The Montenegro–Malta Passage and the Torn-Out Bowsprit

Montenegro–Malta 3 a.m. Malta is only some 20–30 miles away. The wind is freshening, and 23 knots are blowing almost straight on the nose, kicking up a shelf sea (perhaps that is not actually what it is called, but at depths of around 100 metres in the strait between Malta and Sicily, the waves behave differently. It creates a constant, nasty “chop”). To avoid arriving in Malta at night, we reduce sail and start the engine, so now we are making about 3 knots instead of the previous seven. Over the preceding 4.5 days of the passage, the children and I had time to get seasick , recover, get bored, read, and watch loads of films. While we were leaving the Adriatic for the Mediterranean, the barometer needle kept creeping down, and the waves slammed into the bow with terrifying force. On the plus side, the yacht got washed; on the minus side, one navigation light was torn off and a plank ripped out of the bowsprit. And one crew member, Solvita, was nearly killed. She is the partner of Ilgonis, a yachtsman and athlete with whom Andrei used to sail in regattas. She is travelling with us as far as Malta, where her beloved awaits her. The rolling knocked a locker door open, and it struck Solvita on the temple, together with the heavy brass lantern stored behind it. Later, a poorly secured easel fell on the same head... As a result, the poor girl spent the entire journey living on headache tablets. A Feathered Passenger Midway through the passage, the wind died and some of the crew sprawled on deck with books, while the others watched “Kitchen” in the wheelhouse. From time to time, small birds flew aboard to rest. One looked like a goldfinch with a red face; there were also a couple of slightly greenish sparrows, some wagtails, and an angry, smoky-grey something-or-other. The tired greenish sparrow spent the whole evening trying to get inside, refusing to sleep on deck. Even the nest the children made for him out of an old cap was not good enough. He sleepily narrowed his little eyes and flew into the cabin several times... then, having apparently lost his mind altogether, perched on the edge of the lit gas stove and singed his tail. That was how we came to recognise him and named him Singed Tail. Whether from exhaustion or stupidity, Singed Tail finally did crawl into the depths of the forward cabin for the night. After dark, the entire crew trod carefully—or rather, slid—across the floor so as not to crush him, but alas, it did not help. Upon arriving in Malta, I fished the cold little corpse of Singed Tail out from under Solvita’s suitcase ((. He could have lived. We berthed in Msida Marina early in the morning in 35 knots of wind. Its force was very noticeable as we entered the harbour; thank God, the wind shadow from Valletta saved my nauseous stomach and allowed us to get alongside safely. The Montenegro–Malta passage was complete.