That waterway was the Hudson River.

The Vision

Part of our culture is proving what our boats can do in the real world. Starting in 2004 with a three-day run from Baltimore to Key West, we’ve now completed nine excursion trips — Clearwater to Cuba, Fort Lauderdale to Bimini Island, Key West to the Dry Tortugas, Chicago to Mackinac Island, the Mississippi River (retracing Tom Sawyer’s path), Los Angeles to Catalina Island to San Diego and back, retracing the path of the Edmund Fitzgerald across Lake Superior, and now our latest Hudson River expedition. Every trip is part adventure, part product demonstration, and part love letter to boating in America.

In early March, I asked my team to fast-track the build of an Excalibur 27-foot LTD with twin 500 horsepower Mercury Racing engines — 1,000 horsepower total. And I had one very specific request: wrap it in stars and stripes, red, white, and blue. I wanted something that would stop people in their tracks on the water. Something worthy of the Hudson River, of America’s birthday, and of the Statue of Liberty herself.

My goal was simple and singular: get that boat in front of Lady Liberty and get the shot. Everything else was gravy.

The Crew & The Plan

We chose Albany as our departure point for good reason: it is the capital of New York State, and the Hudson from Albany to Manhattan is essentially an open-air museum of American history. Our plan was to depart Albany on the morning of May 19, travel roughly 90 miles to Peekskill for the night, and then make the final push into Manhattan on the 20th — weather permitting.

Our driver, Duane Welch, had begun towing the boat from Alma to Albany on Sunday. Our flight into Albany put Doug, John, and me on the ground at 4 pm on the 18th. And almost immediately, the trip started testing us.

Day One: Albany — Getting In the Water

By sunset, we had topped off our 150-gallon fuel tank, loaded up on ice, water, and supplies, and backed the boat down the ramp at the Forbes Avenue launch in Rensselaer, just across the river from Albany. The Hudson stretched out before us in the golden light, wide and dark and quietly magnificent. John got the drone in the air and captured the crew, the boat, and the skyline of New York’s capital as the sun set behind it. A 3- by 5-foot American flag snapped in the breeze between our two wrapped Mercury engines. We couldn’t have scripted a better opening frame.

Day Two: Albany to Peekskill — 90 Miles of American History

Henry Hudson himself had sailed these waters in 1609, working his way north from New York Bay all the way up to what is now Albany, searching for a passage to the Pacific. We weren’t searching for a passage, but I understood something of what he must have felt: the river’s sheer scale, the silence of the morning, the sense that the banks had something to say if you were quiet enough to listen.

We quickly passed an oil refinery and a tanker anchored along the shore — industry and wilderness side by side, just as they’ve been along this river for centuries. John put the drone up to capture our departure, and the footage was stunning: a red, white, and blue pontoon boat trailing a wake through the wide Hudson, the American flag flying between two massive Mercury engines, Albany receding in the background.

As we left the city behind, the river opened into long, remote stretches of wilderness. We would run five, eight, sometimes ten miles without seeing another vessel or a single sign of human life. In those moments, with 1,000 horsepower humming behind us and the water as smooth as glass, you couldn’t help but think about what this river meant to the men and women who fought for this country 250 years ago. The Hudson wasn’t just a backdrop to the Revolution — it was a strategic artery, and control of it was control of the continent.

We passed through Athens, a small town that traces its history to the earliest Dutch settlers on the river. Not far from there, I spotted something in the middle of the water — a lighthouse attached to what appeared to be a small house, sitting alone in the river. We circled it a few times and sent the drone up for a closer look. It turned out to be one of the many historic Hudson River lighthouses, each of which once guided steamboats and sloops through treacherous shallows. Seeing it out there, self-contained and solitary, was one of those moments that makes a river trip different from any other kind of travel.

By late morning, we pulled into the Kingston City channel and idled up the Rondout creek towards town. Kingston deserves more than a footnote: it was New York’s very first state capital, chosen in 1777 when Albany was considered vulnerable to British attack. That same year, the state constitution was adopted there, George Clinton was inaugurated as New York’s first governor, and the first state legislature convened — all in Kingston. And then, in October of 1777, the British sailed up the river and burned most of it to the ground. Kingston was rebuilt. It always has been. As we idled past the marinas and the Rip Van Winkle II — a tour boat being loaded with passengers for a local cruise — the people on the dock took one look at our stars-and-stripes wrapped pontoon and waved like old friends. We made ham and turkey sandwiches and watched the Catskill Mountains rising green and distant on the western shore.

By 11:30 we were back on the main river and running south at 45 miles per hour, the triple pontoon planing on top of the water with only the rear few feet of the pontoons in contact with the surface. We were, as I like to say, flying.

Around 12:30 pm as we approached Poughkeepsie, Duane, who had driven ahead, informed us that he was just ahead of us and was waiting on the Poughkeepsie Bridge, also known as the Walkway Over the Hudson. The steel cantilever bridge spans the Hudson River between Poughkeepsie, N.Y., and Highland, N.Y. The bridge was originally built as a double track railroad bridge in 1889 but was converted into a pedestrian walkway in 2009. It is notable for being the world’s longest elevated pedestrian bridge, offering stunning views of the Hudson River and the surrounding landscape. Duane called again to say he could see us. John put the drone up and we got some spectacular footage looking up at the bridge from the river, with our boat’s red, white, and blue streak across the frame. Each time the drone went up, Peter would provide the historical input and context of what we were seeing. Peter had grown up in New England and knew the area extremely well.

Just south of Newburgh, we came upon Bannerman Island — Pollepel Island — a small rocky outcropping in the middle of the river bearing the dramatic ruins of Bannerman Castle. Scottish arms dealer Francis Bannerman VI built the fortress-style structure in the early 1900s as a storehouse for his enormous collection of surplus military weapons. We circled the island several times and sent the drone up. The castle ruins rising from the water with the Hudson Highlands as a backdrop looked like something from another century — which, of course, they were.

Then came Constitution Island and West Point, and the river’s famous S-curve. This is where the Hudson River Chains were stretched across the water during the Revolution — massive iron links forged at local ironworks and floated on log booms to prevent British naval vessels from sailing upriver. The Great Chain, completed in 1778, ran from West Point to Constitution Island and remained in place until the end of the war. It worked: the Royal Navy never broke through. Thirteen links from the original chain are still on display at Trophy Point at the Military Academy. As we rounded that S-curve and West Point’s grey stone buildings came into view on the bluffs above us, I cut the speed and we made several slow passes. There’s something about West Point that straightens your spine.

We pulled into the Peekskill Yacht Club at 2:45 — roughly 90 miles from Albany. We were tired, sunburned, and deeply satisfied. Three or four club members had heard we were coming and were waiting on the dock. They were genuinely moved by the boat and by the story of the trip. When we asked about fuel, they told us they were running off last year’s rate of $3.20 a gallon. When we tried to pay our hundred-dollar fuel bill, they refused. They were a non-profit, they said, and they just wanted to help. It was a small moment, but it said everything. That’s America.

After a sunset cruise with Peter’s nephew and his wife, who live nearby, and a meal at the local Thai restaurant, we were in bed by 10:00. Call time: 7:30 am.

And then she appeared.

Lady Liberty. Emerging from the haze of New York Harbor, one of the most recognized silhouettes in human history. I had imagined this moment since February. Now here it was.

Since drone flights are restricted in the harbor, we had planned ahead: John had a stand-up paddleboard for exactly this purpose. As we inflated the board, I noticed a pleasure boat heading our way and made a quick decision. I gunned the twin Mercs toward them, flagged them down, and asked if they wanted to make $100 for 15 minutes of their time. They said yes without hesitating. We transferred John and his camera equipment to their boat, handed off a two-way radio, and began making passes between their position and the statue.

John directed us by radio, “a little more to the left, turn now, slow down, perfect — hold that line.” After several passes, he came over the radio with two words, “Got it.” We picked him up, reviewed the shots on his camera, and every one of us on that boat let out a yell. The money shot: a red, white, and blue pontoon boat, built in Alma, Mich., running hard in front of the Statue of Liberty. America’s birthday. Our ninth excursion. Freedom on the water.
It turned out that the two people on the other boat were veterans. We thanked them for their service, and that felt right, given everything.

Fuel became our final adventure. Our Simrad display ticked down to 10 percent, then 4 percent, then 3 percent, then 2 percent. The Chelsea Pier fuel dock turned out to be a rumor — there was no fuel on the Manhattan side of the river. We had to cross to Liberty Marina on the Jersey side, and we made it with the gauge reading zero, coasting the last stretch on fumes and faith.

By the time the storms rolled in that evening, we had the boat out of the water, loaded behind Duane’s truck, and ourselves safely checked into the Hampton Inn on 24th Street. The sky turned black at 5, thunder and lightning splitting the air, and the temperature dropped 24 degrees in under an hour. We had made the right call pulling the boat early. We celebrated with beers at McSorley’s Old Ale House — established in 1854, one of Manhattan’s oldest — and dinner in Little Italy.

The next morning, with rain still falling, we walked to the 9/11 Memorial. We stood at the tribute pools and read the names. We spoke quietly about the trip, about the river, about what it means to build something in America and take it out into the world. There’s a particular kind of gratitude that comes from standing at a memorial like that after a few days on one of history’s great rivers. You feel it in your chest.

These excursion trips are our way of putting that product to the test in the most unforgiving conditions we can find. Baltimore to Key West. Clearwater to Cuba. Lake Superior. The Hudson. Nine trips. Not a single one that didn’t teach us something.

This one taught me that the Hudson is more than a river. It’s a corridor through time — from Henry Hudson’s first voyage of exploration, through the fiercest campaigns of the Revolution, past the country’s first state capital, through the Highlands where the Continental Army held the line, all the way to New York Harbor where the greatest symbol of American freedom stands with her torch raised.

Running that river in a red, white, and blue pontoon boat, built by American hands in a small Michigan town, with 1,000 horsepower and an American flag snapping in the wind — I can’t think of a better way to say happy birthday, America.

We simply live by one motto: Let’s get ‘er done.