Who was this intruder on my boat?

I was wandering along the sea front in Sliema when I spotted my boat in the marina with all it hatches open! Obviously some rogue was on board! I was furious who was on my yacht Lotus eater? It suddenly became apparent to me that all the years of walking through this marina admiring this particular yacht,  had gradually created a false sense of ownership in me. I laughed but have to admit a lingering resentment. 

Isn’t it strange how the brain can play tricks on you. There was me thinking I was merely admiring the beauty and her lines but slowly a very odd sense of ownership had obviously developed. I do admire boats especially beautiful ones like this. But I am no fool, I had a landlord in The Isle of Wight who owned three 10-20m long wooden yachts and I knew that their upkeep relied on him being a full time shipwright working non-stop to maintain them. If you don’t have those skills you would soon become bankrupt trying to maintain even one of these beauties.

I tried to find out who the owner was, but with little success. Apparently it used to belong to John Paul a rather shady millionaire businessman who originally had property in Soho and links with criminals. In the 1970s, he was one of the first developers on Camino. His ex-wife had been shot in Essex and although two thugs were found guilty of her murder they refused to say who had paid them for the killing. The British government wanted him extradited but the Maltese authorities refused. 

The strange thing is whenever I tried to find out who owns it now I came up with a blank. Probably some corporation or other. There are some strange names to boats along the marina. For example one is called Lucky Guy. Given that the owner is involved in betting companies it probably vaguely appropriate but really annoying. Even more irritating is a huge motor cruiser called Loose Change. Now that is just too smug!

Further along the coast towards Valetta there is another ship. It was originally called Black Opal and later renamed The Black Pearl in Malta. The ship was built in Pukavik, Sweden, in 1909 as a wooden trading schooner designed for Baltic cargo work and harsh northern waters. It had a double-layered oak hull to survive Baltic ice conditions and was about 150 feet long with three tall masts. Originally it carried cargoes like: timber, coal, and grain around Scandinavia. 

What happened afterward is almost implausible: The Black Pearl sailed toward Australia as a luxury vessel, but suffered hull problems, and caught fire near the Suez Canal. Following that it sank in Malta and was salvaged from 70ft deep water and went on to appear in the Popeye movie starring Robin Williams.  Weirdly, it sank again then was permanently restored ashore at Ta’ Xbiex as a restaurant. For years the schooner has sat perched beside the marina at Ta’ Xbiex and has become a landmark restaurant/pub/event venue with views over Valletta harbour.

There is rumoured to be a connection between the Black Pearl and the famous actor Erol Flynn however these are not substantiated by solid facts. After all he owned his own schooner the Zaca shown below, another beautiful ship.  

"Strong ships are not conquered by the sea; they ride the waves! Now be a strong ship, not a battered one." 

'Abdu'l-Bahá

My Precious!

Shall I confess my weaknesses? How often they lie hidden, even from ourselves — especially from ourselves. Then, at certain moments, they reveal themselves with startling clarity. Moving house is one such moment, particularly when the move is abroad. Suddenly, painful decisions must be made. Do you pack this? Give it to a charity shop? Pass it on to a friend? Or simply throw it away? The pressure of time only sharpens the difficulty of every choice.

At such moments, we are forced to confront our own peculiar attachments — our little fetishes. Mine are notebooks, pens, and anything remotely connected to calligraphy. Even when my drawers and suitcases are already overflowing, I still linger longingly in stationery shops, tempted to buy more. Pens and pencils seem to call out to me irresistibly. Never mind that I already own a vast collection of fountain pens, complete with cartridges in every imaginable colour, alongside pencils ranging from soft 2B to velvety 6B. I buy ballpoint pens too, usually with an ultra-fine 0.35 mm tip. Once, I even bought a heavy rotary pencil simply because I loved its look and weight, only to spend weeks scouring the internet for the rare oversized 2B lead it required.

Another, perhaps more alarming, obsession is toiletries — anything connected with showering, shampooing, lotions, or potions. Every house I have ever left has contained at least three large crates filled with such things. I seem to accumulate them with effortless speed. Still, on the bright side, I have little interest in clothes, shoes, or handbags, so perhaps some restraint remains.

By now, you are probably thinking of your own particular guilty obsession. You know exactly where to buy it, which make you prefer, and how oddly reassuring it feels simply to have it close at hand. Like the wheels on a suitcase, these obsessions keep us moving forward. They comfort us in ways only we fully understand. When preparing for a major move, we mentally clear space so that the things that truly ring our bells can be given pride of place.

Letting go of possessions is painful, though often necessary. Yet certain objects cling stubbornly to our fingers, transforming us momentarily into Gollum — that wretched creature from The Lord of the Rings — clutching our treasures and hissing defensively, “My precious, my precious!”

Birdsong, seedlings, hammered into something by life

 

When did I begin to notice birdsong?

Or pause in quiet wonder as a tender seedling lifts itself from the dark earth into the light?

Now the beauty of nature can suddenly bring tears to my eyes.

Perhaps it is because, with age, one has witnessed so much sorrow and heartache that the spirit itself becomes softened and worn thin by life. 

Beaten and hammered on both sides until it grows almost translucent.

So delicate that even the song of a bird can pass straight through it and touch the very core of the soul.