My year as a commercial bell diver on the E.W. Thornton was one of the most memorable of my diving career. The Thornton was a historic, large twin-hull catamaran offshore drilling rig built for Reading & Bates Exploration Co., operating in the Gulf of Thailand.It was my very first offshore commercial diving job, and stepping onto that rig marked the beginning of a completely new chapter in my life. The work was demanding, the conditions could be unforgiving, and every day brought new challenges and lessons.Our rotation began every two weeks with a fixed-wing flight from the old Changi Military Airport in Singapore to Songkhla, Thailand. From there, we would travel offshore to the rig, where we lived and worked for the duration of our hitch.That year aboard the E.W. Thornton gave me enough stories to last a lifetime.Over the coming weeks, I’ll be sharing the true experiences of my first year as an offshore commercial bell diver in the Gulf of Thailand. Some are funny, some are unbelievable, and a few are genuinely harrowing—but every one of them happened.The series will include:* The day my supervisor was caught with drugs at Singapore Airport.* Swimming alongside a whale shark.* Witnessing the Vietnamese boat people and the heartbreaking scenes that have stayed with me ever since.* Removing a boat that became trapped beneath our twin hulls.* Swimming with giant remoras that seemed determined to follow divers everywhere.* Bell diving with TriMix and diver recoveries.* Deep air dives where nitrogen narcosis left me feeling dangerously drunk.* Life aboard one of the world’s most unusual drilling rigs.* Stabbed in the leg with a Buck knife and a deep cut on my hand * And many more stories from a year spent living and working offshore.Commercial diving in the early 1980s was a different world. Safety standards were improving, but the work remained demanding, the environment unforgiving, and every dive carried real risks. These are my memories of that remarkable year—told exactly as I remember them.

After leaving the Royal Navy and while waiting to head offshore, I worked as a salvage diver recovering armour plate from the wreck of HMS Argyll at the Bell Rock, off Arbroath.HMS Argyll was a Royal Navy cruiser that ran aground on the Bell Rock reef in October 1915. Although it wasn’t my first wreck—I had worked on several during my time in the Royal Navy—it was certainly one of the most memorable.The wreck lay close to the famous Bell Rock Lighthouse, and I even had the privilege of going inside for a cup of tea. The lighthouse keepers were always pleased to see us, especially when we brought them newspapers from the mainland.Each day we sailed from Tayport aboard a trawler, towing a large barge fitted with a crane. The barge had been converted to lift the heavy armour plate from the seabed and store it in its hull before returning to port.Our job was to place explosive charges to separate the thick armour plate from its steel backing. The first few dives after each blast were always the same—the seabed would be littered with dead fish. Before long, though, the fish seemed to learn and kept well away whenever we were working.Although HMS Argyll lies in relatively shallow water, the strong tides and unpredictable North Sea weather made it demanding work. Every dive required careful timing and respect for the conditions.One day we were lifting a massive 12-ton armour plate from the wreck. As the crane swung it towards the barge, a large swell rolled through and the plate suddenly moved beyond the edge of the hold. The weight hanging over the side was enough to start pulling the entire barge over. For a few terrifying moments, it looked as though we were going to capsize.Fortunately, our crane driver reacted instinctively. He released the crane cable to save the barge, but as the cable paid out it came to a violent stop on the winch drum. The enormous force caused the cast-iron drum to explode, sending shards of metal flying in every direction around the crane driver. It was nothing short of a miracle that he wasn’t struck. Had he hesitated for even a second, we could have lost the barge—and possibly lives.One of the highlights came when I managed to gain access to one of the ship’s storerooms. It was like stepping back in time. Inside were white metal bearings, silverware, pocket watches and tiny brass padlocks of every size, all lying exactly where they had been left more than sixty years earlier. It felt as though the crew had only just walked away.The days were long, the work was physically hard, and the North Sea rarely gave us an easy shift. But I thoroughly enjoyed it. It was a unique chapter between my military career and my years working offshore as a commercial diver.Looking back, I feel incredibly fortunate to have been part of the salvage of HMS Argyll. It wasn’t just another diving job—it was an opportunity to work on a remarkable piece of British naval history, and get an opportunity to visit one of the oldest lighthouses it’s an experience I’ll never forget.

I thought I’d tell you the story of my final days in the Royal Navy, serving aboard HMS Reclaim.For those who don’t know, HMS Reclaim was the Royal Navy’s deep diving and salvage ship. She was also the oldest serving ship in the Navy at the time, and she had a long and distinguished history. For a Clearance Diver, serving on Reclaim was something special.Like every ship, though, she had her characters.Our skipper decided one day that he wanted to inspect the ship’s hull himself. Now, considering he had a team of highly trained Royal Navy Clearance Divers on board, you’d think he’d simply ask one of us to do it.But no…He decided he was going to dive himself.Well… it didn’t exactly go according to plan.Before long he’d managed to lose his weight belt, his diving knife, and by the time he climbed back aboard, he’d lost most of his dignity as well.I remember thinking, “That’s why you leave the diving to the divers.”To be honest, I never rated him very highly. In my opinion he was a bit of a buffoon, and that episode certainly didn’t improve my opinion.Then came the day I was leaving the ship.I was called to the skippers office he as I was leaving he called someone from personnel and said something along the lines of, Harte is leaving “Open another box of baby divers and send one across.”I suppose he thought it was funny, but I found it pretty unprofessional. After years of training and operational service, reducing someone to a throwaway joke as they leave wasn’t exactly the send-off I’d expected.Not long afterwards I discovered something that completely changed the direction of my life.I’d always believed I’d signed on for six years in the Royal Navy.It turned out I’d actually only signed for three.That meant I had a choice. I could sign on again… or I could leave.After giving it some thought, I decided it was time for a new challenge.Leaving the Navy was a much bigger adjustment than I’d expected.One day you’re part of a close-knit team with a clear purpose. The next, you’re a civilian trying to work out what comes next.To be honest, I felt a bit lost.The offshore diving industry was quiet at the time, so there wasn’t much work available. To pay the bills I ended up doing civil engineering work. It was a world away from the Navy, and let’s just say there were a few interesting moments—including one day when we almost managed to blow up a jetty!Thankfully, things eventually began to change.An opportunity came along to work on the salvage of the wreck of HMS Argyll at the Bell Rock Lighthouse. That job marked the real beginning of my commercial diving career and led to some incredible adventures.But that’s a story for the next episode.If you’ve enjoyed hearing about life as a Royal Navy Clearance Diver and the transition into commercial diving, don’t forget to like, subscribe and leave a comment. I’d love to hear your thoughts, and I’ll see you next time for the story of salvaging HMS Argyll at Bell Rock.

In this episode, I look back on my time serving with the Scotland and Northern Ireland Clearance Diving Team based at Rosyth, Scotland. It was a busy and varied posting, where no two days were ever the same. From dealing with wartime mines and suspected terrorist devices to the less glamorous jobs that every military diver knows all too well, there’s plenty of action and a few laughs along the way.Some of the stories featured include:* An overview of life on the Scotland and Northern Ireland Clearance Diving Team.* The day I accidentally left the bomb wagon unlocked.* Disposing of the Port Seton ground mine.* A sea mine that began crystallising while sitting on the jetty.* Two suspected IED call-outs—one of which turned out to be nothing more than a Christmas cake!* Our regular “milk runs” collecting out-of-date pyrotechnics from Coastguard stations around Scotland and destroying them.* Harbour jobs, including jumping between ships’ fenders and searching through thick mud to recover lost keys.* The major demolition operation to break up the wreck of HMS Natal to deepen the area for shipping.* Why our Chief decided we were getting soft and made us run seven miles every morning before starting the day’s diving jobs.If you’ve ever wondered what life was really like as a Royal Navy Clearance Diver during peacetime, this episode gives an honest look at the unusual, dangerous and sometimes hilarious jobs that came with the role.Don’t forget to like, subscribe and share if you enjoy hearing real stories from a Royal Navy Clearance Diver.

During my Royal Navy Clearance Diver course, one of the more demanding exercises was learning how to climb from the water onto a ship during simulated night attacks. It was a vital skill, as we also trained in underwater hull searches for mines and other covert operations. A thick rope would be lowered from the focsle of the ship, hanging around 30 to 40 feet down the side. Starting in the water, you had to climb it using the old locked-leg technique wrap the rope with your legs, stand up on the lock, reach as high as you could, grab, then sit back into the lock and repeat. It sounds simple, but it was exhausting. Most of the time you could only manage it once before your arms and legs were completely finished.The hardest part came near the top. The rope would be tight against the ship’s hull, making it impossible to continue climbing normally. At that point, you had to make a leap of faith—push yourself away from the rope, reach up, and try to grab the ship’s stanchion or guard rail. If you managed to get one hand on, you had to quickly get the other hand up and haul yourself onto the deck.Not everyone made it. But there was one piece of advice the instructors drilled into us: if you miss, just let go and fall into the water. Never try to grab the rope on the way down. It wouldn’t stop your fall; it would only strip the skin from your hands as you slid back down. As tough as it was, I actually loved it. There was a real sense of achievement when you made it onto the deck after such a demanding climb.We also carried out night attacks and underwater hull searches for training mines on the same ships. At the time, there were Saudi divers training alongside us, but they refused to go into the water at night. For us, though, operating in darkness was all part of becoming a Royal Navy Clearance Diver.

One story from my time on a Royal Navy Clearance Diving Team has always stayed with me.We were called out to the Isle of Arran after reports that a buoyant naval mine had washed ashore.Under police escort, we raced to the island. When we arrived, the local police had cordoned off the area, but it was a glorious summer’s day. Families were still enjoying the beach only a couple of hundred metres away.Had the mine been live, they would have stood no chance. Depending on the type, buoyant mines could carry between 400 and 500 pounds of high explosive.To make matters worse, every incoming wave slammed the mine against the rocks. If it had contained explosives, each impact was another reason to be concerned.As we got closer, we breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t a live mine after all—it was a practice mine, filled with sand and used for training mine-laying crews.The danger wasn’t over, though. We couldn’t simply leave it there. The next tide could refloat it and carry it to another beach, causing panic all over again.Another diver and I geared up and prepared two 4-pound demolition charges. We towed the mine offshore, attached the charges, connected the Cordtex and detonator, lit the safety fuse and powered away in our boat.Then everything changed.The engine died.Instantly, we found ourselves drifting back towards the demolition charges with the safety fuse burning down.The engine cover came off in seconds as we desperately searched for the fault. Every passing second felt like a minute. Nobody said much—we all knew exactly what was at stake.Finally, one of the lads spotted the problem: a broken throttle cable. With nothing to lose, he grabbed it with both hands and yanked it hard enough to get the engine revving again.The boat surged forward, pulling us away from the charges.Then came the explosion.An enormous bang echoed across the water as pieces of the shattered mine rained down around us. Thankfully, none of the debris hit the boat.Back on the beach, a police officer walked over, shook his head and said,“You lads are brave… you were bloody close when that went off.”Trying to sound calm, I smiled and replied,“It was all under control… it always looks closer from the shore.”Then I walked straight past him in search of the nearest toilet… and after that, the nearest pub.Looking back, I learned a lot from that job. Explosive Ordnance Disposal isn’t just about technical knowledge or following procedures. You have to expect the unexpected, stay calm under pressure, trust your teammates, and remember that even the simplest job can change in an instant.Sometimes the biggest danger isn’t the explosive itself—it’s everything else that can go wrong before it explodes.

In this episode, I share my experiences serving on my first minehunter, HMS Gavington, a wooden Ton-class vessel with a crew of around 40 men. It was a steep learning curve for a young Royal Navy diver, and this podcast covers some of the memorable, dangerous, and sometimes hilarious moments from my time onboard.Stories include:* My first impressions of life aboard HMS Gavington* Recovering practice torpedoes on my first diving operations* My first trip to Belfast and the Gordon Highlanders* Getting a painful lesson from my Dive Officer* Hull and sonar dome inspections where I came face to face with a dead dog underwater* My first experience on the Bofors gun, which quickly turned into chaos* Hunting live mines in Blackwater and the dangers involved in disposing of them* Nearly drowning while unshackling active rudders in heavy seas* Leaving the ship AWO and the trouble that followed when I was eventually chargedThis is a collection of true stories from the early days of my Royal Navy career, showing the realities of life at sea, diving operations, military discipline, and the camaraderie that made it all worthwhile.

Royal Navy Clearance Divers – Protecting an Ammunition Wreck off Rathlin Island During the TroublesIn this podcast, I recount one of the most hazardous operations I undertook as a Royal Navy Clearance Diver during the conflict in Northern Ireland.Our team was deployed to Rathlin Island, off the coast of Northern Ireland, where a sunken ship containing ammunition had become a serious security concern. There were concerns that the IRA might attempt to recover the munitions from the wreck.After carrying out a full underwater survey, our task was to deny access to the wreck by lowering massive lengths of heavy chain into the holds and draping them across the ship. The objective was to make any attempt to enter or salvage the wreck extremely difficult.The work took many days in poor visibility, strong tidal currents and difficult diving conditions. Living on Rathlin Island throughout the operation added another dimension to the deployment, as this was during a period of heightened tension and security concerns.During the operation we experienced a very serious diving incident that nearly cost one of our divers his life. A batch of recycled soda lime, used in rebreathers to remove carbon dioxide, had been supplied in an effort to reduce costs. During a dive, the scrubber failed, allowing carbon dioxide levels to rise, and the diver lost consciousness underwater. Fortunately, he reached the surface, where we immediately cut open his diving suit to begin emergency treatment and administer as much oxygen as possible. Thankfully, he made a full recovery, although he had no memory of the incident.Some time later we returned to Rathlin Island for a very different operation. An old Royal Navy wreck, HMS Drake, lying in Church Bay, had been leaking engine oil for many years. Working alongside the oil pollution response team, our task was to use explosives to rupture the remaining oil tanks while specialist pollution-control vessels recovered the escaping oil before it could reach the shoreline.Unfortunately, things did not go according to plan. Once the tanks were blown, far more oil escaped than the recovery vessels could contain. The oil spread across Church Bay and eventually reached the beach, resulting in a major clean-up operation that took around a year to complete.