‘Head straight for the Burj Al Arab hotel,” commands Chris Parsonage, a millionaire Plymouth property developer, in a voice no more excitable than if he were giving directions to a Dubai taxi driver.
Except we are not in a Dubai taxi. We are in the cockpit of his £1.5m Class 1 Offshore Powerboat — King of Shaves — and we’re ricocheting at almost two miles a minute across the surface of the Arabian Gulf.
This is not the soft, inviting blue water that lures winter-sun worshippers to Dubai. At this speed the Gulf waters are as unfriendly as one of the Iranian patrol boats that lurk over the eastern horizon. Each wave becomes as hard as a rock face and the collision of hull and sea creates a sickening shudder. Imagine driving a Formula One car at top speed over one of the bumpier stages of the World Rally Championship and you’ll get an idea of how much we’re being thrown about.
Capable of 160mph, offshore powerboats are so fast your eyes cannot focus as the horizon judders up and down; so furious that every muscle from your toes to your hair follicles gets a workout. This is not a sport for the fainthearted but it is for the rich. The 10-race season runs from April to December, culminating here at the Dubai Grand Prix. The car park is packed with Ferraris and Rollers and rumours are that the King of Spain, a huge fan, will be throwing a gala dinner after the final race.
But despite its playboy followers the sport is genuinely dangerous. In 1990 Princess Caroline’s husband, Stefano Casiraghi, died when his boat flipped during the Monaco Grand Prix, and because of the speed and sensitivity of the machines accidents are common. Unlike with other motor sports the risks of crashing do not end with you sitting amid a pile of smouldering wreckage. If you survive a crash in a Class 1, you have to save yourself from drowning and, in this neck of the woods, shark attack too. Neither Fernando Alonso nor Sébastien Loeb have that worry when they get it wrong.
In the cockpit of King of Shaves, Parsonage points out a toggle to release the safety harness in the event of a crash, and in the floor of the cockpit an escape hatch in the event of a capsize. As in all Class 1 powerboats, we are a two-man team: Parsonage is in control of the throttle and trim (which are tabs rather like the flaps on an aircraft’s wing that control the attitude of the boat on the water) while I — rookie that I am — wrestle with the wheel. As far as double acts go, I’d rate it on the same level as a pantomime horse. Captain Pugwash, or even Captain Birdseye, might have been a more sensible choice of cabin-mate for Parsonage.
My powerboat experiences can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Well, one finger of one hand, actually. Seven years ago Honda invited me to race in one of the first of its Formula 4-Stroke championship races alongside Steve Curtis, Britain’s record eight-time Class 1 Offshore champion. I assumed that he would be doing the work and I’d be hanging on with whitened knuckles.
Instead I got to drive as Curtis bellowed instructions at me as we leapt from wave to wave off the Dorset coast. His skill and the numbness of my brain combined to good effect. When we crossed the finish line first I really could take little credit.
What’s more, there’s been no time for any practice for this, my second outing. These boats suck two gallons to the mile and chew propellers at a rate of around £3,000 an hour and that is before any of the crew get paid or the boat is transported anywhere. Little wonder the world of offshore powerboating is dominated by millionaires accessorised with diamond-studded Rolexes, monstrous Montecristo cigars and tans accumulated like interest in the world’s tax havens.
What’s more, the Arabian Gulf is angry. Taming it will be hard. “Just a couple of things to remember,” Parsonage told me as we strapped into the cockpit, set above five tons of sculptured carbon fibre and alloy used in jetfighters. “First: no sharp movements. The steering should be gentle. And second, we will be the only boat out there except for the safety boat.” Selfishly, I fear he will hold back to protect man and machine. In 36 hours he will be racing on these waters. Breaking the boat is not an option.
Our first run is a jog. Well, ish. “Ninety-seven miles an hour,” he reports as he eases us off the “plane” where the boat skips stone-like across the water.
I am numb. My arms are so rigid they have lost sensation. But we are still in one piece and Parsonage seems pleased. “Nice job,” he says over the intercom. “You can relax a bit!” I haul the wheel to the left and with the assistance of a blip from Chris on the throttle (at slow speed the steering is impotent), King of Shaves springs up into the prone position for another run. This time it’s a canter. Only the final 40cm of the 13.5-metre boat are in contact with the ocean. The rest is airborne.
Parsonage is yo yo-ing the throttles to stop the props spinning in the air. Every third or fourth crest we leap into the sky. For a split second no throttle or steering matters. We are passengers until we land again.
I am getting braver. My arms are firm, not solid. I start reading the waves and anticipate the rolling action of the Gulf by trying to balance this monster on the foaming crests.
The sense of speed increases with the intensity of the actions needed to keep on track. The swell rocks us, not gently but with heavyweight punches. Every mile an hour or two more heightens my fear and exhilaration. We are tapdancing on a monster’s wobbly belly. Any moment now he is going to get pissed off and flick us away.
“One hundred and seventeen miles an hour. Well done,” shrieks Parsonage, checking his GPS. There is no speedo on a powerboat. Our speed is determined by satellite. “One more run?” This is when accidents happen. I’d hoped to be doing the 140s or higher but the sea is too rough for top speeds. But Parsonage is happy to risk another rollercoaster ride in the rough.
More forcefully now, I crank the wheel to the left and feel the boat bite the brine as I round one of the race markers. Lateral G-forces come into play for the first time, squeezing some more juice out of my almost arid adrenal gland. As if he were racing, Parsonage sinks the throttles and the twin 900bhp Lamborghini engines sing like Barry White after a hard night out. For the final time, Chris calls out our bearing. “Straight for the Burj Al Arab . . .”
Class 1 powerboating
Class 1 powerboating is not a sport that many of us can afford. For a start a second-hand boat will set you back about £1m.
Then the running costs for both boat and race team are typically around £500,000 annually.
Affordability for the novice
There are, however, other more affordable methods by which you can get a taste of the sport. Modern RIBs (rigid inflatable boats) may be capable of only 40mph, but they still provide thrills aplenty for the novice, and they are far more manoeuvrable than any Class 1 boat.
Powerboating schools
There are several powerboat schools around the country. Salcombe Powerboat School (01548 842 727, www.salcombepowerboats.co.uk) is one. There you can simply go out with crew for a blast or take lessons that lead to a qualification. A two-hour taster session will set you back £160. For a full listing of UK powerboating schools, visit the Royal Yachting Association’s website at www.rya.org.uk.
The internet fast lane
King of Shaves had a close shave at this year’s British Grand Prix in Plymouth after crashing at 135mph. You can see the crash at here
ALSO
Follow the continued quest of our four amateur explorers to reach the Pole at here
