La voiture qui pouvait flotter sur l'eau — et qui fonctionnait réellement
Annonces
Picture this: it’s 1964. You’re on a quiet lake road in Michigan, windows down, radio playing some Motown.
You pull over, flip a lever, and suddenly the little green convertible isn’t driving anymore—it’s motoring across the water like it never occurred to anyone that land and lake should be separate things.
That was the Amphicar 770.
Annonces
Le car that could float on water. And unlike most “amphibious” dreams that died on the drawing board, this one actually rolled off a production line.
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Résumé des sujets abordés
- What Was the Car That Could Float on Water?
- How Did the Damn Thing Actually Work?
- What Went Wrong During Its Short Life?
- Why Do People Still Talk About It Sixty Years Later?
- Real Stories and What It Tells Us Now
- Foire aux questions
What Was the Car That Could Float on Water?
Le car that could float on water was called the Amphicar 770.
Built in Lübeck, West Germany, between 1961 and 1965 (with a few stragglers sold into 1968), it carried a grand total of 3,878 examples into the world.
Under the hood sat a Triumph Herald 1147 cc four-cylinder making a very polite 43 horsepower.
On pavement, it topped out around 70 mph if you were brave and the wind was with you.
In the water it managed about 7 knots—roughly 8 mph—with the enthusiasm of a relaxed pontoon boat.
It looked like someone took a 1950s European convertible, gave it a mild identity crisis, and told it to learn how to swim.
The body was pressed steel, surprisingly watertight when new, doors sealed with rubber gaskets, exhaust piped high.
Price new hovered between $2,800 and $3,300 depending on the year and market.
In today’s money that’s roughly $28,000–$33,000—steep for what was essentially a cheerful experiment.
There’s something oddly touching about its existence. Post-war Europe and America were obsessed with mobility and leisure.
The Amphicar wasn’t trying to solve a problem so much as it was asking a question nobody had really asked before: why can’t a car just keep going when the road ends?
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How Did the Damn Thing Actually Work?
On dry land it drove like any other small rear-drive car of the era—clunky four-speed manual, swing-axle rear end that could get twitchy if you lifted off mid-corner.
Nothing revolutionary there.
The magic happened at the water’s edge. You stopped, engaged a second lever that dropped twin three-blade nylon propellers into the water behind the rear axle.
The same engine that pushed you down the highway now spun those props through a marine gearbox.
Steering? The front wheels stayed in the water and acted as rudders. Simple. Brutally simple.
The hull displaced just enough water to float the 2,300-pound curb weight with a reasonable safety margin.
A pair of electric bilge pumps lived under the rear seat in case things got damp inside (they usually did).
After every swim you were supposed to hit thirteen grease points—including one awkwardly located under the back seat—to keep the propeller shafts and seals happy.
Owners who skipped that step learned expensive lessons fast.
It’s the mechanical honesty that gets me. No computers, no hydraulics pretending to be clever.
Just levers, shafts, and the stubborn belief that if something is built well enough, it will probably work.
++ Comment un homme a conduit de l'Alaska à l'Argentine en Coccinelle VW
What Went Wrong During Its Short Life?
Money, mostly. The Quandt Group (yes, the same family later tied to BMW) underestimated how expensive it would be to build a car that also had to be a legally recognized boat.
Every unit required hand-finishing to get the sealing right. Corrosion showed up faster than anyone wanted to admit, especially in salt-water areas.
Then came the paperwork. The U.S.
Coast Guard insisted on navigation lights, a proper horn, life jackets on board—things that made sense for a boat but felt absurd on something that looked like a car.
Emissions rules were starting to tighten. Sales never caught fire outside a small circle of eccentrics and waterside dreamers.
By 1965 the line shut down. A few leftover cars dribbled out until 1968. The car that could float on water had proved it could be done—but not profitably.
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Why Do People Still Talk About It Sixty Years Later?
Because it’s ridiculous in the best possible way.
Lyndon Johnson once drove a group of startled guests straight into the lake at his Texas ranch, let them scream for a second, then calmly motored back to shore while grinning like a kid.
That single stunt probably sold more Amphicars than any brochure.
Today a well-sorted one changes hands for $50,000–$100,000 at auction.
The International Amphicar Owners Club still runs annual “swim-ins” where dozens of them splash around together like a floating car meet.
There’s a warmth to that scene—people who love something deeply flawed, who understand that perfection isn’t the point.
In a way the Amphicar predicted our current obsession with multi-modal transport.
Electric amphibious concepts, Gibbs Aquada derivatives, even some military prototypes—they all carry a little DNA from that quirky German convertible.
Real Stories and What It Tells Us Now
A friend of a friend in northern Minnesota still uses his restored red 1964 Amphicar to run to the general store across the lake in summer.
He drives the mile and a half of county road, then straight down the boat ramp, across the water, up the other ramp.
Total trip time: twenty minutes. The ferry takes forty-five. That’s not theory—that’s Tuesday for him.
Another story: a marine biologist working out of Tampa Bay kept one in the early 2000s.
He’d load sampling gear in the trunk, motor across shallow bays without unloading, take his cores, motor back. No trailer, no ramp hassle, no wet feet. Pure utility disguised as whimsy.
These aren’t hypotheticals. They’re proof that the car that could float on water wasn’t just a gimmick. It solved real problems for people who lived where land and water blur.
Looking at today’s world—rising flood zones, coastal communities, remote cabins—the idea feels less crazy than it did in 1961. Maybe the Amphicar was early, not wrong.
Foire aux questions
Real questions that keep coming up whenever someone sees one bobbing in a marina:
| Question | Réponse directe |
|---|---|
| How fast did it go on water? | About 7 knots (≈8 mph). Not fast, but faster than paddling. |
| Is an Amphicar still street-legal? | Yes in most places, though some states want it registered as both car and boat. |
| What engine did it use? | Triumph 1147 cc inline-four, 43 hp. Same family as the Herald and Spitfire. |
| Why didn’t they make more? | Too expensive to build properly, corrosion headaches, tiny market. |
| Are there modern cars that can do this? | Not in production. Closest are one-off electric concepts or very expensive toys. |
If you want to fall down the rabbit hole, start with the Amphicar page on Wikipedia, read the affectionate deep-dive on Silodrome, and check Hagerty’s piece on its short, strange life.