Diving into the Unknown: The Search for John Rosati Boyd

The Tennessee River flows quietly through Chattanooga, its waters seemingly calm, reflecting the golden afternoon sunlight as if nothing terrible could ever disturb its surface. Yet beneath that placid exterior lies a graveyard of secrets—forgotten vehicles, lost possessions, and perhaps even human lives waiting to be discovered. For Adam Brown and Jeremy Sides, this river has become more than just a waterway. It is a place where they chase answers, where curiosity meets compassion, and where ordinary people confront extraordinary mysteries.

They had been searching for John Rosati Boyd for months now, tracing the trail of a young man who disappeared back in 2023. He was last seen driving a 2016 Nissan Rogue in Cleveland, Tennessee, and despite exhaustive searches of rivers, lakes, and secluded areas, no trace of him had emerged. Jeremy, a seasoned diver with years of experience searching for missing persons, had a quiet determination about him. This wasn’t a hobby for him—it was a calling. “Let’s just get in the water,” he often said. “Let’s go see what’s down there. Somebody deserves to know.”

Adam, equally committed, shared the sentiment. He didn’t seek recognition or reward. Diving into murky waters, exploring sunken wrecks, and piecing together decades-old mysteries—it was all done for families desperate to find closure, for lives that had been interrupted without explanation. They didn’t do it for money. They did it for answers.

That day in Chattanooga, the air was warm, hovering in the mid-80s, and the river was at a low level. Visibility wasn’t perfect, but the calm current and mild temperature made it ideal for diving. They had returned to a familiar area, one they had scanned multiple times with drones and sonar equipment, only to come up empty. Months of searching had yielded other vehicles, yes, but none that belonged to John. They had even found a Nissan Armada nearby months earlier—a discovery that garnered excitement but ultimately led nowhere.

Now, they were back at a spot Jeremy had recently discovered alone, a hidden boat ramp almost completely concealed from the main river channel. During his solo reconnaissance, he counted eight vehicles clustered in the shallow water, some rusted nearly beyond recognition, others still showing the faint glimmer of paint beneath decades of sediment. There was even a large boat partially submerged, resting like a sleeping giant among the cars.

“This could be anything,” Jeremy said as they prepared their equipment. “It could be John, it could be somebody else, or it could just be old stolen cars dumped decades ago. But we’ll find out. That’s the point.”

Adam nodded, scanning the area with a hand-held sonar. “We’re going to clear all these cars. We’ll dive, we’ll scan, and we’ll make sure there’s nothing overlooked.”

The pair set up a Chasing drone, a crucial tool in modern underwater investigations. Unlike divers, drones can cover large areas quickly, sending live video back to the operator while remaining tethered to a central point. Jeremy guided the drone over the ramp, watching as it descended toward the rope tied to the submerged vehicles. One by one, the drone passed over them: a rusted sedan, a barely recognizable frame of a pickup, a boxy old muscle car with peeling paint. Some were upside down; others were tilted precariously against the riverbed.

“It’s all old,” Jeremy observed. “These cars look like they’ve been here since the ’70s or ’80s. I don’t think John’s in any of these, but we still need to check. Could be evidence, could be something overlooked for decades. You never know.”

As the drone swept the riverbed, Jeremy and Adam suited up. The Tennessee River’s water was a perfect 78 degrees—refreshing, but cold enough to test endurance. They descended slowly, hand over hand along the rope, letting the river’s current guide them to the first cluster of vehicles.

The first car they approached was a rusted Corvette, its sleek lines barely discernible beneath layers of silt and aquatic growth. Jeremy ran his hand along the hood. “No bones, no evidence of anyone trapped,” he reported, his voice muffled through the dive communicator. Adam signaled in agreement as he approached an old Lincoln, its once-polished chrome now dulled by decades underwater. “Nothing here either,” he said, shaking his head. “But we’ll keep checking.”

The next few vehicles offered similar results. A second Corvette, a barely identifiable compact car, and an old pickup had all long been abandoned. Nothing recent, nothing that matched John’s vehicle, and nothing suggesting a missing person in the area. Yet the sense of discovery was palpable. The river floor was littered with small treasures from decades past: fragments of bottles, ceramic dishes, hand-painted glassware, and even remnants of old milk jugs.

Jeremy paused, holding up a small orange Crush soda bottle, its label faded but legible. “Look at this,” he said. “It’s like stepping back in time. None of this is valuable, not really, but it tells a story. People lived, laughed, and left pieces of themselves here long before any of us arrived.”

Adam picked up an old medicine jar, its top caked with algae, and smiled. “I like this part of the dive. Not just the missing persons search, but the history of it all. Every car, every bottle, every little trinket—it’s a small piece of someone’s life frozen in time.”

Hours passed as they combed through the vehicles and the surrounding riverbed. The water was warm enough to be comfortable, but the physical exertion of moving from car to car left them exhausted. Despite the lack of immediate breakthroughs in the search for John, the divers remained focused and diligent. They were professionals, guided not by fame or money, but by the knowledge that any oversight could mean someone missed, someone left without closure.

“Halfway through,” Jeremy said during a brief surface break, “we’ve cleared four or five cars so far. Rusted beyond recognition, sure, but still worth the look. And look at this river,” he gestured broadly. “So many strange things washed down here over the years. Who knows what we might find if we look closely?”

Adam laughed as he lifted a small glass bottle from the riverbed. “Treasure hunting as a side effect of a missing person investigation. Not a bad gig.”

They returned to the water, scanning every corner, every shadow beneath submerged vehicles. Light filtered through the water in golden shafts, illuminating the shapes of the cars and the remnants of human activity scattered across the riverbed. Jeremy paused near a small rusted frame of a sedan. “See this?” he asked. “Could’ve been anyone’s car. Could’ve been here for decades. You never know what’s out here, hidden beneath the surface.”

Hours turned into a full day of diving. The divers mapped out the boat ramp’s underwater landscape, documenting the eight cars and the large boat, each discovery adding to the historical picture of the site. The vehicles were old, abandoned long before John’s disappearance, yet the careful survey ensured that nothing would be missed, nothing overlooked.

As they surfaced, Jeremy looked back at the river. “We didn’t find John today,” he admitted. “But we cleared the area thoroughly, and that’s what matters. One day, somewhere in these waters, we will find him or some clue to his disappearance. That’s the point. We don’t stop until families have answers.”

Even as they wrapped up, the thrill of discovery remained. Old bottles, trinkets, and fragments of lives long past littered the riverbed, each telling a story of a time gone by. Adam collected several, carefully cleaning and cataloging them for later display. “It’s not just about finding people,” he explained. “It’s about respecting the past. Every piece of history deserves a moment of recognition, even if it’s underwater.”

By the end of the day, the divers were exhausted but satisfied. The river had been cleared, the vehicles surveyed, and while John Rosati Boyd remained missing, the duo knew their work was making a difference. Every dive, every discovery, and every search brought them closer to answers—for John, for families, and for the countless untold stories beneath the river’s surface.

Back on the shore, as they packed up their gear, Jeremy reflected on the day. “This isn’t about treasure. It’s about hope. It’s about giving families a chance to heal. And even if we never find John right here, we’ll keep searching. That’s the commitment we made, and that’s the one thing we’ll never break.”

Adam nodded in agreement. “The river has stories, and we’re here to listen. We may never fully understand everything, but we can ensure that nothing is ignored, nothing forgotten. And that matters more than anything.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long golden shadows across the water, the Tennessee River seemed calm once more. But beneath its surface, the stories of decades waited silently—forgotten cars, lost treasures, and perhaps, one day, a young man named John Rosati Boyd. For Adam and Jeremy, the mission was clear. The river had secrets, and they would continue to uncover them, one dive at a time.

No matter how many searches ended in disappointment, no matter how many vehicles turned out to be relics of decades past, the hope remained alive. Hope for answers, hope for closure, hope for discovery. And for those two men, that hope was all the motivation they needed.

They didn’t dive for recognition. They didn’t dive for money. They dove because someone had to, because the river held answers that no one else would seek, and because in the calm, mysterious waters of Chattanooga, every dive carried the possibility of giving life to the lost, peace to the families, and meaning to their own relentless pursuit.

The Tennessee River, with all its hidden corners, cold currents, and sunken mysteries, is more than a river. It is a witness. It remembers. And Adam and Jeremy, with their courage, determination, and respect for the unknown, are the stewards of its secrets—ensuring that, eventually, no story remains untold, and no person lost to the depths is forgotten.