Malta: Valletta to St Paul's Bay (Sunday 10/06/2018).

The night time breeze picked up and the yacht's stern-lines rubbed loudly in the darkness.

In the absence of rope...

By 2am it was too much, and in the cramped aft cabin, I silently ransacked the suitcase in a fruitless search for some ear plugs that I knew I hadn’t packed.

By 3am I had jerry-rigged a temporary solution using all my underwear and yesterday’s string of Maltese dog sausages. Mercifully, the rubbing stopped, but with pants that smelled so tantalising, I spent a week batting away every wet nose in Malta that made a bee-line for my groin.

Not satisfied with a two hundred euro shop only ten hours before, when morning finally came, I was dispatched to find fresh bread. I ambled along the quayside as the church bells of Birgu pealed and before long the smell of baking led me to its source.  As I walked through the door, the Victorian oven was opened and row after row of crackling loaves were piled unceremoniously onto the waiting marble. 

Round loaves: 360 degrees.

After breakfast in the cockpit, with the halyard clanking contentedly against the mast, we motored out of Kalkara Creek, across the Grand Harbour and past the breakwater. Cannon fire roared from the medieval battlements above us and white smoke plumed into the sky as the Valettan ritual of Saluting the Battery let off its morning rounds.

My Canon takes great shots.

Heading north for St Paul’s Bay, we tacked up the eastern side of the island. The children cried pitifully as the yacht rolled in the swell and the unspoken fear amongst the adults was that this was the template for the coming days. Thankfully, Sophie fell asleep in Clare’s arms and Alex perked up when he took the helm. By the time she woke, the storm had passed and we were rounding the headland into the bay.

On 10th February 57AD, St Paul and St Luke were shipwrecked after being blown onto the point of this headland while travelling to Rome. Perhaps, for a lack of anything better to do, 1,961 years later Malta still celebrates the festival of St Paul the Shipwrecked; but the festival of St Luke the Helmsman seems to have dropped quietly off the ecclesiastical calendar. I think St Luke is unfairly blamed as St Paul had form, this being the fourth time he had experienced the same sinking feeling (2 Corinthians 11:25 if you are interested). Paul lingered in Malta for rather longer than was strictly necessary, and perhaps this time, he did see which way the wind was blowing, as when he finally arrived in Rome, Nero rather unkindly cut off his head.

Parked on the same rocks, like a modern day St Paul, was a large freighter. From a distance this looked like an ambitious art installation, but in fact, The Hephaestus had been washed ashore in a February storm. Such was the extent of the grounding that the crew were able to climb down onto dry land and the Togo registered charter party soon washed their hands of the whole affair.

In one of those beautiful historical echoes, The Hephaestus was wrecked on the same rocks as St Paul on 10th February.

All Washed Up!

With the prospect of my own decapitation by Malta Charters, if we followed St Paul’s line into the bay, I paid careful attention to the pilot book. It recommended (without any irony), heading on a bearing toward a conspicuous statue of St Paul the Shipwrecked on St Paul’s Island on the far side of St Paul’s Bay; but putting our faith in the navigational abilities of a man (saint or otherwise) with four notches on his life jacket, didn’t seem wise.

The statue of St Paul.

Even with binoculars there was no sign of him and the only alternative was to keep a close eye on the depth. Eventually, we dropped anchor in a quiet corner of the bay in the lee of the cliffs and adjourned for feta salad, a box of red wine and some much-needed knot practice. Five years ago, we could all produce a bowline knot, blind folded but now all we could manage was the Granny of all knots. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my memory was a dusty bowline aide-memoire involving a tree by a river near a hole in the ground....

….on reflection that may be The Riddle by Nik Kershaw.

On cue, as the plates were cleared, an ice cream boat puttered into view and, moving from yacht to yacht, dispensed the perfect antidote to the late afternoon heat.

Mind That Child!

When he was gone, riding significantly higher in the water than when he arrived, we eased off the bathing step and into the sea for a post lunch swimming lesson and Alex and Sophie panicked their way between us. The discipline of 'scoop and kick' was forgotten, replaced by frantic but largely ineffective splashing. This being the first time they had swum out of their depth, I thought they were remarkably composed but despite my reassurances I couldn't convince them that arm-bands, wet suit, life-jacket and attentive father in flippers was enough to keep them afloat.

When they tired, we took to the dinghy and, firing up the outboard, weaved amongst the forest of swaying masts that had come to join us in the bay. We explored the cliffs and caves and, in the golden hour, a hush settled over this corner of paradise, before, one by one, the interlopers weighed anchor and departed. Once again, we were all alone.

Without mentioning any names, one of us had brazenly flouted Maltese customs regulations by concealing an array of fresh herbs and spices in their luggage. OK - you forced it out of me - it was Tom. As we tied the dinghy to the bathing deck, the sizzle of hot oil and the aroma of frying spices percolated through the open hatches. This was a welcome substitute for the increasingly malodourous clouds emanating from the heads. As any seasoned sailor will know, a ship’s toilet is best avoided after day three.

The boss at Malta Charters gave us an uncompromising run down of the penalties for misusing the toilets and we took this to heart. This had nothing to do with his punitive charging structure and all to do with the risk of asphyxiation below decks. In one sentence he boasted of Malta’s pristine coastal waters and then recommended pumping out the yacht’s on-board holding tank once beyond the marina breakwater on the basis that it would be full to overflowing by day two.

This is a perennial concern for sailors and as a result we have a strict morning routine which has developed over the years. Harbourside café owners are silently complicit. The purchase of a coffee comes with an unspoken and largely unspeakable quid pro quo which many a plunger wielding, rubber-gloved waiter has lived to bitterly regret.

As we finished our Syrian egg and bean stew our exclusive occupation was rudely interrupted by a party Gulet. The three masted, floating dance-floor anchored close by and before long EDM began to thump from the on-deck speakers. All seven of the revellers and crew stood smoking dolefully on the fore-deck and it wasn’t long before the party fizzled out, the music died and the Gulet slunk away. 

Silence returned and after a few drinks on the bathing deck, we turned in.

The gentle swell rocked us to sleep without the need for a single dog sausage.