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I'm not sure exactly when it was—maybe the summer of 2002—but I do remember the conversation as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. Bob Van Grunsven, president of Carver Yachts, was telling me how he needed to build something bigger than the then-flagship Carver 56 Voyager and had decided to do so by creating an entirely new brand, separate from Carver. In implementing that philosophy he'd decided that this new line would be designed not by Carver's in-house team but rather by a hot, new design firm out of Venice, Italy, called Nuvolari Lenard, which had worked for such Italian builders as CRN, Mochi Craft, and Cantieri di Sarnico. Furthermore, he'd hired Donald L. Blount and Associates to do the structural analysis and hull design, yet another break from tradition. The goal of all this, he told me in the most matter-of-fact tone you could imagine, was to end up with a line of boats that would compete throughout the world with the best vessels coming from Europe, particularly Italy.
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Van Grunsven aimed to beat the Europeans at their own game.
I remember thinking, "This guy is living in a dream world!" Not only had no American builder ever accomplished such a feat, no one had even bothered to try. And especially not one with a reputation for building staid mid-priced family cruisers with styling that could perhaps best be described as cubical. I nodded as Van Grunsven waxed enthusiastic about his plans, first for a 59 and then for something in the mid-60s that would not only sell well in the United States but in Europe, too. Europe? "Oh boy," I thought. "He's in for a rude awakening."
About a year and a half later, I was at the Miami International Boat Show, standing in front the Carver-Marquis display on Collins Avenue, looking at the first Marquis 57. I had to admit, she was a beauty. And she really did look like she'd come from the other side of the Atlantic. Once inside her, I was even more impressed. The interior design and materials were truly upscale—completely different from those used in the Carver line. And the comments from everyone around me perfectly reflected my thoughts. In fact, one couple with whom I struck up a conversation on that first evening was so smitten, they ended up buying that very 57.
There were even positive comments from some Italians aboard. As I wrote in my review of the 59 ("Italian-American," May 2003), when one within earshot observed that the Marquis really looked Italian, his companion corrected him with the assertion that the boat actually was from an Italian yard; she'd just had been rebadged with an American logo. Even so, fool the Europeans though this boat might, I knew there was no way they were going to choose an American-built yacht—even one as beautiful as this—over one of theirs.
A little more than five years on, I am at the wheel of the newest Marquis, the 70 Tri-Deck, running in a three-foot chop off the coast of Florida, down Hawk Channel on the way to Little Palm Island. Much has changed. Van Grunsven did everything he said he would, and the result is an established brand with excellent sales not only in the United States, but contrary to my prediction, in Europe as well. (Indeed, Marquis has a separate Web site for European clients.) Part of that success is admittedly due to the anemic dollar. Yet even before the greenback crashed, Europeans were buying Marquis yachts. Just as Van Grunsven had envisioned, the brand had succeeded based on its own merits, namely styling, performance, and value.
Something else has changed. Although every Marquis is still built in Wisconsin, on the same campus as Carver, they are now assembled in a separate facility using a dedicated crew. (That facility was recently expanded to accommodate worldwide demand—rather unheard of in this down economy.) Carver and Marquis have evolved into two brands that are totally distinct in everything from raw materials to advertising.
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