The high-tea confections are melting in the afternoon heat, squishing between manicured fingers. “Ew,” my friend Olivia squeals, failing to dislodge a disintegrating chocolate cookie from the tiered display. The posh spread comes courtesy of the, and the like who’ve emerged from their skyscraping fortresses for today’s race.
A camera crew circles around an important-looking foursome with a prime seaside table. “I feel like I’m in an episode of” whispers Olivia, just as a server presents us with a platter of coiled vegetables. “Zucchini crudo?” he inquires. Just outside of the shaded lounge, the sun beats down on the champagne-less plebeians crowded behind a chain-link fence. The disparity seems at odds with SailGP’s intention of pitching sailing to the masses, which in and of itself is not a bad idea.
Well okay. Next to the station, I finally spot the rare attendee not dressed for vacation on the Amalfi Coast. She’s a queer 20-something woman in a pink “I Got My Lobotomy at Toyotathon” cropped baby-tee, and she’s here because, quote her fiancée, “we just thought it seemed like a vibe.” The fiancée works for Morgan Stanley; she’d heard about SailGP from a neighbor in their apartment in the Financial District.