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Not your average boat test. Not by a long shot. Way back in 2001, off the coast of California, I'd sea trialed a raised-pilothouse motoryacht that would set a new course for Grand Banks. Called the 64 Aleutian Class, the boat sported a complicated and decidedly untrawlerly Tom Fexas hull form designed to optimize both displacement and semidisplacement performance. And she'd done all that thanks not only to Fexas but also to a raft of modern construction techniques that included Airlite- and Airex-cored fiberglass soles, bulkheads, and hull sides and an all-'glass pre-formed stringer grid. I remembered what the sales guy'd said when I got my initial look: "Not your ordinary Grand Banks, eh?"
Now here I was sea trialing a new, freshly launched version, the 65 Aleutian RP (Raised Pilothouse), with an extra foot of LOA, all the old virtues seemingly intact, and a passel of new ones noticeably added on. Indeed, while coming aboard at a dock near the Southport Yacht Club on the southern edge of Queensland, Australia, I'd noticed a couple of biggies without even trying.
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"Interesting situation," I said to Hank Compton, a Grand Banks rep who was kicked back in the Stidd copilot's seat beside me on the flying bridge. I pulled our twin 1,001-bhp Caterpillar C18 diesels out of gear so we could let a bobbing object cross ahead. The size of a coconut, it turned out to be the head of a guy paddling a surfboard across the broad, shark-infested inlet we were negotiating. He waved jauntily. "Does he have the right of way," I joked, "or the sharks?"
The question pointed up one more noteworthy aspect of this particular boat test: It was taking place in deep, inky-blue water within spittin' distance of Australia's South Stradbroke Island, atop a six-foot swell that had probably originated on the Antarctic Ridge. Was sea trialing under such exotic circumstances a first for me? Heck yes! But was it also disappointing? In one respect, yes again. For years I'd been hearing about the outrageous seas that terrorize Australia, and now, here I was, and the broad Pacific was almost flat, thanks to the stretched-out swell.
The 65 did nicely in all measurable respects, though, much as her predecessor had done in California. The key, in my opinion, was the two-tiered shape of her underbody. At slow speeds its upper half replicated a displacement hull form and produced sedate, fuel-efficient progress. At higher velocities, right up to a rousing average top end of 28.2 mph (4.3 mph faster than the twin 800-hp Caterpillar 3406E-powered Aleutian 64 had been capable of), its lower half produced a sweetly balanced ride via hard chines and flat, lift-inducing after sections.
Driving in open water was a cinch. Running attitudes were optimal whether I was doing displacement speeds (0.5 degrees) or wide-open throttle (4 degrees). Moreover, the whole rpm range was reasonably available, not just speeds from either the low or the high end of the register. At no point did the 65 seem to struggle or plow, regardless of where I had the Twin Disc EC300 sticks set. And what's more, the 65 provided excellent out-of-the-hole visibility from both helms—topside and below—cranked a tight turning radius of about two boat lengths, and did not heel outboard while doing so, a disconcerting foible that some vessels with over-long keels exhibit.
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