• Up to 40% of men admit to losing their rings. My husband was one of them.
• To help travelers like us find lost jewelry, people-for-hire scour beaches with metal detectors.
• We found Antigua's very own treasure hunter through Facebook.

My husband and I were on our blissful honeymoon, beach hopping in Antigua, when a look of horror passed over his face. Amid the splashing and digging for shells, his wedding ring had slipped off.

"It's gone. My ring is gone!" Panic rose in his voice.

I, despite my dramatic nature, was surprisingly calm. We bought his 14-karat gold ring at Costco for $1,000. If we had to lose a ring, I'd rather his than mine, which is a family heirloom. However, his band was the one I'd slipped on his finger after our vows, so it had sentimental value.

"We'll find it!" I squeaked. I ran up to a vendor on the beach and asked if we could borrow snorkels. We spent the next hour circling the same 30-square-foot patch of the ocean floor. Nothing.

The sun was setting, so we dragged our dejected, dripping selves into towels and returned the masks. My husband wavered between dead silence and frustrated groans on the drive back.

That night, we looked through pictures and realized we'd lost it at a different beach: Turner's. We'd been looking in the wrong place.

Facebook to the rescue

My husband's not alone in his misfortune. Statistics vary, but several reports over the years estimate that between 10% to 40% of men lose their wedding rings at some point. Through many Reddit posts, I realized there's a solution: a metal detector.

Turns out, people make careers from finding jewelry on the ocean floor. And it's getting more popular due to surging gold prices.

I came across an article in The Wall Street Journal about a famous man from the island of Mauritius who'd found a Frenchman's ring in the ocean not once but twice. I wondered if Antigua had its own treasure hunter.

So I posted in a tourists' Facebook group: "We're on our honeymoon. My husband lost his ring. Does anyone have a metal detector?"

The first comment completely deflated my confidence: "That's a bad omen lol." Another said, "I never wear my good jewelry in the ocean." Most people suggested we pray to St. Anthony or wished us luck. Finally, the next morning, someone mentioned Winston.

Winston Merchant's a local guy from St. John. Over a WhatsApp call, he offered: "$50 if I don't find it. $200 if I do. Cash." We agreed.

"Do you think it'll still be there after two days in the ocean?" I asked over the phone, anxiously chewing my lip.

"Ya, man. It'll be there." Winston's quiet confidence raised our hopes.

The day of the hunt

We met Winston the next morning, 44 hours after my husband lost his ring. He radiated calm. I live in New York City, so I can't grasp the concept of calm, let alone embody it. But this man did. He sported flip flops and a Bob Marley shirt.

As we got to talking, he estimated he's unearthed about 1,000 pieces of jewelry.

"But I've been doing this a long time, man. Since 1998," he later said.

He said he's found rings, chains, and bracelets, mostly for tourists. One time, he said he tracked down a valuable pendant the size of a grain of rice on a resort lawn. Another time, he found a woman's diamond ring on the Sandals beach and delivered it to the airport moments before she boarded her flight.

Full-time, Winston farms marijuana and black pineapple — a rare, exceptionally sweet variety only found in Antigua. This helps him fund his side gig of metal detecting, which isn't cheap.

He said his latest detector, a Garrett Sea Hunter Mark II, cost him $800, and a pair of new headphones set him back $140.

He used my own ring to make sure he was on the right frequency for gold, adjusting the knobs as he floated the sensor over my hand. Then, he set off, scanning the beach.

Soon, he was knee deep in the bluest water I'd ever seen. Whenever his sensor beeped in his ears, he'd scoop a pile of sand from the ocean floor and sift it with a second contraption that resembled a pasta colander, but was cylinder-shaped.

He unearthed a quarter. "I'll keep that," he cracked. Then a matchbox car. Then one aluminum can lid after another. All of it went deep in his pocket so he wouldn't come across it again.

At one point, he was neck deep in water, and I was beginning to lose hope.

Striking gold

An hour and a half later, I sat 15 feet from the water's edge contemplating how we'd afford a new ring when Winston calmly sauntered up.

He held out the pasta-collander tool and said, "You better go surprise him." I peered inside, and there lay a golden ring. Eyes wide, I screamed an expletive.

"Go put it in a shell or something," Winston smiled knowingly. Clearly, he'd done this before.

I ran up the beach, grabbed a shell, and tucked it and the ring inside my palm. I bolted up to my husband and said, "Look at this pretty shell I found." Unfolding my hand, I revealed the ring. Another expletive. My husband's eyes were gleaming.

The pair of us bounced around, cackling to anyone who'd listen, "Winston found it! In the ocean of all places!"

Collectively, that ring spent more hours in the ocean than I did on my honeymoon.

Winston didn't seem surprised at his success. He estimates his find rate is 95%. Sometimes he ditches the metal detector and searches with his hand by feel. He puts so much effort into his hunts because he knows the feeling of losing something special, he told me.

"It's not just a ring. A lot of memories flash through your head when you lose it," he said. "That joy from your vacation gets pushed back, and you leave bitter. I make somebody happy again."

It seemed fitting that my husband was wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates hat. We'd been searching for lost treasure with Winston, who'd struck gold.

In the early 1900s, while diners dominated the American northeast, the South had its own institutions: cafeterias. At their peak, there were thousands nationwide, with big chains like Morrison's and Luby's operating locations all over the South. They took off because they served affordable comfort food quickly. And they became community centers of sorts. On Sundays, families would slide their trays down the lines after church. There were entire sections of the phone book dedicated to them. But in the '90s, cafeteria lines started to dry up, and many chains shuttered. We went to Georgia to learn how one of the state's oldest and one of its newest cafeterias are fighting to keep their hot bars steaming and communities fed.

• Michael Greene reflects on his journey running Matthews Cafeteria in Tucker, Georgia.
• Despite not enjoying the work as a kid, Greene now finds joy in operating the family cafeteria.
• Greene's focus is on his kids' freedom, not pressuring them into the family business.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Michael Greene, 53, third-generation owner and operator of the 70-year-old Matthews Cafeteria in Tucker, Georgia. It has been edited for length and clarity.

My family has run Matthews Cafeteria for three generations. A fourth would be rare and special, but I don't expect it.

I have four kids, ages 12, 10, 8, and 4. They're all boys, and people often assume that at least one of them will take over one day, but I'm not going to push them into this business if they don't want it.

I was one of four, and my parents didn't pressure my siblings or me to run the family business. They gave us the chance to be anything we wanted. So when I think about my sons, I want them to have that same freedom.

I don't expect they'll want this type of work. I was the only one in my generation who wanted anything to do with the business, and it's a tough job. It's also extremely rewarding.

I didn't enjoy the cafeteria when I was growing up

At age 12, my parents required me to start working in the cafeteria during the summer. I started out washing dishes. I only spent about three hours a day at the job, but it felt like 12.

Meanwhile, my friends, who didn't have jobs, were at the pool. So, the cafeteria was by no means my favorite place to be as a kid because it felt like I was missing out.

That said, I plan for each of my sons to work the same job I did as a kid. My eldest will start this summer.

I don't expect him to like it, but it's important to see what his Dad does, to see where the money comes from, and what it takes to make a dollar.

I eventually found my way back to the family business

I can't remember exactly when I decided to go into the family business. Looking back, I think it was my destiny to end up here because cooking is my passion.

As a kid, I would watch chefs like Nathalie Dupree and Julia Childs on TV and try to recreate what they made. When I went to college, I majored in communications, but never found it rewarding.

Nothing else turned me on the way cooking did. Cooking was my only passion back then, and I'm lucky to say it still is today. Sometimes, when you have to make a living out of what you love, it takes the fun out of it. I'm grateful that the bottom line hasn't spoiled my joy.

I run the production side of things at Matthews, watching the food transform from raw products into what you see on your plate. That'll never get old.

The work is harder than it looks, though. You're on your feet all day — lifting, moving, cooking, solving problems. It's not a desk job.

Up until recently, I was here at 5 a.m. to open and stayed until about 3:30 in the afternoon. Now we open at 6 a.m., and I don't work quite as much as I used to because life is busy with four kids. I also have an incredible staff who, along with my wife, are really what keep this place running smoothly.

During COVID, my wife took on the business side — handling payroll, taxes, catering, everything — after our managers quit.

So, we really don't get to turn off ever — there's always something that needs to be done. That's why I don't take it lightly when people assume my kids will step into this business.

This business has given me a good life

If one of my boys wants to do this and has a passion for it, then I'll support that. But I don't want them to have it as a crutch. Instead, I want them to study hard, get an education, and forge their own path.

This business has given me a good life. It's supported my family and about 30 employees. It's where I met my wife. We got engaged at the same table where I first laid eyes on her. It means a lot to me now in a way it didn't when I was younger.

If one or more of my kids choose the same path, it will be because they want it — the same way I did.