319 Baby Turtles Hatch in Malta’s ‘Best Ever’ Season as Islanders Rally to Save the Seas

Għadira’s Golden Summer: 319 Loggerhead Turtles Flipper-Power into the Mediterranean

By Luke Caruana

Sunday dawn at Għadira Bay broke to the sound of 47 tiny shells cracking in unison. By the time the last hatchling had skittered across the wet sand, Malta’s 2024 turtle season had clocked up 319 loggerhead babies—its most “successful” in a decade, according to Nature Trust-FEE Malta. For a country whose national identity is stitched to the sea, the bumper hatch is more than a conservation win; it’s a cultural shot in the arm after years of bleak headlines about coastal erosion, over-development and jellyfish swarms.

Locals have taken it personally. “We call them żagħfrin, little olives,” says 72-year-old Salvu Vella, who has rented out sun-loungers at Għadira since 1978. “My grandchildren thought they’d only see them on Facebook. Last week they watched 30 scramble out of a nest I helped guard. My granddaughter cried—so did I.”

The season began on 23 June when the first clutch was discovered metres from the beach’s wheelchair ramp. Over the next 93 days, volunteers—nicknamed “turtle bouncers”—roped off six nests, clocked 2,400 patrol hours and shooed away 17 illegal barbeques. One nest in Mellieħa produced 92 hatchlings, a national record. Another, laid awkwardly beneath a speed-boat winch in St George’s Bay, was relocated by ERA rangers under torch-light, drawing a round of applause from late-night revellers spilling out of Paceville.

Malta has always had a complicated relationship with its marine neighbours. Knights of Malta once feasted on turtle soup; 19th-century fishermen used carapaces as cradle-boards. But 1992’s EU Habitats Directive flipped the script, criminalising disturbance of the endangered Caretta caretta. The shift from pot to protection mirrors the island’s wider green awakening: single-use plastic bans, electric ferries in Grand Harbour, and now, nightly WhatsApp alerts that turn ordinary citizens into citizen scientists.

“Every Maltese person knows someone who once ate turtle,” admits volunteer coordinator Rebecca Mifsud, 28. “Instead of shame, we channel pride. Nonna who stewed flipper in 1973 is now the first to phone us when she spots tracks.” The hotline (2134 7645) received 138 calls this summer—up 40 % on 2023. One tip-off came from a 10-year-old in Żurrieq who recognised “a dinosaur in the sand” after a school visit to the Malta National Aquarium.

The economic ripple is tangible. Għadira’s car park now fills at 05:30 with photographers clutching long lenses and takeaway coffees from the newly opened “Turtle Tracks” kiosk. AirBnB listings boast “front-row hatchling view”, commanding 15 % premiums. “We sold out of turtle-shaped ħobż biż-żejt by 9 a.m.,” laughs vendor Dorian Pace, who slaps a tiny olive-green crust on each sandwich. “Conservation is good for business.”

Yet challenges linger. Light pollution from the pending DB Group hotel development at St George’s could disorient future nests; NGOs are lobbying for amber LED filters. And while 319 hatchlings sounds heroic, scientists estimate only one in a thousand will reach sexual maturity. “We’ve bought them a ticket, not a guarantee,” warns marine biologist Dr Alan Deidun. “Plastic, ghost nets, boat strikes—Malta’s waters are still a roulette.”

Still, for a nation that festoons village squares with plaster saints, the turtles have become unexpected mascots of resilience. Parish priests blessed one nest; festa fireworks were postponed to avoid panic-scattering hatchlings. Even TikTok influencers swapped bikini poses for red-flashlight patrols.

As the final tracks were erased by Monday’s tide, volunteers gathered for Ftira tal-Hut overlooking the bay. Someone produced a celebratory bottle of Kinnie; another played ‘L-Ewwel Tfajla’ on guitar. Project coordinator Lydia Zahra raised her plastic-free cup: “To the 319—may you return in 25 years and lay where you were born.”

In Malta, where land is scarce and passports heavy with history, the turtles remind islanders that survival is a shared choreography between nature and neighbour. If just one of this summer’s babies beats the odds and lumbers back onto Għadira, she’ll find new names etched on the dunes—and a country ready to cheer her home.