Old Salts, and Action at the Royal Yacht Squadron

I'm in Cowes, on the Isle of Wight, the center of English yachting since time immemorial. This is where the Royal Yacht Squadron is located, the RYS being the club whose members can fly the white ensign, a privilege only the Queen and ships of the royal navy enjoy. The RYS made headlines around the turn of the century when it blackballed Sir Thomas Lipton, five times challenger and five times loser of the America's Cup-not, of course, for losing, but for having made his fortune in groceries and tea. But I'm getting ahead of the story.

It was 1851, the year of the Great Exhibition of London, when the Royal Yacht Squadron put up a cup, open to all nations, round the Isle of Wight. The only taker was the New York Yacht Club, which sent a schooner named America owned by John Stevens, commodore of the club. America measured 102 feet, and faced six British schooners, some of which were successful racers. As Queen Victoria and her consort Prince Albert watched, America came in first in light winds and overcast, hazy weather. The bands played "Yankee Doodle Dandy" and the cup went over to the other side of the Atlantic for the next 132 years.

Well, some of you boating fans know the rest. Australia wrested the cup from the NYYC in 1983, lost it back to Dennis Conner off Fremantle, Australia, and then, after some legal wrangling, New Zealand came along, beat all comers from Italy, France and Japan, and has kept the cup ever since 1995.

This week is the America's Cup 150th-year jubilee, and the regattas that are taking place as I write are the most compelling contests between some of the greatest names and yachts in sailing. Every great boat from the distant past is here, starting with the great J-boats like Shamrock of Sir Thomas Lipton, Endeavour and Velsheda. This is the Cooperstown and Hall of Fame of sailing. Just look at some of these names: America, a replica of the original; Marlette of 1915; Moonbeam of Fife, 1903; Belle Aventure, 1929; Shenandoah, perhaps the finest three-masted schooner around, 1902; Blue Leopard, Cambria, 1928; and racing as a J-boat, Nefertiti, the most gallant semifinal loser of the 1962 America's Cup, owned by my beloved father and winner of every Aegean race until 1984, now restored and looking as wonderful as ever and based in Newport, RI. Plus, all the famous recent America's Cup winners and contenders, like Kookaburra, Intrepid, Lionheart, Freedom and so on. Talk about murderers row. This is the greatest assembly of elegance and beauty ever, and no one in my lifetime, or that of my children, will ever see such a spectacle again.

Ironically, I am on a modern sailor, Stealth-all black, from the carbon-Nomex-cored hull through to the carbon sails and jet-black control lines and halyards-which belongs to Gianni Agnelli, the Fiat chairman, Italy's richest and by far most influential businessman. Stealth is years ahead of its time and has just won the Fastnet race, probably the world's trickiest, from Cowes to the Fastnet Rock in Ireland and back to Plymouth, 600 miles of high winds and terrible currents. The crew of the Stealth is yet another assembly of greats, this time human talent, with her skipper Ben Mennem and the American Ken Read, Dennis Conner's America's Cup helmsman.

But before I go on about the racing, a word about Gianni Agnelli. Scion of a grand Turin-based family, married to an Italian princess, he fought gallantly in the Rommel campaign in the Middle East and, later on, on the Russian front. Postwar he lived a full life on the Riviera, becoming the lover of beautiful women, eventually taking over Fiat from his grandfather and turning it into the giant that it is today. He is the de facto king of Italy, owning everything from the country's greatest football team to its most important newspapers, financial institutions and industries. Throughout all this he has maintained a style that's unequaled anywhere in the developed world.

This week, before the races began, we cruised around the harbor looking at the boats and their crews, and at whatever boats we approached-especially the Italian ones representing the Italian navy-Gianni, now 80 and frail, was cheered by the tough old salts. The sailing community is a wonderful one. Sailors are pure and innocent. They know a good man when they see one. I was very moved to see Nefertiti, to think back at all those wonderful victories my old man had with her, and when I heard the cheers for Gianni, I blubbered a bit for my father. He really would have loved this one.

We're staying on Leander, Sir Donald Gosling's humongous gin palace, 246 feet and close to 2000 tons of unremitting luxury. The crew of 26 is present at all times, and yet one never sees them. One's clothes are cleaned and pressed overnight, the food and wine are excellent and the only noise one hears while cruising at 16 knots is the ticking of one's watch. I've had one of the best weeks of my life-and believe you me, I've had a few good ones in the past-and the only thing that makes me sad is that for Gianni and me this is the last hurrah, at least where Cowes and sailing are concerned.

"Would you believe when we were here last that we'd still be alive today?" was what the last tycoon said to me when I came on board. We were here in 1954, and I had just turned 17. It is enough to make one nostalgic for a change.