Feadship’s choice
Twin 80-foot ‘tenders’ serve as a mothership propulsion system on this concept yacht.
Feadship’s newest concept yacht, Choice, would make for an eye-popping action backdrop in a James Bond film. This yacht is tantamount to the ultimate transformer toy, giving owners a number of ways to enjoy the water.
The 244-foot (74.5-meter) mothership has two symmetrically placed, 80-foot (24.5-meter) tenders docked into its port and starboard hull sides. These smaller yachts are the primary propulsion source for the mothership, which also has an electric propulsion package. After a full charge, the yacht runs independently on batteries for as long as two days and can cruise—nearly silently—at 10 knots. According to Feadship, this hybrid system provides nearly 30 percent savings on fuel compared with a traditionally powered, 262-foot (80-meter) build.
The twin tenders, Tender Won and Tender Too, can be deployed for exploration. Picture a command module orbiting in space while sending landing units to the moon. And these tenders are mini-superyachts, each able to reach speeds of 25 knots with accommodations including two guest staterooms, a crew cabin, a lounge and a spa pool. Let’s say you are at anchor and wish to discover new frontiers, but the mothership’s draft prohibits it. These tenders can whisk you away to dock and dine at a waterfront restaurant or propel you to a deserted island where you can overnight in comfort and style.
For guests who choose to remain on the mothership, there are plenty of diversions to entertain them, such as a two-person drone—easier to operate than a helicopter—and an amphibious beach-house-style apartment. Oh yes, there is also a motion-compensated swimming pool, more spa pools and all the usual Feadship comforts.
This bold design concept was born from Feadship client feedback, brainstorming sessions and feasibility studies. The bottom line is that owners want autonomy and flexibility. Choice would allow them both.
Fishing with old granddad was a highlight of my youth. No, not the Kentucky bourbon that debuted in 1882, but something even older. My grandfather, John Lindsay Dawson, was born in 1877. That made him 72 when I was born, but you’d never have guessed his age. Until his end 18 years later, his grip was firm and his gaze was steady, particularly if an attractive young lady was nearby.
Earlier grandchildren had christened him “Popeye,” and I was probably 6 before I realized he was not the sailor man of cartoon fame. It was an understandable mistake, I suppose. We lived on the Virginia waterfront, within view of the thousand acres he once owned. Most had been farmland, but along the waterfront the family ran a public beach, a private duck-hunting club and a commercial fishery, so our gene pool was filled with water.
By the time I was old enough to be trusted not to backlash a fishing reel and to take the helm of the family boat, Popeye was into his 80s. That posed no obstacle, though, as we soon became the best of fishing buddies. We’d fire up the Gray Marine engine in my dad’s Chesapeake Bay skiff and head out many miles across the wide bay to a favorite spot, a submerged rock pile populated by striped bass. Rather than marking it, we relocated it each time by triangulating on prominent shoreside landmarks.
In those heydays before limits, one day’s fishing sometimes yielded a hundred or more of the tasty rockfish. We took the keepers home, cleaned until the wee hours of the morning and dined on the frozen fillets for months. Whatever we didn’t plan to eat went back into the bay. The same principle held for deer and duck hunting.
The only animals killed with abandon were the illtempered water moccasins that sunned themselves on the tangled roots of upended trees along the shoreline. Popeye coached me to select my targets and aim my rifle carefully, and as a result, I could dispatch a half dozen of the cottonmouth devils before the remainder scattered.
So, as we near the 50th anniversary of Popeye’s death, bear with me as I engage in a little reflection. Yes, we did a lot of fishing, he and I, but it was so much more, and it’s taken me all these years to comprehend it completely. The geometry lessons I learned finding our secret fishing spot made it easier to grasp radio direction finding and celestial navigation as I ventured farther offshore in later years. More broadly, the experience brought home the notion of always being able to know where you are in life. I also learned that just because you know something, you don’t have to share it, whether it’s the location of a great fishing spot or some ugly gossip about another.
The fishing taught me the importance of conservation, taking only what you need and leaving the rest. The cottonmouth hunting taught me the importance of planning and of wielding power responsibly.
When the old Gray Marine engine failed to start, with home miles away and a squall on the horizon, I learned that you don’t panic. You just diagnose the problem— be it fuel, ignition or electrical in the case of the engine, or deeper problems in life’s bigger crises. And you stick with the problem until it’s solved.
Finally, I learned that it’s never too late in life to embark on a new adventure. Popeye was in his 80s when he took me under his wing, and my professional mentor in later years, yacht designer Jack Hargrave, was in his 70s when he took up windsurfing. Whatever your age and whatever your unfulfilled dream, be it cruising, fishing or otherwise, today is not just a great day to start. It’s the best day.