For decades, the superyacht was built as a kind of floating penthouse, tall, opulent, and exclusive by design. To be aboard was to ascend: ever higher through decks layered with teak, sculpture, and private cinemas. But increasingly, those who charter or commission these floating temples are asking for something different. Not more height, but more access. Less spectacle, more sea.
It is a subtle, but telling, shift. And nowhere is that shift more beautifully articulated than aboard the forthcoming Four Seasons I a yacht conceived not merely as a vessel, but as a floating retreat where connection to the water is more than symbolic. It’s structural.
When it sets sail in 2026, the Four Seasons I will mark the first maritime foray by the eponymous hotel group. But rather than replicate what exists on land simply transplanting luxury to a ship’s deck the designers have inverted the approach. Here, the marina isn’t an afterthought carved into the stern, nor is it a garage for toys. It is, in effect, the heart of the experience.
Spanning the full width of the ship across both port and starboard sides, the transverse marina unfolds like a pair of wings, opening guests not just to the sea, but into it. The psychological effect is immediate: you no longer descend to the water, you meet it, eye-level, skin to salt.
On “Marina Days” an increasingly popular concept within this design philosophy, the yacht does not move. It anchors, often in unmarked waters: a quiet cove in the Cyclades, a volcanic inlet off Saint Lucia, or a languid Bahamian bay where the only soundtrack is the sound of your own breath. The vessel becomes a landscape, a basecamp not for conquest, but for contemplation.
From the marina, terraces unfold. On one, an open-air bar where linen-clad guests sip cold Vermouth as the sun drops beyond the bow. On another, space for yoga, or nothing at all. Sea pools are lowered, paddleboards stacked, tenders readied. But there’s no rush. The day belongs to no one, and so it belongs entirely to you.
The interiors, designed by Tillberg Design of Sweden, are spare but warm. Scandinavian restraint gives way to the softness of Mediterranean terraces, with materials chosen not to dazzle but to last. Neutral tones, natural stone, pale woods, these are not the affectations of trend but the language of ease. The line between indoors and out becomes porous. One lounges beside a sea breeze without needing to leave the shade.
There is, of course, the expected fleet of marine toys: hydrofoils, RIBs, submersibles, jetboards. But increasingly, guests are not using them as much as they once did. Many seem content to float. To read. To linger. One might credit this to pandemic-era sensibilities or simply to the weariness of the perennially over-scheduled. But the result is the same: motion is no longer mandatory.
This is not just a shift in design. It’s a shift in cultural temperament. In the past, yachting was often about arrival, anchoring in Saint-Tropez, docking beside the right restaurant in Portofino, being seen. Today, a new clientele seems to be seeking out the unseen. Privacy, yes, but more than that, perspective.
Even the way guests interact with the water has changed. Swimming is not performed for Instagram. It is meditative. Often solitary. Paddleboards drift silently past the hull, more ritual than recreation.
And the marina, in all of this, acts as stage and sanctuary. A place for coffee, conversation, or simply to sit with the sun. It is not dramatic. It is designed for depth.
As the superyacht industry races forward with hydrogen innovation, boundary-pushing hulls, and ever-larger builds, the Four Seasons I suggests that refinement may lie not in reinvention, but in subtraction. In asking what can be taken away to leave more room for presence.
In that sense, its marina is more than a design feature. It’s a philosophy in architectural form.
Because on the water, as in life, how we arrive matters far less than how long we choose to stay.
