Treasures from the Baltic Sea: in conversation with wreck discoverer Bart Van Laken

For most divers, the ultimate adventure means warm, tropical reefs and colourful corals. But anyone who truly wants to go deep, both literally and historically, should look north. The Baltic Sea is cold, dark and notorious for its unforgiving conditions, yet on its seabed lies an almost untouched history book. During the weekend of 6 and 7 February 2027, Belgian technical wreck diver and underwater photographer Bart Van Laken will be a guest speaker at Duikvaker 2027, taking us into the mysterious depths off the Polish coast.

Bart is no ordinary wreck diver; he is a discoverer. In 2024 he was instrumental in the discovery of the wreck of a German Junkers 88 aircraft from the Second World War. 
Now that the Polish authorities have officially released the location, he is allowed to share his unique photographic evidence with the world for the first time. But the Baltic Sea has by no means given up all its secrets. On his very last dive to the aircraft, Bart suddenly came across wooden frames and the rudder of a still unknown ship, just a few metres away. A brand-new discovery, right before the decompression clock forced him to return to the surface. RENÉ Magazine dived along with him to explore his philosophy and his most spectacular finds.

The mystery of the dark water
Most divers dream of tropical settings, but Bart consciously chooses the Polish coast, time and time again. "The Baltic Sea has something that is hard to explain if you have never dived there," he says passionately. "It is cold, dark and unpredictable. Sometimes rough and merciless, yet at the same time incredibly beautiful. That very contrast is what makes it so special."
As soon as you descend, the world above you disappears. The water is dark, but often surprisingly clear. Even so, diving there remains pioneering work, because nature cannot be predicted. 
Bart illustrates this with a recent dive trip: "On the first day we dived a wreck at a depth of 65 metres. To our surprise, the water temperature stayed around 17 degrees for almost the entire dive. At that depth it felt unreal how warm it was. A day later we dived another wreck at 45 metres, barely a mile away. Above 17 metres it was still warm, but once we were at depth the dive computer suddenly showed 5 degrees Celsius. There was no logic to be found, but that is precisely the charm. You can calculate everything, but this sea always has a surprise up its sleeve."

Train hard, dive easy
To be able to make such extreme dives safely, Bart follows a rock-solid philosophy: Train hard, dive easy. Technical diving stands or falls with discipline. "Getting certified is one thing, but maintaining your skills is a completely different story. Routines and reaction speed fade if you don't keep training. For me, a certificate is therefore not an end point, but the start of an ongoing process."

For Bart, this means deliberately training for emergency scenarios: equipment failures, losing the guideline, or sudden changes to the dive plan. "You have to master precisely those situations before you actually need them in practice. Every dive is followed by a critical evaluation. But self-knowledge is at least as important: know where your limits lie, how you react under stress, and dare to abort a dive if it doesn't feel right. The more seriously you train above water, the calmer you act underwater. The goal is to keep enough mental capacity during the real dive to think clearly, enjoy the wreck and make the right decisions."

Acclimatising on the Bryza
Before the team heads for the extreme depths, they invariably start their expeditions with a test dive on the Bryza. This old frigate was specially prepared for divers and deliberately sunk in a controlled manner to a depth of 25 metres. "Not because it is the most spectacular or deepest dive," Bart explains, "but a first dive like that is hugely valuable for your peace of mind. You check your equipment, coordinate with your team and get a feel for the environment again. The cold, the dark water and the visibility quickly become familiar again. It is the perfect starting point for the adventure."

The Balkenkreuz in the depths: the Junkers 88
After the crossing from the Polish port of Hel, the boat stops above a position that at first glance looks no different from the rest of the Gulf of Gdańsk. Yet here, at a depth of about 42 metres, lies a silent witness from the Second World War. Bart takes us back to the moment of discovery:
"We begin the descent. As the daylight above us fades, the world becomes smaller. Only the light of the dive lamps still cuts through the green, dark water, where it is barely five degrees. Then a shape slowly emerges from the gloom. At first they are just shadows and lines. A piece of metal, a structure sticking out of the seabed. But the closer we get, the clearer the picture becomes: in front of us lies a crashed Junkers Ju 88."
"What makes such a moment special is hard to describe," Bart continues. "You know the aircraft from history books, but underwater there is no overview of the whole. You see the wreck fragment by fragment: a wing, parts of the fuselage and then the detail we were looking for: the Balkenkreuz. The moment that German military marking appears in your lamp light, the dive changes instantly. It is no longer a heap of old iron on the seabed; the aircraft gains an identity. More than eighty years after the plane disappeared from the sky, you are lying there among the remains of history."

A brand-new mystery at 45 metres
But that day the Baltic Sea gave up one more secret. When the team had finished photographing the Junkers 88, they swam a little way into the dark water to explore the immediate surroundings. What happened there borders on the unbelievable.
"At 45 metres we suddenly spotted something completely different," Bart says with a glint in his eye. "Out of the sediment, heavy wooden deck beams and a large wooden rudder suddenly emerged. Not parts that belong to an aircraft, but the remains of a completely unknown shipwreck! At a moment like that, adrenaline surges through your body. Your curiosity screams that you must look further, but the decompression clock ticks on mercilessly. We had already been on the bottom for thirty minutes. Every extra minute meant exponentially longer decompression during the ascent."
The breathing gas that technical divers descend with helps them keep thinking crystal clear in such split-second moments. "Underwater is not the time to start negotiating with your dive plan. However much we wanted to look further, the agreed time was up. Common sense must always win over curiosity. The clock forced us to turn around and begin the ascent. We went down with one goal: to photograph the Junkers. We came up with a brand-new mystery. But will we go back to find out more? You bet we will!"

Face to face with 1945: the Munin
In addition to his own discoveries, Bart regularly makes deep dives on well-known historic wrecks, such as the Munin. This former auxiliary minesweeper was lost in March 1945 off the Polish Hel Peninsula, during the chaotic evacuations of Operation Hannibal.
"When you descend along the guideline, at first you see nothing at all," Bart says, describing the mystical atmosphere. "And then, out of the blue, the immense outline of the wreck appears at a depth of 42 metres. The Munin stands bolt upright on the bottom. The most impressive sight is the 105mm gun on the bow, which after more than eighty years still looks out menacingly over the seabed. A little further on, the wooden steering wheel appears in your lamp light. At that moment a wreck is no longer an anonymous heap of scrap, but a tangible time capsule. You can feel how people lived and fought here back then."

The Parowiec: the puzzle at 62 metres
One step deeper lies the Parowiec, Polish for 'steamship'. This is a wreck without a conclusive story, true name or known cause of sinking. "The lack of historical certainty is exactly what makes the dive more interesting. On every dive you try to put the puzzle together again."
The ship stands largely upright on the bottom of the Gulf of Gdańsk. With a bottom time of only twenty minutes at well over sixty metres, haste is essential. "As a photographer this is extremely challenging. You have to make choices immediately: first the general shapes, then the structure and only after that the details." And those details are breathtaking. The wheelhouse is still intact, complete with navigation instruments and two wooden steering wheels: one on the flying bridge and one inside.
"Floating in front of a wheel like that, you let your imagination run free. You see the ship sailing again and imagine yourself at the helm. For a moment you are not a wreck diver, but simply Piet Piraat at the wheel, ready for the next adventure. Or was it the nitrogen narcosis starting to play a part? {laughs} Either way: it gives such a ship its identity back. At well over sixty metres lies not a fully told story, but a time capsule with pages that are still missing."

The Antwerp icon on the seabed: the Charlesville
For Bart, the Baltic Sea also has a very personal and emotional side. That deep fascination began with a legendary ship from the Low Countries: the Charlesville. For years this passenger ship sailed as one of the last great Congo boats between Antwerp and Congo; in the 1950s the absolute symbol of travel, adventure and luxury. After a later career in Germany as a training and hotel ship under the name Georg Büchner, disaster struck during the tow to the shipbreaking yard. The ship listed heavily and disappeared for good beneath the surface.
"She now lies at a depth of about 42 metres, largely intact," Bart says, visibly moved. "As someone from Antwerp, the feeling of diving this wreck is indescribable. This is a ship that belongs in our city, that passed along the Scheldt countless times. When you swim along the gigantic hull, you can picture the passengers standing on deck again, leaving the port of Antwerp behind them. Now it is dead silent there. No roaring engines, no voices. Only the dark water of the Baltic Sea surrounds her. But even there she remains beautiful, recognisable and unique. To me, whatever name she was later given, she will always remain the Charlesville: a tangible piece of maritime heritage."

Protecting maritime heritage from plunder
Precisely because ships like the Charlesville, the Munin and the Parowiec are such unique time capsules, Bart is deeply concerned about wreck looters. At many historic sites, portholes, compasses and ship's bells have disappeared over the years. "As soon as an object like that is taken away, the wreck loses its historical context. A porthole is not just a piece of brass; it tells the story of the crew. For me, the real value of a dive lies not in what you can take with you, but in what you can see, photograph and preserve for the next generation."
The Baltic Sea still has countless stories like these in store. Wrecks such as the icebreaker Königsberg, the tankers Franken and Terra, the Dutch ocean tug Abeille, the dredger Boelcke and various submarines are still waiting to be explored further. "Every wreck has a different function and a different secret," Bart concludes enthusiastically. "The more you see, the clearer it becomes how much there is still to discover. During my talk at Duikvaker, I hope to convey that unique sense of history and adventure to visitors."