Bronze Bell
My office is a labyrinth of history, a cluttered sanctuary of archival material tucked in the corner of the Mel Fisher’s Treasure Museum in Sebastian, Florida. Stacks of files sometimes teeter on my desk, their edges curled with age, while dusty boxes spill brittle papers across the floor in a haphazard sorting strategy of my own creation. Shelves sag under the weight of artifacts—ceramic shards, encrusted tools, and oddities that haven’t seen an exhibit in years. The air smells of musty carpet and old wood, laced with a faint metallic tang from silver and bronze relics. Every week, I shuffle this chaos between my office and the museum’s archives, hauling crates to storage or coaxing forgotten objects and stories into the spotlight. To outsiders, it’s a mess; to me, it’s a trove of stories waiting to catch a breath of air at the surface.
Then one day, an old bell pulled me out of the paperwork.
On a recent sticky June afternoon, with my eyes almost glazing over an old archaeological report, my mom, Taffi Fisher-Abt, stopped by to help me validate some data on a log sheet from 1989. After forty minutes of back and forth over the methodology used in 1989, we agreed the data was correct and she prepared to leave. Her eyes drifted around my office—the same one she worked in for fifteen years before my sister became the Museum’s Director. They stopped on a heavy bronze bell on a high shelf, its surface dulled by years of sitting there. She mentioned that if we weren’t going to display the bell, I should give it to my dad for Father’s Day, as he collects old bells. I asked if she knew where it was from. She shrugged and said, “Probably a shipwreck,” and slowly made her escape.
It was an effort to lower safely, its weight grounding me as I set it on my desk. After the initial thud, the bell was silent, its clapper still lost at sea. Even so, it seemed to hum with history. As I inspected the bell more closely, a small copper tag caught my eye, tied with fraying twine where the clapper should have been. The tag read “Cobb Coin 3941.” A faded handwritten note accompanied the tag: “Rosario 1715.” (Exhibit A)
My grandfather, Mel Fisher, was a legend—not only in my family but to the whole world. A pioneer in scuba diving who lived for the ocean’s mysteries. The World’s Greatest Treasure Hunter. That bronze tag stirred memories and stories about the various sunken shipwrecks he’d located and their cargoes. The bell’s weight and patina, to me, obviously pointed to the early 18th century, its missing clapper and lack of inscription matched up well to the typical state of artifacts battered by centuries underwater in a highly aerobic environment. Could this bell be from one of his endeavors? Curiosity took hold, and I dove into a different kind of treasure hunt.
I started by searching the Cobb Coin Tag Number 3941, which ended up being a copper spike in our database, recovered in 1989 (the tag must’ve fallen off the spike and been mistakenly attached to the bell at some point in the past). My next stop was the museum’s archives, a room filled with shelves holding decades of records. No luck finding log books or division records that pre-date 1979 (the year Cobb Coin Company was formed). I dove deeper, cross-referencing Grandpa Mel’s early recoveries with the known 1715 wreck sites.
To provide some perspective, more often than not, my greatest resource of shipwreck & treasure hunting knowledge is my mom. When I started working at the museum in 2020, I was overwhelmed with digitizing thousands of photos, hundreds of historical documents, log book pages, and treasure maps. I would occasionally call my mom and have her stop by to ask about an obscure article, photo, or letter, and nine times out of ten, she knew the answer within five minutes. The bell was different. She could place the bell on the 1715 Fleet but couldn’t remember when it was recovered or why it wasn’t in our or the state’s data.
She promised to look through her books, catalogs, and documents and get back to me. My mom didn't call me with any information for two days, which wasn't a big deal because I usually work on several projects at once and was able to keep busy.
When she called me back, she told me to go to the archival room. I needed to find a hard copy of the January 1965 National Geographic issue. It featured early recovery efforts for the 1715 Fleet. On page 16 was a color photo, and among other finds from 1963, a bell sat on the middle step[NM1] . The bell’s features looked similar to the one in my office. This was a clue—a very telling one. I remembered that 1963 was Grandpa Mel’s first year working the 1715 Fleet, with his big find of the “Carpet of Gold” happening in 1964. Mel had agreed to work for 365 days, funding his own salvage operation under the Real 8 Corporation’s active salvage lease[NM2] with the State of Florida.
A few hours later, she called again. She told me to open Kip Wagner’s Book, Pieces of Eight, and[NM3] turn to the appendix on page 212. It listed items recovered from Sandy Point, including[NM4] this specific entry: “A ship’s bell, brass, in good condition. It was first hoped this would have the ship’s name on it, making wreck identification positive, but it carried no name.” Shivers ran up my spine. This description closely matched my bell. I kept sifting through Pieces of Eight to locate additional references to the bell. Then I struck gold. Between pages 128 and 129 were two photo pages. On the back of the first one, a single photo showed “A Diver brings up a Bronze Bell.” The diver was clearly my grandfather, Mel Fisher. The bell in the photo was identical to the one on my desk. (Exhibit B)
With what I felt to be concrete evidence that the bell was from the 1715 Fleet, I expanded my search in the Museum’s archives. I compared data from my mom’s massive database of salvaged artifacts. It drew from the earliest known records. I also reviewed annual archaeology reports our company prepared for the State of Florida from 1980 to 2010. That was when the 1715 Fleet salvage rights were sold to Queens Jewels LLC. Our internal database had seven items with the term “bell.” But not all were actual bells. One was a thimble, another was a candle snuffer labeled “bell-shaped object.”
I needed more. I corresponded with Dr. Sam Wilford, an Archaeologist for the State of Florida’s Division of Historical Resources—the government entity that oversees the 1715 Fleet–Florida East Coast Shipwreck Project. Over half a dozen emails, I cautiously shared information with Sam—my family’s experience with State Archaeologists has always been a balancing act, and we’re naturally wary of their intentions. As I wasn’t even sure if this bell was from the 1715 Fleet, I started by treading lightly. I initially requested information about all of the bells under the State’s care, which was met with a swift reply and included some things that I just wasn’t looking for. I narrowed the search to 1715 Fleet bells in the State of Florida’s Collection. Dr. Wilford informed me of several bells recovered from the 1715 Fleet, although none with a description or data matching mine was present in his immediate records. A head-scratcher. Because all of the physical characteristics, the associated tag, and flippet (a small artifact ID slip) indicate the bell in my office was a 1715 Fleet artifact, but it seemed that the State of Florida had no record of it existing. The last thing I could think of, was to request division records for 1963- as this was the year National Geographic stated the bell was recovered. After approximately 3,300 gold coins and over 200 lbs of silver coins were recorded and set for division, the list includes:
“Bell – 30 lb. bronze heavily incrusted (to Universal Salvage Co., Inc)” (Exhibit C)
Back in my office, I touched the bell’s three-lobed crown. Its cool surface steadied my racing thoughts. I imagined the Rosario’s final moments. The bell rang wildly as huge waves and jagged reefs tore the ship apart. I pictured Grandpa Mel in his first year of salvaging. He worked an area [NM5] with minimal wreckage, the wreck at Sandy Point. There, he hauled up this relic—proof of a “ghost galleon.” It wasn’t just an artifact. It bridged me to him, to the 1715 sailors, and to the stories I’d heard as a kid. I felt a stab of guilt for letting it gather dust on my cluttered shelves.
This discovery changed my view of my work. My office, once just a storage space for artifacts, now feels like a vault of untold stories. Every file, box, and chipped relic holds potential—a link to past lives. I’ve started cataloging and digitizing with fresh energy. I wonder what else I’ve overlooked. Now, we plan to display the bell as a centerpiece in the museum. (Exhibit D)
Its caption will read:
Bronze Ship’s Bell, 1715 Spanish Treasure Fleet
Recovered in 1963 by Mel Fisher at Sandy Point.
The only known privately owned bell from the 1715 Fleet.[NM6]
As I settle back into my office, the familiar mess feels different. It’s less of a burden and more of a gift- but maybe not quite a Fathers’ day gift (Sorry Dad, I’ll get you another cool bell!). The[NM7] musty files, heavy boxes, and scattered artifacts aren’t just objects. They hold their own stories. Like this bell, they wait for their moment to ring.
Melvin Fisher-Abt
Assistant Director, Mel Fisher’s Treasure Museum in Sebastian
