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The only other time I can remember getting myself into something that sounded this stark-raving mad was a dozen years ago. I'd just finished wringing out a high-performance screamer, and the photographer who was prepping for a follow-up helicopter shoot suggested I come along, not only "just for the livin' hell of it," but also to experience (after the shoot was "in the can," as they say) a phenomenon the photog called "herding sea gulls." I went along, of course, and after herding a few gulls—and enduring every conceivable aerial orientation except zipping along upside down—queasily conceded the exercise was roughly equivalent to dodging and feinting around a hot LZ in a UH-1 Huey in Vietnam back in 1969. Way too exciting.
Now a semisimilar deal was stacking up. The guy in the copilot's seat of the Maritimo C60 Sports Cabriolet I was driving was making a proposal that, at least on the face of it, sounded about as wild and crazy as herding sea gulls with a helicopter. "What say we go surfin' in this lot, mate?" suggested Ross "Rossco" Willaton, a super-enthusiastic Aussie who routinely pilots Maritimo's raceboats at speeds in excess of 160 mph, sitting shoulder to shoulder with throttleman and Maritimo head honcho Bill Barry-Cotter. Willaton grinned, gave me a piercing look, and toggled his eyebrows up and down. "What say?"
Fortunately, the 60 was far from an unknown quantity at this point. I'd already driven the daylights out of her in the open Pacific amid near-shore rollers that were long, smooth, and approximately eight feet high. She'd been a solid performer, with a soft, dry ride whether going up-, down-, or side sea. She'd cornered tightly (with a turning radius of two or maybe three boat lengths), exhibited excellent steering response (thanks to Maritimo's proprietary racing-derived power-steering system), and generally behaved with such competence and mannerliness that I'd developed almost immediate confidence in her.
Visibility from the helm was superb, not only because the deck undergirding the helm station was elevated, but also because the windshield panels, side windows, and polished stainless steel cockpit slider behind me were all immense. Longitudinal balance was flat out perfect. The 60 displayed a running attitude of minus 1⁄2 degree at idle speed, then steadily lifted her nose through the rpm register to 51⁄2 degrees at an average wide-open sprint of 35 mph. I say lifted—the planing process felt more like levitation, like the boat was rising from the water with no change in running attitude and no sense of a hump. As for operating efficiency, thanks to a banana-peel-slippery, variable-deadrise, deep-V hull form and precisely proportioned keel, a savvily calculated weight distribution (which I'd say figures significantly into that feeling of levitation), and shaft angles of a mere nine degrees, the fuel-burn numbers I recorded were impressive. Sure, the 60 carries nearly 1,500 gallons of go-go juice, but her range at WOT is more than 600 statute miles. And she ran smoothly (without pushing a pile of water), from idle to top end.
As if he were some old-west gunslinger, Willaton pointed an index finger toward a long white beach beckoning from a few miles off, with big, barrel-topped plunging waves. We were almost due-east of the modern highrises that mark the Gold Coast municipality of Surfer's Paradise. "Let's go for it," I said, toggling my own eyebrows.
"Best let me drive then, Bill—you know, for insurance reasons, mate," Willaton replied with a tone of lively anticipation. "Just remember: Advise your readers not to try this sort of thing for themselves. Professionals only."
Indeed, what ensued was not your average boat ride—but it was also more fun than doing cannonballs off the cliff at the ol' swimmin' hole when I was a kid. We literally stormed the beach at 35 mph, riding in on the backs of 12-foot juggernauting gnarlies, charging over their summits like the cavalry, turning to roar like a freight train through the canyons between them, and then doubling back to do it all over again. Beyond the uproarious visuals the ride engendered, what was most amazing about it was the absolute impunity with which the boat handled. She never once hinted at a broach, kept her nose up in every turn, and tracked like gangbusters whenever the rollers were whooshing in from behind. And what's more, Willaton never touched the tabs or throttles. He simply drove and kept the windshield wipers honkin'. I must have yelled "She runs like a dang raceboat!" 20 times during our 20-minute surf-o-rama.
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