The Barcolana consists of several races over the course of a week for different classes. However, it has become famous for its final race. In this race, all yachts cross the starting line at the same time and sail a fixed course of 13 nautical miles. In 2018, the 50th and anniversary edition, there were 2,869 starters, which earned the Barcolana an entry in the Guinness Book of Records as the world's largest regatta.
With 1,679 yachts, this year's field was also tight, with the number of entries almost exactly the same as last year. It is clear that the small boats have no chance of overall victory in such large fields.
The big yachts win the Barcolana
One of the largest boats, the Maxi Botin 85 "Deep Blue", sailed the fastest again this year, at just under an hour, 57 minutes and 47 seconds to be precise. At the helm was owner Wendy Schmidt, 67, a former journalist who is now a committed environmentalist and co-founder of the 11th Hour Racing team, which will be taking part in the upcoming The Ocean Race.
Schmidt, who is married to former Google boss Eric Schmidt, entered the maxi class last year. She started sailing in 2007 at the age of 52. "My husband didn't think I would spend much time on the boat because I was a tennis player," she told the New York Times. "But I ended up going out every day. It's been a constant seduction ever since."
The Barcolana has also been won twice by a German. Jochen Schümann was successful with the "Esimit Europa 2" in 2012 and 2013.
However, it is not the famous racers and their professional crews that characterise the Barcolana. Rather, it is the sheer mass of conventional owner and charter boats of all lengths and widths that gives the regatta its unmistakable character. Anything with a sail can take part in the Barcolana.
It is a regatta and a family reunion, a major event and a celebration among friends and like-minded people. In Italy, such events are proudly called "Una manifestazione".
This is what YACHT employee Thomas Käsbohrer wrote in his report from the Barcolana 2016. You can read the full text from back then below:
Among madmen
Report from the Barcolana 2016 byThomas Käsbohrer
Trieste in autumn, at the northern tip of the Adriatic, where the mainland ends and the sea begins. This is where the Barcolana has been held for 48 years, always on the second Sunday in October. The organisers call it "the great festival of the sea", "a fantastic spectacle" - but also "the most densely packed regatta in the world". A dubious superlative. It's not wrong in view of the 25,000 sailors on 1758 yachts that are sent across a narrow starting line at the same time.
But it's not that far yet. It's early in the morning. The streets of Trieste are empty. An unpleasantly cold wind sweeps through the alleyways. Only the Piazza dell'Unità, the main square right by the sea, is already bustling with activity. The bars all around are packed with sailors, who crowd into the warmth in front of the counters to quickly fortify themselves with an espresso and a brioche filled with lukewarm ciocolata. Before we set off.
Meanwhile, flags rattle in the wind above the piazza. A bora sweeps over the city in icy blasts from the slopes of the Karst and hits the sea outside. The dreaded north-easterly reaches gale force in the Gulf of Trieste, and not just in winter. Wind speeds of over 230 kilometres per hour have already been measured here - almost 20 Beaufort, if the old scale went that far.
The cold eats through the oilskins. The stand of Fabio, the cap dealer, is literally mobbed. "Caps," says Fabio, "are all gone. Another 50 new ones will arrive in 15 minutes. Do you want one?"
When the sun finally makes a tentative appearance, the Piazza dell'Unità is packed. Where the maxi yachts have moored, people are crowding around, sailors and spectators alike. The ex-America's Cupper "Il Moro di Venezia" is there, the "Ancilla Domini" with sailing star Sir Ben Ainslie at the helm, the "Alfa Romeo" and many other celebrities from the international sailing scene.
The normal boats fill the field
Nevertheless, it is not the famous racers and their professional crews that characterise the Barcolana. Rather, it is the sheer mass of conventional owner and charter boats of all lengths and widths that gives the regatta its unmistakable character. Anything with a sail can take part in the Barcolana.
It is a regatta and a family reunion, a major event and a celebration among friends and like-minded people. "Una manifestazione" is what such events are proudly called in Italy. And it does.
The Ron Holland 68 "Matchless" is also taking part once again. With a length of 21 metres and a sail area of over 200 square metres, the 33-tonne colossus is one of the largest of the participating cruising yachts. She was built in 1982 for an American industrial tycoon. Today, Elisabetta Agnoli is the armatrice, the owner. The 49-year-old biologist comes from Treviso in Veneto.
She explains: "We discovered the ship in New England in 2005. It was completely neglected, apparently nobody had been on board for years. My husband Giorgio and I then bought the 'Matchless' without further ado and renovated her ourselves, five long years until she was the way we wanted her. Today we live on the boat and sail around Italy with charter guests."
I don't like the Barcolana at all
Why is she taking part in the Barcolana? "My Giorgio is mad about the regatta. He's sailing it for the 29th time. I, on the other hand, don't like it at all. For me, the Barcolana is pure stress. Almost 2,000 boats crammed together around the starting and turning buoys in tight clusters! When we come rushing in with our 33 tonnes, my heart stops every time. But Giorgio loves it. He used to play rugby league in Treviso, maybe that's why."
Giorgio Sabbadin, her husband, has been listening and grins broadly. Then he and his crew of six set about making the final preparations. The start was actually supposed to take place earlier, but it was postponed by an hour and a half due to the gusts. 25 to 30 knots of wind in the morning, boats can handle that, no question. However, a starting field would be really shaken up by this.
Sabbadin, with his wife on the foredeck, directs the casting off. To the ringing of the bells of the church of San Nicolò dei Greci, the yacht, along with many other ships, slowly detaches from the pier and heads over to the sailing club in the Barcola district of Trieste. The regatta owes its name to this.
Things are already chaotic. Small 22-foot boats with roaring outboards shoot past like angry insects just under the bow, 45-footers pull up to within a few metres of the "Matchless" sea fence on a parallel course. "Occhio!" Sabbadin calls over, "open your eyes!" Three trumpeters in clown costumes cross the path on a motor launch. And on a sailing yacht, which shortly afterwards shoots past on the opposite course, the crew has even set up a wooden rack in the cockpit, in which a magnificent San Daniele ham is stuck. Armed with a long knife, the skipper calmly sabres thin slices off the ham for his crew.
A hullabaloo. Colourful confusion. Whimsy and exuberance
Then 1,758 mainsails go up - a literally uplifting sight. Unbridled pride grips the participants, a feeling as if they are part of an armada that no one can defeat. What a tremendous sight it must be from the top of the lighthouse, the Faro della Vittoria. Or from the slopes of the Karst. The railway that runs along the field of participants up there greets you incessantly. The city itself disappears behind a curtain of white canvas in the glitter of the sea.
The start draws nearer and the field becomes even denser. What was previously a shoal of herrings leisurely pushing along the coast is now feverishly waiting like a pack of sharks greedily circling the red starting buoy. Foresails go up. Genoas rattle. The regatta course has remained unchanged for 48 years: first to the south-west towards Slovenia, which begins not far from Trieste. The first turning mark off Koper. Then northwards to the coast of Friuli. And then back eastwards towards Barcola.
It's getting tight, very tight
In view of the gusty north-east, there will be a downwind start - even more chaos. Other yachts are pushing closer and closer to the "Matchless". She is squeezed in between cabin cruisers, yachts, dinghies and skiffs. Elisabetta Agnoli's gaze is tense, her husband's face speaks volumes. How are you supposed to find room to turn the massive bow a quarter to the south-west when firing the cannon? How to accelerate before the wind in the middle of a tightly packed cluster of smaller boats?
A gust ploughs through the field, putting the brave who think they can manage without a reef on the water for a moment. Sabbadin is also one of those who set full sail. "Randa piena - full mainsail!", he had decided a quarter of an hour ago, before climbing up the huge boom himself to shackle the halyard up there, lost in the mass of cloth.
"Randa piena?" asks a crew member in view of the gust, but Agnoli, the armatrice, just stares fixedly from under her blue woollen cap at the wild group of boats that are racing past on starboard on the opposite course within easy reach. Finally, the cannon thunders: the launch. The pair of owners stand at the hydraulic winches, as big as warrior drums, both tighten the main and genoa sheets, while Sabbadin simultaneously puts the rudder to the south.
Screaming and shouting echo across the water. But where just a moment ago there were a whole host of boats lumbering downwind, there is suddenly a gap into which the owner bravely aims. Then he heads out of the bay. The first gennaker goes up ahead, but as soon as it is up, the cloth bursts in a gust and blows out in shreds. More gennakers are set. Another one that rips apart with a bang. And one that - instead of unfurling - forms a writhing, strangling hourglass around the forestay.
The "Matchless", meanwhile, simply picks up speed as if none of this existed. As if there was no turmoil, no confusion, no 25 knots of wind. She heeled slightly under full sail, as we were still downwind and not upwind. A small racer comes up aft, a UFO with a crew of two, who skilfully hang their 22-foot vessel from the stern of the Ron Holland in the gusts and follow her like a terrier in her wake. The skipper looks round.
They are good. But with Bora, only one thing counts: length!
He looks contentedly at his ship, which glides along calmly while the smaller boats are buffeted by short stern waves. The field is spreading out. Far ahead, the big racing yachts have quickly pulled away, the ones that will decide the victory among themselves, as they do every year. They are followed by those who have got off to a good start. A long, drawn-out horde of sailing boats that have somehow managed to get away from the melee.
Sabbadin has since handed over the helm to Fortunato Moratto, who now stands at the winches himself with Agnoli and only has eyes for the sails. Moratto is 57, runs two marinas and has sailed all his life. "I got my passion from my grandfather. He was an officer in the Austrian navy during the First World War." The Barcolana is great fun. "I take part every year with my colleagues. It brings us closer together."
While the majority of the field is still battling behind the starting line, the "Matchless" approaches the first turning mark. The yachts head for the buoy as if in a funnel, a tangle of 20 or 30 boats clinging closely to windward of the red mark, pushing, shoving, swearing. Then a 31-foot yacht suddenly crosses in front of the bow of the "Matchless" as it begins to turn towards the buoy. Agnoli's gaze under his blue woollen cap freezes once again. The eight-man crew of the small ship watch the movement of the two ships heading towards each other with eyes widened in horror. "No! No! No!" they shout, as if words could stop the mighty bow that is driving towards them like a battering ram.
The "Matchless" is in the middle of the melee, drifting towards the buoy like a tree trunk among 50 other tree trunks. The transverse 31 almost passes under its bow when the "Matchless" fortunately only just grazes the stern of the small ship with a rattling bang. Once again, all went well!
But the pile of boats is so dense that breakage must be inevitable when the bow turns in. It can only crash and splinter, the massive "Matchless" pushes into the chaos like a wrecking ball. But everyone gets away unscathed. Somehow, a small amount of space has been created, which the helmsman somehow utilises and pushes the hull around the buoy, between all the other hulls.
All hands to windward
Then the upwind course. "Tutti sopra vento!" shouts Sabbadin, "all hands to windward!" Seven men get on board, climb towards the starboard railing, the "Matchless" is now lying heavily on its side. Spray is coming over, blowing horizontally across the foredeck in gusts. Fortunato Moratto at the helm has his hands full.
Lucky if you had already tied in a reef at the start, there's no time for it on board. A sailing manoeuvre now would mean simply giving up the good position. So keep going! Time and again, the skipper has to furl and kill the main using the huge winch drums when a gust comes off the slopes. But he remains calm. The yacht continues to catch up, passing others. Past a Hanse 52 flying the German flag as well as a bright red 22-foot racer with a skull on the bow, labelled "Poison" and sailed by eight young Italian women. At first they keep up with the gusts, but then the steep waves slow down their projectile until it gradually falls back.
The second barrel. Things are almost relaxed here. You can count the number of people tacking at the same time on two hands. What's more, instead of tacking close to the buoy like everyone else, Sabbadin leaves the red mark almost carelessly to starboard. Why doesn't he tack? The skipper only has eyes for his boat, his wife is looking out to sea. Only Moratto at the helm grins knowingly. For the others, the command to go through the wind comes agonisingly late.
Then, however, all the men again "sopra vento" onto the other bow, again the "Matchless" leans heavily on its side - and heads for the target buoy ahead at exactly the ideal angle high on the wind.
But what is it? A rubber dinghy, manned by photographers, gets in the way of the yacht, which is approaching under full sail. Roaring from ten or twelve throats, giving way, getting out of the way. It would be easy for the powerful inflatable boat to avoid the collision. Sabbadin growls angrily, Moratto heads for the bow of the obstacle, while the roar from both sides gets louder and louder.
The Barcolana is not for the faint-hearted
One of the photographers in the dinghy with a long telephoto lens seems delighted to be about to take the photo of his life and raises his expensive camera. At an inopportune moment. The 33-tonne hull touches the dinghy at the bow and the photographer's expensive equipment almost falls to the ground as his vessel is swept aside as if by a snowplough. "Coglioni!", Sabbadin shouts at the careless skipper, and "Testa di cazzo!" Terms that are better left untranslated, but which are undoubtedly borrowed from the urology handbook.
Finally, the "Matchless" is on the home stretch and won't be deterred. The noble old lady, on which Kennedys and Woodwards and Roosevelts have already signed the guest book, will reach the finish line after one hour and 20 minutes in 75th place - and come third in her class. This sends the crew into a tremendous cheer and makes the Prosecco flow in torrents.
And the Barcolana? Even if one should usually be sceptical about superlatives, this regatta lives up to them. As a festival of the sea. An event that is unrivalled.
