Cruising a Custom Hunt 63

“I’ll be leaving the gas dock at Liberty Landing at 1400,” my subject wrote me, by text message. Over the past several weeks, we’d tentatively scheduled a trip up the Hudson on his recently commissioned, freshly christened Scarlet, a 63 Hunt, and various setbacks had stalled our acquaintance. Never mind the fact that I was all the way across two rivers and any number of bridges and tunnels, and would have to battle crosstown traffic after finding out that my beloved L train, to which I am unconditionally betrothed, was not running. An hour and a half later, after much perspiration and expletive-scored packing, I was on the fuel dock with three minutes to spare, no less.

“Hold on a minute, I gotta go pick a fight with the manager here,” was this jolly new yacht-owner’s version of a warm welcome aboard. “Sure, sure,” I softly but assuredly replied, “I know how those people can be.” I once was one of those people in a previous life and occupation, after all.

Mr. C. Raymond Hunt probably never envisioned one of his name-sake hulls swathed in an ebullient, scarlet red, but then he probably never envisioned the likes of Ray Mason at its helm, either.

Mason is a lifelong sailor who, like many a racer and rag bagger alike, slowly found his way to a medium-sized Downeaster. But unlike those other graduated sailors, the Columbus, Ohio-based, Great-Lakes-prowling United States Army veteran is also a race car driver. Apart from a boat that could comfortably venture around the Great Lakes, down the Mississippi and up the eastern seaboard to complete the fabled “Great Loop,” he also wanted a veritable floating hotel room for positioning himself at—if somewhat seaward of—his track events. The next race is in Wisconsin, a couple of Great Lakes away and a several-hundred-mile jaunt from Mason’s home port of Vermilion, Ohio.

Otherwise, he’ll be entertaining friends and family on weekend trips to Put-in-Bay in The Bass Islands, a handful of islets in western Lake Erie just south of Canadian waters, which he likened to Key West “and then some.”

It’s about half past 1400 when Mason fires up the twin Volvo Penta IPS 1350s and spins the nearly 70-foot vessel on a dime and out into New York Harbor where a stiff southerly is lapping its way up the Hudson River, on which he is hoping to cover some 150 miles. Mark, the captain Mason hired for this leg of the voyage, informs him that the 100 miles or so to Kingston will make for a long enough day as it is, and Mason acquiesces.

Mason’s drive to get the boat home once and for all is one any boater can relate to, but as Mark says, we all know—some of us all too well—that when we get tired, we start making mistakes. Mark and his client had left a South New Jersey dock at 0600 that morning. He didn’t want any mistakes.

Coming to cruising speed–about 26 knots at 2100 rpm, Mason reflected on the last time he saw Manhattan. The towers were still standing, he mused, and he’d just completed a transatlantic race aboard a Corsair trimaran, which he was all too ready to hop off and sell upon making land. He named the landmarks as well as I could (shamefully, I admit to Mason that I grew up around these parts), and made a comment about how he could go another 20 years without seeing them again. Part of me—only part—feels the same, and I don’t argue.

We clear the George Washington Bridge­—by a longshot thanks to the stripped-down profile of this, the only 63 Hunt without a flybridge, which Mason commissioned himself. The sky grows larger above, stretching out in front of us, and our route is flanked by the Palisades, 300-foot-tall, 200-million-year-old, plateaued white basalt cliffs on either side of the river. Once home to the Lenape tribe, these cliffs played theater to a failed British ambush of General Washington, and someteen duels, the most famous of which was the culmination of a political rivalry between Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton on a balmy July morning.

Today, as the mercury crept up into triple-digit territory—were there such an analog tool of measurement to be found aboard this fine yacht—we’re encased in an airtight wheelhouse with glacial air basting from mahogany vents. Once or twice, I’m wondering whether I should grab my jacket.

Mason’s gorgeous 63 is a handful of years into production within Hunt’s Ocean series, a range that currently spans 56 to 73 feet. The options, down to the interior wood selections—cherry, teak, or mahogany—and the array of layouts and customizations are dizzying. This boat is built to be spec’d out almost beyond comprehension. Mason is a gentleman of a particular and demanding order, and the right customer to put the yard through its paces. His flybridge-free model is, to date, the only bright-red member of the Ocean series, too. I ask him why he’d forego the flybridge, and his arguments, especially for his use, are airtight: Opting out of the flybridge not only saved money, it makes the boat less top-heavy and allows him to clear shorter bridges, something one especially appreciates navigating inshore waters, where Scarlet will spend the better part of her time.

There are GPS screens affixed to both consoles so passengers can track (or help with) navigation along the route. Mason keeps a firm eye on the GPS to make sure we’re minding our greens and reds, but also, somewhat curiously, has a road atlas on his lap—something I realize comes with the wisdom one accrues from navigating inland waterways, where charts are only so helpful.

“You can’t see a damned thing on these GPS screens,” Mason belts. He’s right. I quickly notice that I also have no idea where we are. The GPS may be keeping us in the channel, but suppose we want a better view of an upcoming marina, or, you know, somewhere to replenish or refresh ourselves in one way or another? A serious atlas—that stalwart, Baby-Boomer answer to my smartphone’s Google Maps app—is indeed useful.

We play with the remote-controlled autopilot, which we all agree is incredibly responsive—as is the boat itself. But it’s a little tricky to work with in narrow channels, especially with the steady (if not constant) flow of commercial traffic we have to weave around.

A little more than a few hours after leaving Jersey, we bank to port into a small channel through what feels like miles of water lettuce and up a creek dotted with bars, cafes and small bed-and-breakfasts. We’re in downtown Kingston, New York—the state’s first capital.

Mason takes the channel a little hot for Mark’s liking, and Mark makes no mistake of letting him know, twice, before letting the matter rest—it’s not Mark’s boat, after all.

The joystick makes docking a breeze—or seem like it—for Mason, and no sooner are the lines made fast than a vicious squall blows through, pelting us with sheets of rain that, at times, are indiscernible from hailstones. We batten down the hatches and wait for the storm to move along, and as we’re biding our time, Mason commands Mark and I to begin disassembling his icemaker, which one of his previous companions had left open somewhere down the coast and had thus become almost completely frosted over.

Mark looks at me, glaringly, and mouths the words “that is not my job.” I nod in solidarity yet with nothing better to do, decide to humor Mr. Mason and get to work. Mark pops open a can of beer with a long, drawn-out sigh.

Some hemming and hawing take place, and halfway through our disassembly, the shore power cuts out. Despite the frosted over machine, the cockpit becomes a veritable sauna, and Mr. Mason is none too pleased with anything happening at the moment. The icemaker doesn’t want to come apart, and Mark and I suggest that maybe this is a matter for another time. No such luck. A gouge from dragging the machine across the teak-and-holly-esque deck, a cut water line, and after about 30 minutes, the beast is on the deck defrosting.

Did my harried, last-second sprint up the Hudson go perfectly? Not exactly, but then again that’s boating. I got to travel some storied waters on a purpose-built yacht with a verifiable old salt, which beats planes, trains and automobiles every day of the week, ice or no ice.

This article originally appeared in the December 2024 issue of Power & Motoryacht magazine.

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Source: https://www.powerandmotoryacht.com/boats/cruising-a-custom-hunt-63