Giorgio Armani Superyacht Regatta Report
Location: Costa Smeralda Yacht Club, Porto Cervo, Sardinia; Dress Code: Summer Whites or Securities Fraud
PREVIOUSLY: Art forgery, Vatican loopholes, an encrypted USB, and a trench-coated archivist with better secrets than skincare…
“If you’re not the main character, rewrite the guest list.”
Vessel: Aboard Sea Pompette, Count Luca del Mare’s 400-foot floating tribute to questionable taste
Vibe: Olympic sport meets fashion week with a light dusting of tax evasion
Yachts: Immaculate. Guests? Less so.
Date: Last Saturday, sunset 'til scandal
Darling degenerates,
There’s nothing quite like watching the downfall of civilization from a sundeck in Sardinia. This week I was invited to the Giorgio Armani Superyacht Regatta—where billionaires cosplay as sailors and the only thing racing faster than the yachts is the spread of unverified gossip. This year’s regatta was, as ever, an intoxicating blend of elegance, maritime one-upmanship, and emotional instability in designer espadrilles.
Count Luca Del Mare’s Sea Pompette led the social fleet, though no one’s quite sure if it actually raced or just hovered nearby blasting Umberto Tozzi like a disco distress signal. He claimed his sails were “a metaphor,” which is also what he said about his three divorces. Interiors? Think Damien Hirst meets Versailles in international waters.
The race itself? Majestic. Sleek hulls slicing through the water like Cosima Vögeli slicing through a roomful of former lovers. Allegra von Bischoffshausen misunderstood the dress code and showed up in head-to-toe neoprene and heels, declaring herself “the masthead figure.” She spent most of the day posing with a champagne sabre and threatening to duel an American collector named Chip (not ours).
Mundi di Salvator shouted motivational quotes in Italian from the deck of a borrowed yacht, only to be told it was anchored. Contessa Gigi de Rossi appeared on a mysterious silver-hulled catamaran no one had seen before and disappeared just as quickly—possibly en route to Corsica, possibly evading Interpol.
Naturally, there were regatta rules, none of which anyone followed. Mundi di Salvator misread the chart and started a race two hours early, dragging a DJ booth and three influencers behind his yacht on paddleboards. The judges awarded him “Most Theatrical Interpretation of Wind.”
The race? Oh, yes. There was technically a race. Gigi de Rossi's borrowed vessel, Jet Privé II, won by default after every other boat “accidentally” anchored at a beach club halfway through. Allegra tried to protest the win but ended up sunbathing with the jury instead.
For the after party, Count Luca hosted what he called a “nautical salon,” though no one did any thinking and someone definitely left with someone else's Birkin.
YACHTING HIGHLIGHTS:
One vessel had a matching Loewe sail and bikini set (the boat and the girl).
A German heiress capsized trying to take a selfie with a flaring spinnaker.
Major Phipps swore he saw “a coded signal” in a series of nautical flags spelling out P-E-A-C-O-C-K. Lady Octavia Merriweather claimed it said P-A-N-I-C.
One of the yachts had a very curious Basquiat onboard (and by curious, I mean unsigned and freshly varnished). I made a note to ask Ferdinand Megève if he’s been moonlighting again.
FASHION NOTES:
Count Luca wore driving loafers on deck, which is technically a war crime.
Cosima Vögeli opted for a crisp white suit and binoculars she never used.
Gigi, of course, wore black and arrived via smoke.
Chip claimed his outfit was “Hamptons peasant-core meets Porto Cervo yacht trash.”
Max Bouvier wore head-to-toe custom linen Armani monogrammed with his own initials and his lawyer’s.
Major Phipps wore his WWII regimental blazer and refused to take it off “for diplomatic reasons.”
Mundi di Salvator showed up in a translucent organza robe over bronze swim briefs. (No explanation. No regrets.)
THE AFTER PARTY:
The guest list was tighter than Lady Octavia Merriweather’s facelift: Gigi de Rossi arrived with an entourage of “curators,” one of whom may have been her bodyguard or an ex-lover (it’s hard to tell these days), while Mundi di Salvator spent most of the party quoting Céline Dion lyrics and crying into a velvet smoking jacket. Allegra accidentally called Interpol while trying to post a thirst trap.
Sir Barneby Haversham (of the truffled-pâté fortune and mild legal troubles) once tried to auction off a Damien Hirst shark to raise funds for his tax evasion fine. Naturally, he had my senile grandfather, Major Phipps, deter the authorities by flashing his old military badge (yes, he came in uniform).
The dress code? “Nautical Déshabillé.” Interpretations ranged from vintage Pucci caftans to a surprisingly sheer Céline sarong worn by Chip Vanderwall, who claimed he “forgot trousers in solidarity with the proletariat.”
Cosima Vögeli was holding a glass of champagne as though it were a lifeline and we all engaged in a heated debate about the ethics of buying art at auction for the sake of showing off. I exchanged a knowing glance with Maximilian Bouvier, who was dressed in head-to-toe Armani, and was predictably already engaged in a whispered conversation with Mundi di Salvator about the merits of obscure Old Masters.
The party ended with a minor diplomatic incident involving the Luxembourgish ambassador and an inflatable Jeff Koons.
COCKTAIL OF THE HOUR:
A “Peacocking Negroni”—served with a single sapphire-colored ice cube and an edible marigold. Très artisanal.
OVERHEARD ON THE SUNDECK:
- “Darling, I own a regatta.”
- “Do you think Sergei still owns that villa in Qatar?”
- “Someone flew in Giorgio himself on a seaplane just to bless the mainsail.”
- “She told customs it was a kinetic sculpture. It was a torpedo.”
- “If I hear the word 'peacock' one more time I’m buying it just to burn it.”
- “That’s not a mast, darling, it’s a champagne saber rack.”
- “Chip lost his boat and is now squatting on a Turkish banker’s tender.”
- “That’s not Herodotus, darling. That’s a recipe for spanakopita.”
- “Gigi de Rossi arrived on a dinghy and left on a jet ski. Iconic.”
- “Archie’s not answering. Last I saw him, he was muttering something about the wine cellar.”
SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY:
- Major Phipps was seen inspecting the yacht’s hull muttering about “false bulkheads” and “Arms in Al Khor.” (We assumed he meant biceps, but Georgina Baselitz looked genuinely alarmed.)
- Georgina was spotted whispering with a man who may or may not be Sergei Volkov… or possibly a hedge fund manager in nautical cosplay.
- Someone (we suspect Chip) hacked the onboard sound system and played La Vie en Rose every time someone mentioned the word “auction.”
- Gigi’s earrings looked suspiciously like bugging devices before she disappeared to God-knows-where.
- Someone left behind a linen napkin embroidered with Greek coordinates and a quote from Herodotus. No one claimed it.
FASHION HIGHLIGHT:
Cosima in archival Dior and inexplicably holding a maraschino cherry like it was evidence.
LOWLIGHT:
Ferdinand Megève performed an impromptu spoken word poem titled “Who Forged Who” under the stars. Everyone clapped. No one knew what it meant. Especially him.
UPCOMING INTEL:
Next week’s Brothelby’s London auction catalogue features yet another Habsburg: Portrait of an Austro-Hungarian Heiress with Tortoiseshell Comb. Coincidence? Please.
FINAL TALLY:
Twenty anchors
Seven international tax investigations opened
Two dubious divorces
One minor explosion (cosmetic in nature)
Three engagements announced, two rescinded
One house arrest bracelet
And a rogue peacock
Rating: ★★★★★
Because when the yachts are this big, so are the secrets.
Until next time, stay scandalous.
Yours in Maritime Mischief & Monogrammed Misdemeanors,
Lady Victoria Fenwick-Smythe of the Fenwick-Smythe Manor
Patroness of the Arts & All Things Chic
📸 Nautical Menswear Notes from the Regatta
A Giorgio Armani-sponsored display of wind, wealth, and white linen chaos.
Men at the Giorgio Armani Superyacht Regatta dressed as if The Talented Mr. Ripley collided with Succession during a storm at sea—and I adored every over-accessorized second.
Chip Vanderwall arrived barefoot in white silk sailor pants and a crocheted Versace tank, muttering something about “post-capitalist minimalism.” He claimed his trousers were “handmade by monks in Corsica,” though the monks have since issued a statement denying all involvement.
Maximilian Bouvier was spotted in head-to-toe vintage Armani—likely lifted from his own archive—with sunglasses so reflective one could see into *his* soul (or at least the current contents of his offshore account). His look whispered *yacht insurance fraud,* but in cashmere.
Count Luca del Mare wore navy espadrilles, a shirt unbuttoned to the navel, and what appeared to be an Hermès scarf tied rakishly around his neck. Georgina insists it was actually an antique fencing sash. Either way, hearts were lost.
Major Phipps (yes, he came in uniform) stood on deck like a misplaced war relic, in tropical khaki and epaulets gleaming under the Sardinian sun. He claimed it was “for security,” but I suspect he just likes the pockets.
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Society columnist, former debutante, and unhinged socialite art collector with a taste for scandal and sapphires. Click here to meet the cast of Lady F’s social misfits, beautifully dressed disasters, and barely-disguised frenemies.