I Found 11 Unexploded Bombs Underwater in a River — And It Almost Killed Me

When most people think of a relaxing day at the river, images of sun, water, and tranquility come to mind. But for me, a professional treasure hunter and YouTuber, the river has always been a place of mystery, danger, and the unexpected. Over the past decade, I’ve explored countless waterways, dredging up guns, lost treasures, old artifacts, and other unusual objects. But nothing — nothing I’ve ever found — could have prepared me for what I discovered beneath the surface of the Dillingham Street Bridge in Columbus, Georgia.

It started as a normal morning. I had all my dive gear prepped, my collection jar ready, and my usual sense of anticipation buzzing in the back of my mind. This wasn’t just any dive. I had a feeling something extraordinary was waiting for me downstream. The river was calm, deceptively peaceful, and the air carried the scent of water and earth. But beneath that serene surface, danger was hiding — silent, heavy, and potentially lethal.

I slipped into the water, the cool river wrapping around me like a shroud. My collection jar — designed to fill underwater and drain above — was secured to my side. Everything we found would go in that jar. Normally, that would mean old coins, fishing weights, or long-forgotten bottles. But today, the river had a far more terrifying secret in store.

The first hour was uneventful. I scanned the riverbed, my hands moving carefully over rocks and debris. Old sinkers and bits of scrap metal filled my jar, but nothing stood out as unusual. Then, about thirty minutes into the dive, I felt something different. There was a heavy, almost unnatural object resting in the mud. The tip gleamed faintly in the filtered sunlight, shaped like nothing I had ever seen.

I lifted it carefully. My stomach dropped as I realized what I was holding: it looked like a mortar. A real, live explosive device. My hands trembled. I had found unexploded ordnance — something that could kill me instantly if handled incorrectly. My mind raced. How many more could be down there? How long had these been sitting underwater, hidden in plain sight?

I surfaced cautiously, holding the object out of the water and away from myself. My heart pounded so violently I thought it might burst through my chest. I called the police immediately, explaining the situation. They would need the bomb squad, maybe even a dive team, to safely investigate and remove these devices. And I had a sinking suspicion: I wasn’t alone. There were likely more just like this one — buried in the mud, waiting to be discovered.

The police arrived quickly. Officers blocked off the area, laid down caution tape, and started the painstaking process of evaluating the device. I watched nervously as the bomb squad suited up. Their presence was reassuring, but the reality remained — these were live explosives, and they were just a foot under the water’s surface. Anyone walking nearby could have been in grave danger.

I couldn’t help myself. I had to know: how many more were down there? Using my sonar and careful observation, I spotted at least ten more, all clustered beneath the bridge. The thought of ten unexploded bombs sitting in shallow river water, so close to the public, made my stomach churn. The potential consequences were horrifying. If one had detonated accidentally, the bridge could have collapsed. Cars, cyclists, pedestrians — anyone in the vicinity — could have been killed instantly.

As I documented everything on camera, I kept my distance, letting the professionals handle the situation. The bomb squad explained the gravity of the scenario: unexploded ordnance, particularly old military mortars, can become highly unstable over time. Any sudden movement, pressure, or improper handling could trigger an explosion.

Watching the team work was both fascinating and terrifying. They approached each device with precision, using specialized tools to lift them safely from the riverbed. Some were small, others larger, but all were potentially deadly. I had seen guns and knives in the river before, but these bombs were on an entirely different level. The weight of responsibility — both mine and theirs — was crushing.

As the devices were removed one by one, I couldn’t stop thinking about the history behind them. How did they end up here? Were they discarded after training exercises, or perhaps from some forgotten conflict? The thought that someone might have deliberately disposed of them recklessly added another layer of mystery. These bombs had been lying in wait for years, maybe decades, and only sheer luck had prevented a tragedy.

For those watching my YouTube videos, this moment was shocking, but for me, it was personal. I’ve been diving for years, finding lost items and oddities, but the stakes had never been higher. Every movement underwater was calculated. One misstep could have been fatal. One slip, one wrong grab, and I could have become a headline: Local Treasure Hunter Dies in River While Handling Explosive.

The police and bomb squad worked methodically. They blocked off the area to ensure no passersby were in danger, and I stayed back, documenting as much as possible without interfering. My respect for these professionals grew immensely as I watched them maneuver carefully, neutralizing one bomb at a time. The level of training, precision, and calm under pressure was extraordinary.

Hours passed. Each bomb removed from the water was a small victory, a potential disaster averted. I tried to remain calm, but the adrenaline never faded. My hands shook, my chest tightened, and my mind raced with scenarios. What if there were more bombs I hadn’t seen? What if one had slipped further downstream? The river, serene and seemingly innocuous, was a silent predator, hiding lethal secrets beneath its surface.

Reflecting on this day, the weight of what I discovered hit me fully. Eleven bombs, sitting in shallow river water, waiting for the wrong person to stumble upon them. Ten others could have detonated at any moment, threatening lives and infrastructure. And yet, there I was, having discovered them by chance, alive and relatively unscathed. The sheer luck, timing, and caution that kept me safe are hard to quantify.

For those considering treasure hunting or exploring rivers, my experience serves as a stark warning: the unknown lurks in every shadow, under every stone, beneath every murky patch of water. What may look like a simple dive could turn into a life-threatening encounter. The river doesn’t discriminate; it doesn’t forgive. And sometimes, the treasures it hides are far more dangerous than we ever imagined.

Even after the bombs were safely removed, the feeling lingered. The Dillingham Street Bridge, a place that had seemed mundane for decades, had concealed potential disaster in plain sight. I couldn’t help but think of the countless people who passed over that bridge every day, blissfully unaware of the danger beneath their feet. And I, a YouTuber and treasure hunter, had stumbled upon it by accident.

My dive gear, once a tool for curiosity and adventure, had become a lifeline. The jar I designed to collect lost items underwater had never felt more critical. Without it, my hands might have been exposed, closer to the explosive device, and a minor misstep could have cost me everything. Every detail, every precaution, had mattered. And in the end, they had saved my life.

As the day ended and the bomb squad carried the final devices away, I felt a mix of relief, awe, and lingering adrenaline. I had survived an encounter most people would never imagine. Eleven bombs, sitting silently in shallow water, neutralized safely. Lives potentially saved. A river that had whispered its secrets finally exposed.

Yet even now, reflecting on that day, a shiver runs down my spine. The river still holds secrets. The Dillingham Street Bridge may reveal more surprises in the future. And for someone like me, the thrill of discovery is inseparable from the risk. Every dive is a gamble, every find a brush with history — and sometimes, a brush with death.

This experience will stay with me forever. It’s a chilling reminder of the hidden dangers that exist in the most ordinary places. A warning that the unexpected can appear at any moment. And for those who dream of adventure, it’s a lesson in respect: respect the water, respect the unknown, and never underestimate what might be hiding just beneath the surface.

Treasure hunting is exciting. River exploration is thrilling. But nothing compares to the cold, sobering reality of coming face-to-face with true danger — eleven unexploded bombs waiting silently in the riverbed. That day, I wasn’t just a treasure hunter. I was a witness to a miracle of survival, a participant in a near-catastrophe averted by training, luck, and caution.

In the end, it wasn’t about views, subscribers, or YouTube fame. It was about life. It was about the narrow line between curiosity and calamity, between discovery and disaster. And it was about the river, silent and patient, reminding me — and everyone who ventures near it — that the past never truly disappears. Sometimes, it waits, dangerous and still, for someone bold — or foolish — enough to find it.

I came for treasure, for the thrill of discovery. Instead, I found something far more serious, far more sobering. Eleven bombs, hidden underwater, a reminder that danger lurks where we least expect it. And for a moment, the river was a teacher, and I was a student, learning lessons that no treasure map could ever show.