Page 34 of The Cruiser
ChapterThirteen
VANDANA
Genoa's reputationisn't as glossy as the likes of Rome or Venice and attracts fewer tourists. But it's a proud maritime city, Morgan explains, with deep roots stretching back to the 11th century when it established itself as the dominant naval and economic center of Europe. Hurtling along theautostrada, my first impression of the city is authenticity. Modest homes and apartment buildings line the hillsides while massive shipyards pepper the waterfront. Unlike the one-percent fairy tale of Monaco, Genoa is real Europe.
Morgan alludes to this as we exit the freeway and wind though the urban crush. “Most of the superyacht designers only do the Cannes and Monaco circuit and those shows are relatively new. When my father started in the industry, superyachts didn’t exist. Not on the scale you see today. The Genoa show started in the sixties and caters to a wide range of clientele, not just billionaires. My father always came to this show and I tagged along as a teenager.”
Very interesting.
Morgan hasn’t mentioned his father until now, nothing at all about his family or their means. Alix de Rohan-Chabot comes from serious aristocratic wealth and although my nosing around online didn’t uncover specific amounts, stinking rich is the general gist. Alix never had to lift a finger or hold a job. Morgan, I imagine, was born into a similar situation. But like his son, Alix followed his passion, building and designing boats up until only a few years ago.
I’m wondering what the story is, why they’ve never collaborated, when Morgan turns onto a wide boulevard shaded by a canopy of leafy trees. Must be the ritzy part of town, if the tony boutique hotel we park in front of is any indication.
“This show then,” I say, picking up where we left off. “It’s a slice of family tradition.”
“Tradition and opportunity,” he replies. “My yacht in contention for the award came from a commission here three years ago. Now the wife wants a bigger boat.” He tips his head with a knowing smile. “As mentioned.”
On the drive down, Morgan unloaded a crash course in yacht design that left my brain reeling. It takes three to four years to bring a superyacht to life, from design to finished product. The first year involves engineering and technical logistics, all the formative back-end work. During that time, there’s monthly client meetings and back and forth with tech crews and interior designers. Year two, actual building starts. During construction, he flies to Germany, Italy, or Holland to visit the shipyards. Each yacht is a massive undertaking with millions of dollars at stake. Nervous and demanding clients (the wives in particular, always aiming for bigger and better) mean every part of the process requires his seal of approval. One oversight can set back a project for weeks.
It’s stressful, he admitted in a candid reveal that shined a light on his inner world. In PR, we feel the heat during a crisis. It’s intense but short-lived. To have constant high-level pressure simmering under your skin is a different story. No wonder he burned along the autostrada at Mach speed, flying through mountain tunnels like James Bond escaping the bad guys.
But my takeaway is he loves the work.
Passionis what I keep circling back to.
It’s inspiring.
After talking intimately together for three hours, I have to admit he’s undeniably captivating. Intelligent and creative. Pushing his clients for better, bolder. We share a kinship with a mutual disdain for mediocrity and blandness and a desire to make a difference. TQ said Morgan’s known for his élan and from what I can see, his unique style permeates every part of him. And it’s not just his mind I find alluring. He cuts a fine figure in his Saint Laurent suit and the afternoon light through the sunroof catches the copper in his hair, creating streaks of fire. When he rolls down the window to greet the approaching bellman, he shifts effortlessly into Italian and the sweet, saucy rhythm sets off butterflies in my stomach.
What else is his tongue capable of?
“Our VIP shuttle to the show will be here in thirty minutes,” Morgan says. “Just enough time to freshen up. If you’d like an espresso beforehand, let me know. Otherwise, there’s plenty of food and drink on Catch Me.”
The setup for this event is different than the typical yacht show. Every boat qualifying for an award must be on display in the harbor to allow for viewings during the show. Catch Me is Morgan’s yacht in award contention, and he made a deal with the owner to have her here. To make himself available for judge’s questions and to streamline our days, Morgan has arranged all of his meetings to take place on the boat. In comparison, at the Monaco show we'll bounce around: entertain clients at the Yacht Club, have off-site meetings or meet suppliers at their booths.
“Why don’t you take the penthouse?” Morgan continues, handing over one of the envelopes the bellman delivered. “I’ve stayed there enough times.”
Reaching for the envelope, our fingers graze and the current between us unmistakable.
Okay, fine.
Witnessing my employer half-naked is not so forgettable, after all.
It’s Morgan who lets his hand fall away first. “I forgot to mention that we’re invited to a yacht party tonight. You packed black tie?”
Did I? Ha. Flynn made sure the first thing in my suitcase was a backless Versace halter dress. The gown fits me like a second skin, complete with floor-length skirt and thigh-high slit. It brought down the house at Stryker’s film premiere two years ago. My very own J.Lo jungle dress moment.
I tuck the envelope into my purse, feeling more ready than ever. “I’m always prepared.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
He smiles and hops out of the car, a spring in his step.
* * *
Salone Nautico(how Italians refer to the boat show) takes place at an outdoor venue on the Mediterranean shoreline. Morgan weaves us through the buzzy crowd, navigating a maze of nautical supplier booths. We leave land for a zigzag of wide docks, where impressive boats of every size are stacked side by side, gleaming in the sun. Catch Me is docked at the far end, the largest yacht on display. She’s a beauty with a deep-blue hull that shimmers with gold accents.
Standing guard on the dock behind a podium is a stout woman with a mess of dark curls. Very serious in her pantsuit, she and Morgan banter back and forth in Italian.
