When I was 17 I signed on as a diver on a Costa Rican galleon hunt. The guy was on a shoestring budget and he said, "I can't pay you, but you'll eat well, and you're in for a share of anything we find." My other hot job prospect that summer was hosing out dog runs at a boarding kennel, so I pounced.
It was a glorious summer. The food was great, though I procured much of it myself, free-diving with a Hawaiian sling. We found nothing and that's what I was paid. I did not catch the ruinous treasure bug, despite living then and again now near the site of the 1715 plate fleet wreck, maybe the richest of them all. (Not that I don't hear the siren song now and then.)
The place was absolutely gorgeous, with great scenery, clear waters and wonderful people. I met a guy, an American, who had bought a strip of beachfront 21 miles long and a mile and a half wide for $10,000. He said, "Well, the price was right."
I have done a fair amount of roaming since, but I don't expect to ever top that summer in Costa Rica.