Bicycling in Malta

Ham's warning was almost too late. A glistening wall of blue Mediterranean swept across the deck of our little Maltese banana trader and dashed up the companionway after my flying feet.

Eighteen inches of trapped sea water swirled about in the crew's quarters. Clothes, battered books, and boxes washed over doorsteps into the passage, and with the next yaw scooted out to the foaming deck. Two shoes and an old hat sailed saucily from bunk to bunk.

Mounting the companionway to the bridge, I joined Ham where he sat high in the starboard shrouds. It was drier up there.

As I shinnied aloft, I could see comber after comber rush furiously at our struggling little craft, each one threatening to swamp us, but merely crashing across our starboard bow and throwing another ton of seething water into our superstructure. Each time the boat seemed to gasp as she righted herself, like a girl who has received a pail of cold water full in her face.

The San Georg was a strange vessel. Not over 70 feet in length, she plied between the Canary Islands and Malta, stopping at several north African ports on each incoming voyage. She was loaded ten feet above the gunwales with bananas, a cargo which placed her center of gravity dangerously high.

To add to the confusion, each member of the crew had a number of canaries stowed below in makeshift cages, making the bowels of the San Georg sound like Central Park Zoo before feeding time. At every pitch and toss of the boat a broken bunch of bananas careened across the deck and bade us adieu, followed by a new chattering outburst from a hundred seasick canaries.

The Maltese sailors love storms. Their faces betray their love for the sea. They are hardened to its fitful ways, for their lives, like those of any islanders, are wedded to the seaways.

I gazed around our tossing mess table. These were the men who had welcomed two foreigners-and cyclists at that-into their crew. These were descendants of Europe's first sailors, who left the shores of Phoenicia to settle the Mediterranean's tiny gems, the Maltese Islands.

Across from me sat the captain, fat, jovial, kind, but unusual looking. His face bore Maltese characteristics common to every member of his crew. Dark, almost black hair covered his wide, squatty head. His complexion was decidedly olive-hued. His eyes were dark and sparkling, his forehead low, his mouth friendly and expressive. The queer glint in those eyes, and in the eyes of every Maltese we met, was soon to provide for us the key to their charm.

But this was no time for thoughts of charm. An increase in the gale's intensity jacked up new combers which roared across our deck as if they wore roller skates. Once again Ham and I hustled ourselves aloft, but not with our pre-breakfast hilarity.

Each swell threw the San Georg propeller free of the water, where, racing with futility, it made the whole ship tremble. Any moment we expected to hear the ominous rumble of burned bearings.

Suddenly my thoughts were arrested by two familiar objects washing across the deck below. Our bicycles! Our good steeds, veterans of 6,000 miles of pedaling in Europe and Africa, had snapped their fastenings and were on their way to Davy Jones! The next swell poised them on the edge. One more would ring the curfew. Seething and foaming, it rushed toward us.

Then we saw a shirtless figure moving carefully from post to post across the boat deck. Suddenly he lunged, caught our bicycles on the rise of the giant swell, and then himself was caught by a' six-foot wall of sea water.

When the wash cleared away, our bicycles were still on deck. Beside them lay the Maltese mate. Amid persistent spray, we dragged him to cover and emptied his lungs. His first words were: "Your cycles-did I catch them?"

The storm's crescendo had passed when we hove into sight of the Maltese Islands. It was…"