The Sultan and the Stove
The 1990 Swan Worlds in Sardinia wasn’t just a regatta; it was a high-society hostage situation. The Costa Smeralda Yacht Club had decided to pull out every stop, including the heavy-duty ones. The gala was at the Tennis Club, hosted by the Aga Khan himself—a man so wealthy and powerful that even the Mediterranean tide seemed to ask his permission before coming in.
The dress code was “Jackets and Ties.” The ladies were draped in cocktail silk, and the men looked like they’d been polished with a chamois. We were given strict orders: Don’t speak unless spoken to. Keep it short. Don’t blink too loudly.
We were all lined up like nervous schoolboys when a blur of chaos appeared. It was Jim.
He didn’t just join the line; he intercepted it. He looked like he’d been dressed by a tornado that had passed through a charity bin and a dumpster. He was wearing a pair of ripped shorts that had clearly seen more saltwater than soap in the last decade. On top, he’d managed a polo shirt and a tie, topped off with a borrowed blazer so large the shoulder pads ended somewhere near his elbows. He looked like a toddler trying to dress up as a lawyer.
He caught my horrified stare and gave me a cheeky wink. “Hope I’m not too overdressed, mate?”
Then, the doors opened.
We shuffled past the Yacht Club “Grown-ups”—the men with the stiff collars and even stiffer upper lips—until we reached the man of the hour. The Aga Khan. He stood there, the picture of regal elegance, offering a hand to each sailor with the practiced grace of a world leader.
He reached Jim. He offered a polite, royal welcome. He was already pivoting to the next person when Jim decided to conduct a brief fiscal audit of the Ottoman Empire.
”G’day mate! Jim Close, from Australia,” Jim chirped, leaning in as if they were sharing a meat pie at the footy. “Hope you don’t mind me askin’, but how the FK* do you get enough money to buy an airline and an island just from sellin’ cookers?”
The silence that followed was so heavy you could have anchored a maxi-yacht with it. I felt my soul leave my body. The “Grown-ups” turned a shade of grey usually reserved for storm clouds over the Atlantic.
The Aga Khan didn’t blink. He didn’t call the guards. He just looked at Jim’s oversized sleeves, smiled a very thin, very expensive smile, and said:
”I sell a lot of them.”
It wasn’t until we were safely away from the royal presence that we had to break the news to Jim.
”Jim, mate… he’s a global spiritual leader and a billionaire prince.”
Jim frowned, genuinely confused. “So… he’s not the bloke who makes the wood-fired ovens?”
”No, Jim. That’s an AGA stove. This is the Aga Khan.”
Jim shrugged, completely unfazed. “Well, he should get into the stove business. He’s got the name for it.”
Jabba is legend sailor, Britons strong man and a great bloke….from americas cup to winning the 1989 Admiral’s Cup. He is jabba the jib puller, we could out tack all the 50footers with grinder without a grinder.
UK
varo azzurra