Europe > Italy > Veneto > Venice > Articles > Do Oar Die: The Venice Regatta

‘Buona regata’, declared the bulbous doorman as I left my hotel. He had no idea that I was in town for the annual waterfest, but it mattered not; Venice had only one thing on its mind - the annual splash down the Grand Canal.

I climbed aboard a chugging vaporetto for a boat’s-eye view of the excitement - like riding sidecar at the Grand Prix, but with the race run against the backdrop of the world’s great maritime city. Few sporting events boast such a setting: crowds squash the canalside, designer coutured gliteratti animate the terraces of wallet-draining hotels. Film stars - in town for the festival - adopt mock low-profiles on chauffeured boats, while cash-strapped families moor maritime old-bangers along the route and picnic on board.

Dipping about on the tranquil waters, it seemed like the wrong day for the party - but then the first boat nosed its bow into the St Mark’s Canal and the grey-green waters were ablaze with a cavalcade of boats.

Nobody does boats like the Venetians. Rome has Popes, Florence the Renaissance, but Venice’s story is her water and the plenitude of craft that navigate it. The variety is extraordinary: ballatine, named after large terracotta cannon balls fired as warnings to unruly revellers; capriole, flat bottomed clam catchers; scoazzere, Venice’s rubbish barge and bissone, with their swirling serpentine bows. The most impressive are the serenissime: powered by twenty oarsmen clad in red and yellow with oars painted to match, twelve hornsmen stand proud at the bow blasting bellicose warnings.

Vying for attention with the boats are costumed characters: Pulcinellas, Venuses, Neptunes, Doges, Queens and Kings. Attempting to make sense of the whirl of historic and theatrical allegories was fruitless – I sat back, enjoyed and drifted down a time-tunnel of Venice past.

The Grand Canal reverberated to the applause and shouts of onlookers as we snaked along with the procession. On the bridges police franticly marshalled spectators struggling for the best viewpoint. Passing under the Rialto it seemed that the sheer weight of flesh would catapult it into the water.

As the last boat passed up the canal, the fleeting vision of the maritime muscle which sustained a five-hundred-year republic ended. The boats decanted their fairy-tale oarsmen down the alleyways of Venice in search of a vantage point for the serious business of the day – the regatta races.

The Venetians are of one mind about the regatta: the costume parade is a bit of fun, good for tourism – the island’s 57,000 inhabitants depend on ten-million visitors who crowd Venice each year - but the races, ah well, they are a matter of honour.

The origins of the competitive regatta go back to a time when arguments between the sistieri - Venetian neighbourhoods - usually ended in bloody brawls. On bridges dividing sistieri you can still stand on footplates where rivals placed their feet before fighting their opponent into the canal. The republican government, worried that valuable maritime soldiers were being lost in local feuding, encouraged the sistieri to settle their differences by racing boats.

These races were so opulent that they became the envy of the world. The patricians, in good Venetian tradition, recognised an opportunity to tap the tourist wallet and visiting royalty were soon being seduced into bankrolling regattas in their honour.

The vainglory of past kings and queens has left us the modern regatta. There are three races: one for young rowers, one for women, one for the six-man caorline. The day climaxes with the formula-one of canal-boats – the sporting gondoline. Teams compete for different sistieri - with the competition spiced up by teams from the island of Murano and the Lido. Old rivalries stirred, the locals bet serious lire on the boat from their sistiere.

We navigated our vaporetto towards Palazzo Balbi – the city’s dazzling Baroque town hall. This is the finishing line, where a purpose built wooden platform reclines on the Grand Canal. On board the great and good watch, ready to present the winners prizes. Here is the heart of the action; a brew of Italian-style chaos and excitement, played out to a soundtrack of amplified race commentary and Vivaldi’s greatest hits.

The races start and the Venetian skies play a characteristic sleight of hand. The sun disappears behind gun-barrel grey clouds to rumbles of thunder, but not as a prelude to rain - instead the canal is ablaze with shafts of sunlight. The sight of teams of boatsmen and women chopping down the main canal - spray from the oars refracting in the sun - is vintage Venice.

The canalside fervour was building. The local’s affection for their oarsmen runs deep: rowing traditions are passed down from one generation to the next with some boats crewed by a single family. Aboard the white six-man caorlina from the Lido, Bepi Fongher – legendary winner of thirteen trophies - was racing with his sons. He placed fifth – disaster. Bepi strides up to the microphone: ‘This is my last regatta. My sons think I am too old’, he declares. ‘I’m hanging up my oar’. As one, the crowd shouts ‘No’. Bepi junior steps up and smiles: ‘It’s the same story every year. He’ll be back’.

The last race of the day saw the Vignotto brothers on the podium as winners of the vaunted gondoline race. Out of nowhere a royal blue gondola pulls up carrying a wooden crate with a bemused piglet inside. By historic tradition the winners receive a red pennant, plus bag of money with a live swine hung on it. Fortunately the luganegheri - the local salami sellers whose present the gift – bend tradition and the pig remains in the crate.

I stepped off the boat in search of my land-legs and a view of the post-race parade. Motor-driven boats are removed from the canal ready or the final procession and the familiar wafts of vaporetto fumes no longer prick the nose. Darkness descends over la Serenissima and thousands of craft sashay up and down the Grand Canal. Venetians hop from boat to boat offering congratulations and commiserations; gondoliers, wine glasses in hand, sing rounds of ancient boating song in impenetrable Veneto dialect while the small flotilla carrying a symbolic golden lion of Venice flashes up and down the cavalcade.

This is la Serenissima as the gods intended her – no trains, no cars, no motor- boats thumping away at the fragile city foundations. Then I catch sight of a costumed Neptune in trainers and sunglasses on the mobile to his girlfriend arranging a meeting by the Rialto. Even on this magical day Venice is not immune to the twenty-first century.

I wandered off down a street where the last of the Venetian squeri - ancient gondola workshops - is located. Two craftsmen were repairing a boat which had taken a knock in the excitement of the day. I stopped to watch them – ‘Buona regata’ they saluted me. I responded with a smile: ‘Buona regata’. No doubt about it.

Fact Box
The regatta takes place on the first Sunday of September, coinciding with the Venice film festival.

For the best views of the regatta, book a hotel with a terrace overlooking the Grand Canal. If you are visiting for the day, get there early and claim a canalside vantage point along the route.

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