Last Tuesday, with the weather escalating to near boiling point, I slammed down my pen and went to St Paul's Bay. There, I neatly removed clothing, shoes and socks to swim at a depth where my anxious toes felt the comfort of a smooth bottom within their easy reach.

Two cars stopped at the jetty not far from where I was blissfully performing my most accurate rendition of Mr Limpet. Out of these two cars alighted three characters, tattoos, gold chains, crucifixes, coin rings too heavy to lift, let alone wear, complimented by their women in full-make-up, uniformed in skimpy black tangas, rings in their belly buttons and balancing precariously on stiletto heels.

Tattooed on one gargantuan chest was a matador downing a bull complete with arena and spectators flinging their hats in the air. On my life I swear, I dared not allow myself a second peep at the decorated belly buttons in fear of grievous damage to my body and more importantly soul.

These outstanding citizens emptied the boot of one modern yet chrome-less metallic green convertible blasting rave from its 300-watt digital stereo onto a waiting boat tied to the jetty. They had all the pre-requisites for a pleasurable day out at sea. Three or four large Maltese loaves, two picnic coolers, two packs of mineral water, some four cases of foreign lager stacked with ice in a plastic bin, a portable television (?) and mobile phones in case of engine trouble. So far so good! But then came the shotguns and enough ammunition to arrest the menacing navy of an invading enemy.

After removing their sandals, washing their feet with mineral water and carefully drying them in soft towels, all six of them boarded the vessel barefooted. One macho guy, with sun-shades strategically positioned just above his small forehead, cracked open a lager, ignited a mean 250 hp brute outboard motor, and, as expected, downed the throttle catapulting the other occupants into their seat with the sudden spurt of G-force. Boat and occupants became a blimp on the horizon as I helplessly drowned in its massive wake.

To this very day, I have no clue where these respectful compatriots were heading for. But, with all that power and firepower, they would have easily made it Gibraltar downed sangria and a couple of monkeys and returned home for a minestra that very same evening.

Without sounding too jealous for not possessing such cool bird-catching equipment, I shall resort to posing the following questions: namely,

1. Do these mean machines need to be registered? This vessel bore no registration. And given that this vessel seemed unregistered, am I correct in assuming that Mad Max was probably uninsured?

2 Is it fair that these converted rocket boosters be driven at such high speed so close too shore, or for that matter, within the bay, or less then 10 miles offshore?

3 Are boat skippers, in general, restricted by drink-driving laws?

4 Are drivers of fast vessels fully trained before being licensed to handle them? Even in the calmest of seas, the ride is akin to a Formula 1 car driven at breakneck speed through rough 4X4 terrain.

5. Can somebody please give me one good reason why Mad Max needed to comfort of his shotgun on his day out at sea? (Sorry, the shooting of birds, fish or mammals at sea is just not good enough!).

Fellow nerd bathers are well advised to scramble frantically to safety whenever they hear the distant drone of such vessels. Remember that when driven fast, these boats are totally outside the control of the yahoo at the wheel. Unlike cars, a power-boat has no brakes, prone to veer, fly out of the water, and easily overturn. A school of hungry tiger sharks would do less damage to a bather caught in its path.

Malcolm Caire