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.

As part of my Royal Navy basic training, I was posted to my first ship, HMS Orkney, for about a month. She was a fishery protection vessel, and one of her jobs was patrolling the waters to the north of Scotland, intercepting Spanish trawlers suspected of fishing illegally.I had never been to sea before, so I had very little idea of what to expect. It didn’t take long to find out. We headed into some horrendous weather, and I was put on the 12–4 watch. When I was shaken awake to go on duty, the ship was pitching and rolling violently. The moment I opened my eyes, I felt desperately seasick.I somehow made it to the bridge, but within seconds I knew I was going to be sick. I mentioned it to the Officer of the Day, who didn’t look very impressed and pointed to a basin in the corner of the bridge. It was dark, the ship was lurching all over the place, and as I staggered over to it, I realised there were already two other lads leaning over the same basin, both of them being violently sick.The smell hit me instantly. Before I knew it, I was being sick as well—and unfortunately, I managed to throw up all over both of them. I have no idea what they must have thought, but at that point I just wanted the deck to open up and swallow me.I asked if I could go to the toilet, or the “heads” as it’s known in the Navy, and set off to find it. The trouble was I had no idea where I was going. The ship was rolling so badly I could hardly stay on my feet, and after wandering around for what felt like ages, I simply dropped to my knees and was sick all over the deck again.A passing Petty Officer spotted me. To make matters worse, he wasn’t looking too healthy himself, but that didn’t stop him from telling me to clean up the mess. Standing there, feeling absolutely dreadful, covered in sick and unable to stop the world from spinning, I had only one thought in my head:“Just shoot me… please, just shoot me.”Looking back now, I can laugh about it, but at the time it was one of the longest and most miserable nights of my life.

My first recovery of a dead body as a Clarence Diver in the Royal Navy.At just 18 years old, I took part in my first body recovery while serving with the Scotland and Northern Ireland rescue team.Called to a small river where a fisherman had gone missing, we worked alongside the police to recover the man after he was believed to have suffered an epileptic fit and fallen into the water.What stayed with me wasn’t finding the body or the difficult task of carrying him up the steep riverbank. It was seeing the grief of the family waiting nearby. In that moment, the recovery stopped being a job and became something deeply personal.This is a true story about rescue diving, dealing with death for the first time, and the lessons that stay with you for a lifetime.Thanks for listening, and as always, take care.

Before starting my Royal Navy Clearance Diver course at HMS Vernon, we were sent to HMS Ramhead, where life was far less exciting—mostly chipping rust and painting. It was all part of learning naval discipline and where I first met my good friend, Dave Running.Our diving course, SD17, began in September 1977. Our instructors were PO “Bagsy” Baker, one of the youngest Petty Officers in the branch, and the experienced Chief Quinn. They were tough men who demanded high standards but were outstanding instructors.Most of our training took place at Horsea Island, which is still used for Royal Navy diving training today. We quickly learned to expect the unexpected. Sometimes the bus would stop miles short of the training area, and we would be ordered out to run the rest of the way carrying our gear.We started by learning scuba diving and using the old Royal Navy “dry bag” dry suit, climbing in through the neck opening before sealing it with a metal clamp. Underneath, we wore two thick undersuits to keep out the cold. Early underwater training centred on the Jackstay, repeatedly swimming underwater along a guide wire while carrying out drills and surfacing only to recharge cylinders before going straight back in.The physical side of the course was relentless. There were diving board jumps, long swims across the lake, battle runs, telegraph pole runs, mud runs, and endless circuits. It was hard work—but I loved every minute of it.Then came Live-In Week, known by everyone as “the week of hell.” For seven days the training never stopped. Sleep was a luxury, and at any time—day or night—you could be woken by thunder flashes and instructors shouting for another evolution. There were full-equipment jumps into the water, lake swims, telegraph pole runs, mud runs, and constant physical and mental pressure.The instructors also played mind games, testing not just your fitness but your attitude, teamwork, and determination. By the end of the week, some lads asked to leave, while others were simply told they were finished. You could be the fittest man on the course, but if your attitude wasn’t right, you could be binned.We also trained alongside Royal Marines, SBS operators, and ships’ divers, adding to the atmosphere around Horsea Island. One of the biggest milestones was learning to use the CDBA (Clearance Diver’s Breathing Apparatus), the Royal Navy’s pure oxygen rebreather. It was a system that demanded total confidence and discipline.As the course progressed, we moved on to mixed-gas diving, underwater navigation, mine recognition, simulated night attacks, and the specialist skills that made the Clearance Diving Branch unique.Looking back, it was one of the toughest experiences of my life, but also one of the best. The training was designed to push you to your limits, build teamwork, and prove that when the pressure was on, you could rely completely on the man beside you.