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Another big difference with the new 64 is the galley, which is set down low on the port side and linked to the saloon via a rather vertiginous companionway. There's a nearly four-foot difference between the two floor levels and not a lot to stop unwary guests from finding themselves down there unannounced. The small sofa on the port side, overlooking the galley, also looks like a precarious place to sit, nearly seven feet above the galley floor. You'll want to make it out of bounds when underway.
The galley itself is a workable size and well equipped with a ceramic cooktop, dishwasher, a big 'fridge-freezer, and an enormous stainless steel sink. Avid chefs might complain about a lack of stowage space, however. There are plenty of drawers, but at only ten inches deep, they're not as big as they look, and the floor-level cabinets are awkward.
It is the saloon which shows off Pershing's new decor to best advantage, with plenty of daylight washing through to highlight the clean, crisp, and fundamentally minimalist interior design. Generous sofas and an oak saloon table, along with a teak table in the cockpit—both of which unfold to measure nearly five feet—provide plenty of comfortable relaxation space (as well as a dilemma as to where to have dinner).
For all the looks and luxury, however, the Pershing brand image is all about handling and high performance. I wrote that the 62 was a hot ship: "a sea-skimming missile that lives up to her name." The new 64 is some six tons heavier as well as two feet longer on the same beam. The upgraded MAN V-12s provide an extra 50 hp per side—but as the marinero at the fuel berth cast off our lines and we pointed the 64's nose towards the harbor's mouth, I couldn't help wondering about the two and half tons of fuel and water we were now carrying.
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Open her up - a great view showing how the saloon bulkhead cockpit overhang, and sunroof can blur the distance between inside and out. |
The two-seat helm station is on the starboard side, with a good view all around except of the compass. If you sit, everything is a bit of a stretch—fine if you're just keeping watch on autopilot—but flip up the footrest and stand at the wheel, and it is transformed into a functional, ergonomic driving position. We nudged the throttles forward and started to cruise out into open water. The afternoon's onshore breeze, a typically Mediterranean feature of hot summer days, had picked up a good three-foot chop out at sea—nothing serious, but a good test of hull and handling at the sort of speeds I was hoping we'd hit.
And hit them we did. After trimming the drives down to give the props some bite, I began to feel the 64 surge forward. Up on plane with the MANs' second turbos spooled up, things started to happen more quickly. Drives up a tad. No need for flaps. I wasn't thinking about all-up weight anymore—I was concentrating on pointing that long snout into clear water, because we were already going 30 knots, and there was clearly plenty more to come.
Heading upwind and hitting the waves diagonally, the hull started to pound, inducing creaks and groans from the interior—hardly surprising at 40 knots with a three-foot chop. I turned in towards them, allowing the deep-sectioned forefoot to do its stuff and slice through the waves.
Helm response was immediate and gratifying, with such a dramatic angle of heel in tight turns that—in true Pershing style—I had to look out of the sunroof to see where we were going. Running parallel to the seas, we tracked level and rock-steady. Downwind, with the drive trim at zero, we might have been cruising on a millpond. Even with the Arnesons up and threshing the surface, the hull's grip on the water never slackened or even hinted that it might.
We managed a two-way split of 44 knots—more than 50 mph. This was what I came to Palma for. And with all that fuel, we could carry on doing it for hours.
For more information on Pershing, including contact information, click here.
SPOTLIGHT ON: Spatial Design and Technology
The title above sounds a bit pretentious, but the way the cockpit and saloon work together is a lesson in how these things should be done. At the touch of a button, the glass bulkhead—in just two big sections—can insulate the saloon from the outside world, or completely open it up, joining the two living areas as one. And the superstructure overhang, as on the 72, can be extended or retracted over the cockpit. Along with the sunroof over the helm, these features can be used to divide and enclose or turn the entire main deck into one open alfresco living space.—A.H.
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This article originally appeared in the October 2008
issue of Power & Motoryacht magazine.
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