A private sailing week through the archipelago, on a classic ketch.
Every real storyline is written from scratch. This is one chapter we wrote, kept here so you can hear the voice and pace before we speak.
Written for two couples from Tribeca who had chartered before, Greek islands, the BVIs, and wanted, in their words, 'a sailing week that didn't feel chartered.'
We put them on a 1962 wooden ketch with a captain who has been working these waters for thirty years, and we wrote a route that crosses the whole top of the island, east to west, from the Maddalena to Asinara: two national parks, three hundred sea miles, and one stretch of coast almost no charter ever sees.
Met at Olbia, driven to Cannigione, on board by four. Captain Andrea walks them through the boat: not a brief, a conversation. Welcome dinner is anchored off Cala Spinosa, the chef on board cooks for the four of them only.
They sleep on the water for the first time. The boat barely moves.
The why: The first night never moves. People who have flown across an ocean need an anchor, not a passage.
Morning at Cala Corsara, on the south side of Spargi, a horseshoe of granite that holds the boat in turquoise. Afternoon at Budelli, anchored off the pink beach, which can only be admired from the water.
Sundowner on deck, Vermentino from a vineyard that supplies the boat directly.
The why: Half of the Maddalena postcards were shot from places you can't legally land on anymore. The boat is the only way to see them properly.
Razzoli at dawn, then a slow drift over to Santa Maria. Lunch is set up on a tiny beach with no name, brought from the boat by tender: grilled prawns, a salad of tomatoes from a farm in Palau, a bottle in a bucket.
Afternoon swim, a long nap on the foredeck, an early dinner under way.
The why: Charters fill the calendar. We leave half a day deliberately empty. That's where the trip actually happens.
An early start. Engines off by ten, sails up, the whole day spent crossing the top of Sardinia toward Castelsardo. Dolphins off the bow for an hour, lunch eaten one-handed at the wheel.
Anchor before sunset off Isola Rossa. A swim in twenty meters of water.
The why: Every sailing week needs one real passage. Without it, the boat is just a floating hotel.
Into the old harbor at Castelsardo for a single night ashore. A walk up to the Doria castle at sunset, dinner at a tiny enoteca above the walls: five tables, the owner pours.
Back on board by midnight. The town goes quiet around them.
The why: One night off the boat per week, always in a town small enough to walk in twenty minutes. It resets the palate.
Down past Stintino, a long look at La Pelosa (no anchoring; we admire and move on), and across to Asinara. They anchor in Cala Reale, the old royal cove, with the national park rising behind.
Dinner on board. The bay is theirs.
The why: La Pelosa is a beach you photograph from the boat, not from the sand. The crowds belong to the postcard.
Asinara was a prison until 1998, closed and untouched, then re-opened as a national park. A guide we work with, a former park warden, walks them up to the abandoned village of Cala d'Oliva, two hours, no other groups.
Afternoon back on board, a long swim, the white donkeys visible on the shore.
The why: Asinara is the strangest piece of Sardinia. We never visit it without context. The place doesn't read without its history.
A second night at Asinara, by request: they ask the captain not to move. He doesn't. They swim three times, read, eat what the chef finds at the morning market in Stintino.
The wind comes up at sunset and the boat tugs gently on the anchor. They sleep with the hatches open.
The why: If a place is right, stay. The best chapter we ever wrote had two consecutive nights in the same anchorage.
An overnight sail back south to Alghero. Breakfast in the old Catalan harbor, a driver to the airport, an afternoon flight to Rome.
Andrea and the crew shake hands at the dock. They are already talking about next summer.
The why: Disembarking should feel like the end of a book, not the end of a hotel stay. We always end in a town, never at a marina gate.
Modern charter cats are faster, more level, and easier to live on. They also feel like hotel rooms. The ketch is slower, narrower, and the wake sings against the hull at night. That sound is half the trip.
Of every island we sail past, Asinara is the one that travelers remember six months later. Empty, strange, and earned only by going. We will reroute almost anything to keep it in the chapter.
Andrea has been working these waters since 1994. He is also a working friend, which means he tells us honestly when a guest's request is a mistake. That candor is the single most expensive thing on the boat.
Tell Che a few lines about the trip you're imagining. He reads every inquiry personally and replies within three business days.
