six cousins, three uncles, friends of Dad—a lot of people. Hector, of course. My aunts were giving him a hard time about booze, food, his cabin, and of course his nonsense treasure talk. When that started, he walked over to the well, looked at me, and winked. At the time, I figured it was just one of his jokes. But now, I wonder if that wink meant something more—like he knew exactly what I’d find one day.
This is where it gets good.
Three years later, we moved to Rockingham. Dad bought a restaurant, a house, and “The Little Bo Club.” We worked our butts off, and two years later he wanted to reopen the Little Bo as a steakhouse. A lot of work was done. I was in school, but I did what I could. I was driving and left school early one day when the new well was being drilled. I’d never seen that, and I knew the driller and his helper—they ate at our other restaurant every day. I figured it’d be neat to watch, and it was. Noisy, wet, muddy—but something to see. They were about 100 feet down when I got there.
Curt Dawkins, the owner of the rig, said they were going to 160 feet or so. He’d put many wells in the area and knew where the water was. Then it happened. At 136 feet—gold. Placer gold. Dust in the water, running off into the woods like shimmer on a creek bed. It wasn’t chunks or nuggets—just fine, sparkling dust floating in the runoff. But it was real, and it was everywhere. This was April of 1973. Roberdel, NC. Three miles from downtown Rockingham—three miles from “The Rock,” or Rockingham Motor Speedway, and ten miles from Pinehurst.
After five minutes, I asked Marty, the helper, if that was gold or iron pyrite. He said gold—and so did Curt. I asked why no one was saving it. Curt said my dad was paying him $300 an hour. If he started snarfing up gold at $35 an ounce, it wouldn’t look very professional. He said he saw it all the time. Knew where it all was. We laughed and went about our business.
A year later, gold was $1,000 an ounce.
I’ve never said a word about it to anyone in the family. They’re greedy—my sister being the worst. Well, time goes on. Today it’s over $3,000 an ounce—and I know where there’s a billion, or maybe more. They all have city water now. No more wells. Everyone is gone, except for me.
Hector knew.
And he died taking the truth with him. See, he never told me. But maybe showing me was always the plan. I was just lucky to be there at the right time. I could’ve said something. I almost did, once or twice. But it never felt right—like I’d be betraying something I didn’t fully understand. And I’ll never tell. The restaurant is gone. All traces of the old stuff are gone. I’m the only one who could tell you where to drill. I’m 70-plus.
I’ll keep Hector’s secret.