I worked with Carlo many times in my – much shorter – career as a sailing journalist. I first met him at a Melges 32 regatta on Lake Garda in the mid-2000s. I was writing the daily race reports and he was the official class photographer. I remember being sweaty and tongue-tied as I hesitantly introduced myself in the tiny media room we had been given to work in. I needn’t have worried. Carlo – like always, as I came to learn over the years – greeted me with a warm smile and a handshake. “Just tell me what you need – it’s no problem,” he reassured me.
Later that day, out on our crowded media rib packed with other Italian photographers, we waited at the windward mark for the leaders to make their way up the beat. As the boats approached, cameras went up and autodrives began to whirr noisily. However, in the bow of the boat, Carlo was finishing off rolling one of his trademark cigarettes. His cameras were still in his Peli case, under his left foot. As the others gave excited – and often contradictory – instructions to the rib driver about where the boat needed to be in relation to the windward buoy, Carlo looked on placidly as he contentedly puffed away. Then, as the boats came properly into range, in an unrushed single motion he leaned down, opened the case and took out his camera. As the leaders rounded the mark, he took one, then two more shots, before putting his camera back in the case and shutting the lid. It was the same at every turning mark for the rest of the day. Later, back in the media room, he sent me his 10 favourite images for the press release – every one of them worthy of being framed and hung on a living room wall.
His workflow might have looked effortless, but what I learned over the years that followed was the massive amount of preparation Carlo put into researching the perfect vantage points ashore and afloat from which to capture his unique perspective of the racing. He and his team would arrive several days ahead of the racing to scope out the best shooting spots – be it headlands or mountain tops in venues like Sardinia or Mallorca for a Maxi regatta, or the roof of a skyscraper in Manhattan for an America’s Cup World Series event.
Carlo was as much at home hanging from the open door of a helicopter shooting the Fastnet or the Sydney to Hobart fleets, as he was capturing the America’s Cup trophy from a new and interesting angle in the trophy room of a swanky yacht club. I never once heard him complain about the assignments he was given. Racing action, prize-givings, sponsor parties – he treated every job in the same ultra-professional manner, and the results were always unmistakable as having come from the Studio Borlenghi.
A couple of years after I met him, he agreed to do an interview with me about his career. Sadly, I don’t have the transcript of our chat or the article any more, but I remember him telling me how he had got his start by turning up at Italian regattas with a camera and developing the images in a makeshift darkroom in the back of his van after racing. Then, he would seek out the yacht owners and offer the photos for sale. His reputation soon spread and commissions came thick and fast. The biggest surprise in what he told me was that, despite choosing a career that would involve him spending the majority of his time on the water, Carlo never learned to swim.
A couple of years ago I was lucky enough to work closely with Carlo at the America’s Cup preliminary regatta in Jeddah, when I was driving the photo boat for him and Red Bull photographer Samo Vidic (see main image). Other than the TV cat – which is allowed inside the racecourse – the photo boats are the best seats in the house at America’s Cup events. I was in seventh heaven driving for two of my favourite photographers at an America’s Cup event, and I was loving listening to the pair of them swap photography ‘war stories’ as we waited for the fleet to make their way up to the first windward gate. I had lined myself up where they wanted me – in line with the leaders coming in on the starboard layline, but I was also nervously conscious of not drifting too close to the marks. As the boats approached, Carlo and Samo put their cameras up. I clicked the boat gently into reverse to stop its drift. Instantly, there came a growl from Carlo. “Hold the layline,” he said. His tone was uncharacteristically menacing, and I quickly returned the boat to neutral. I knew I was going to get told off later for being too close, but when I saw the shot Carlo got (above), it was well worth it.
Later in the regatta, I managed to get us up close to the Italian crew just after they crossed the finish line. Carlo put his camera up a split second before the Luna Rossa boat nosedived off its foils. Carlo got a great sequence of images of the crash. Delighted, he showed the images to me on the viewfinder of his camera. He slapped me on the back. “You took these photos,” he told me. “Right place, right time.” It took me a while to come down off the high from that, I can tell you.
Regattas will not be the same now that Carlo is no longer with us. Everyone in the media centres will miss his welcoming smile, his enthusiastic “Ciao” and always warm handshake. Thankfully, we have 40 years of amazing photos that we can continue to enjoy as we think kindly of our cherished friend and colleague. My heart goes out to Carlo’s wife, Alessandra, and the rest of his family and close friends, who will surely miss him the most.
Ciao for now, Carlo. You are irreplaceable. Thanks for inspiring us all with your incredible images – and with a life that was truly lived to the full.
For some further inspiration, check out Carlo's sailing showcase here.
