From the archives: Fall at the Monaco GP in the Gibbs Aquada

“You have reached the Jordan Grand Prix. Sorry, we can’t answer the phone right now, but leave a message and … “Damn it.

Okay I admit it. Getting into the most prestigious motorsport event of the year just a few days earlier wasn’t my smartest idea, but there has to be a way to get in there.

“Why don’t you go to the harbor?” Suggests someone in the office. Oh ha-ha … wait a minute. You could be into something.

Words: Paul Walton
Pictures: Michael Bailie

“Good evening, Gibbs Technologies.”

“Can I borrow one of your cars?” I ask desperately. “This weekend. As in a few days. In Monaco. To see the Grand Prix.” Pause. “Please?”

“No problem. Mr. Gibbs is already there and has one parked on his yacht. I’m sure he would like you as his guest.” Did she just say “parked”?

The Gibbs Aquada caused a sensation when it was first launched last year. The idea of ​​an amphibious car is not new (others are the floating jeep from the 2nd speedboat on the water.

However, when the car was initially shown to the world it was in the closed confines of a reservoir, but I am about to drive it on the Mediterranean Sea to sneak into the port of Monaco for a look at the grandstand of the race throw. So it’s a bit of a gamble – will it be up to the job, will it sink, will I have to get out faster than Noah after one of the llamas said “Hey, we want a swimming pool on our deck too”? However, being ticketless doesn’t leave me with many options.

On the morning of the race, I meet Gibbs Technologies representatives outside of Monaco. The principality is a no-go area during the Grand Prix as it has more closed roads than Baghdad and the fact that every rich, almost rich, and would-be-rich Playboy shows up in his Ferraris, Lamborghinis and Gibbs Aquadas and the rest in its blocked looking to look cool. So the plan is to get as close to the circuit as possible by road and then complete the journey by sea. Not something you would say at Silverstone. Well, not unless you are really, really lost.

It’s bigger than you think, the Aquada, which doesn’t look dissimilar to a large Mazda MX-5, but then Gibbs uses the Mazda’s unusually shaped headlights. It is slim and elegant. And while it’s a somewhat unusual looking sports car, it’s not entirely obvious that it can transform into a boat. Not until you look underneath. One of the reasons the Aquada works is because of its hull which, due to its keel-like shape, means it can slide across the water instead of being pushed to one side like the flat-fronted Amphicar.

I climb into the car (there are no doors because … hmm, that might be self-explanatory) and get behind the wheel. With seating for three, the driver sits in the middle, McLaren F1-style, while the two passengers sit a little behind. The controls are the same as on a car – steering wheel, gear knob for the five-speed automatic, brakes and accelerator – but nothing overtly nautical. The only point that suggests it’s a car that doesn’t chuckle as it pulls into the neighbor’s pond is a small button on the dash that says ‘water / land’.

I start the centrally placed 2.5-liter V6 from Land Rover Freelander and drive to the port of Fontvieille, just around the corner from Monaco. Despite the central position, it is completely normal to drive. And while it’s not a Lotus Elise (the car is too tall and the suspension is too soft) it still drives better than any boat I’ve ever driven on land. Plus, the stock 175hp V6 gives the car plenty of power and the burying of the accelerator pedal makes for real acceleration that pushes you into the seat. But even if it behaved like a goat on ice skates, it would be forgiven for all the attention it gets. Although made in Nuneaton (which is a very long way from Monaco in all respects), it still attracts more attention than all of the local supercars combined.

“Yes, yes”, everyone says, “an Anphib car!”

We reach the harbor and the slipway into the sea – this is really time to sink or swim. I carefully go downstairs (getting some very strange looks) and as I step into the water I feel the car begin to float, so I press the water / land button. The car, sensing that it is drifting, not only lifts the wheels, but also adjusts the balance at the rear so that the front (or bow) now sits proudly.

The problem with other amphibious cars is the wheels, as they have the slipperiness of a windbreak. The Aquada lifts it into its hull via a hydraulic strut and then, since the front drive shafts are decoupled from the motor, the power is diverted to a rear-mounted impeller. A steering nozzle is connected to the normal steering wheel and is used to steer the water jet. The conversion to the boat is effortless and you have no clue of the process until a light appears on the dash to let you know that the switch is complete. “Holy Couer!” I hear from the shore. It’s all very James Bond.

I push forward, careful not to collide with the larger yachts around me, because that would be more Norman Wisdom than Pierce Brosnan. The speed limit in port is three knots, but since the Aquada is steered by a jet that needs strength to squeeze through more water, you have to gain a foothold when maneuvering. It’s completely unnatural, and I have a moment or two frantically dabbing the brake pedal while heading for something solid before I hit the accelerator and turn the wheel that instantly turns the Aquada.

Finally we reach the sea. Even though it’s a beautiful sunny day, these waves look suspiciously big. And dark. And scary. But as soon as I get the engine up to 5,000 revs, the car flies over the water and I start looking for those 30 knots.

Driving the Aquada at sea is like off-roading in that I keep correcting the steering because the current is pushing it off course or trying to find the shortest and easiest route over the waves. A couple of times I get it wrong and when the bow dips into the sea, brine worth a Roman bath comes up, which unceremoniously spilled over the windshield and onto me. Aside from being wet now, the little car drives very well and it never feels like it is overturning.

By train or car, it would have taken me most of a morning to reach Monaco’s main port of Condamine. I made it in no time by sea. And just in time, because from here I can also hear the cars pulling into the starting grid. The harbor is busier than the M25 on a Friday public holiday, so I’m struggling to find my way to the center, although it caused more excitement than if Michael Schumacher crashed in the tunnel (but what are the chances that that happens, right?). But that’s it, I’m here. I’ve bypassed Bernie Ecclestone and the Automobile Club de Monaco and still sat in the middle of the action where I can see … Nothing. Zipper. Unfortunately the harbor walls are too high and the Formula 1 cars too low for me to see anything. But one reason to race is because of the atmosphere. And even though I’m in the harbor and not just nearby, I still soak up as much as if I’d sat in Prince Rainier’s private box and ate Bollinger.

It doesn’t take long before the people on the yachts stand out and head to head, yacht after yacht, grandstand to grandstand, all attention is no longer focused on Sato’s grilling BAR, but on a floating car in which I’m grinning at the wheel.

After the race, it’s time to hit the road. It is usually a long, tough fight to get off the track at this point, but not today. I get the car going, accelerate and when I turn the steering wheel hard, the Aquada turns 180 degrees. Once you’ve got the hang of using the power in the smallest of spaces, the car is immensely manoeuvrable.

I was asked if I should return the car to Mr. Gibbs’ yacht when I was done.

“How do I know which one is his?” I asked.

“It’s obvious,” was the reply. “He parked the helicopter upstairs and the dry dock in the back where you will park.” “Oh,” I say. “Apparently.”

On the high seas, I discover a large yacht on which a helicopter is actually parked. Feeling like an extra from The Spy Who Loved Me as I rush towards this towering monster, especially when I see a ramp under the helipad, one of two on board. “My friends need a parking space,” Mr. Gibbs explains later. Funny, mine just use the driveway. As I get closer, I lower the wheels, nail the motor in place, and when the tires hit the ramp, the drive returns and the Aquada is a car again. I later discover that this is a dry dock for the yacht’s tender – the 42-foot Nelson – that Mr Gibbs (or rather his staff) has boarded up so that it can move in and out.

With this setup, I’m expecting a James Bond-style villain (“No, Mr. Walton, I expect you to get dry!”), But Mr. Gibbs is a well mannered New Zealander in his sixties who isn’t like a multi looks millionaire. Of course, other than looking like me, I have no idea what a millionaire should look like, but his casual style wouldn’t be. When we sit on the 76th largest yacht in the world, the Senses, he looks like a man who feels completely at home.

He got the idea for the Aquada on his farm in New Zealand, where he couldn’t bother to haul a boat because of the long shoreline of the lake. After Alan devised a way to raise the wheels while they were still attached to the driveshaft, he moved to Detroit in 1997 and employed a small team of engineers who set about perfecting the ultimate amphibious vehicle.

Two years later, Neil Jenkins, a British automotive engineer who had worked with Jaguar and Aston Martin, heard about the project and persuaded Alan to move to the UK.

“The UK is the right place for a small-volume composite car,” says Neil. Premises were bought in Nuneaton and four years later – after a long development – the car was presented to the public. The two have big plans for their high speed amphibious (HSA) technology, and the Aquada is just the beginning.

“I predict that in 20 years, a fifth of all vehicles will be amphibious,” says Alan. He’s not kidding either, and I’m foregoing a clever comment because: a) he’s taller than me, b) we’re way up there and c) if someone had said that about the four-wheel drive market 30 years ago, you would have thought that too .

Sure, it’s a toy for the wealthy (although he also announced that the original £ 150,000 price would be cut in half), but because this system works so well, maybe it could become an accepted part of the auto market.

Time is of the essence and I have to get to the airport even though my Bond-like day wasn’t over. “We’ll take you in the helicopter if you want,” says Mr. Gibbs. As we take off, I look over to Monaco, down at the yacht, at the car I’ve had the most fun with, and finally at Mr. Alan Gibbs and think ‘lucky you’ before I fly away.