Shipbuilder Donald McKay was called a genius in his time, building clipper ships that broke records in the years of the Californian Gold Rush. Yet his empire collapsed as the era of steamships dawned. Why could he not adapt? What causes a successful business to fail, and can we avoid this?
In this story, we seek answers through the eyes of the visionary but humble McKay. We hope you enjoy the journey!
Here I am on my farm with little to my name, frail and old. I have few days left, yet I am at peace.
My life has been an extraordinary one, with extraordinary success. Yes, it all collapsed, but I can accept this now because I know that I tried my best, with all the knowledge available to me at the time.
Naturally, I often wonder whether I might not have turned things around had I been a younger man when the age of steamships dawned, or had I learnt more, and much more quickly, from other men – men of the new age who had iron and steel running in their veins, as timber and salt ran in mine.
Of course, I will never know. Many called me a genius, but I told them I was really just a mechanic – a mechanic with luck. Now I am sure that I was right.
These reflections come to me as I sit on the porch of my farmyard. The scent of hay and earth fills my lungs, and I watch the sun dip towards the horizon. The rhythm of a farm is steady and predictable – something that a shipbuilder can never claim of the sea. Yet that was my world and still, these days, when my hands touch the small curve of a wooden chair, I remember the massive curve of a ship’s hull under construction; the grain of timbers chosen for their strength.
My hands recall a life spent mastering wind and wood.
“And so, aged 16, I set off for New York with the dream of crafting vessels myself; vessels that would defy the very limits of nature.”
I was educated in the common schools of Shelburne County in Nova Scotia, Canada. Of course, school was not where my heart lay. Whenever possible, I would escape to the local docks and shipyards to soak up the smells of sea salt and sawn timber; to marvel at the shipbuilders at work, hear the groan of ships in the swell, and watch boats heaving away with the waves. My heart was won.
And so, aged 16, I set off for New York with the dream of crafting vessels myself, vessels that would defy the very limits of nature. I found an apprenticeship with the shipbuilder Isaac Webb, and, after some years, set up my own shipyard in East Boston, building schooners and packets – strong and pleasing ships that came in on budget and could weather the high seas.
Then came the California Gold Rush of 1849. Many people wanted to seek their fortunes in California, others to transport goods there to sell. The quickest route was around Cape Horn, but this required a new kind of ship, one built for both tonnage and speed: a clipper. And so, I began building clippers, and over time built about 40 in all.
Understanding the sea, its tempers, and its hardships, I built accordingly. My clippers were sleek and sharp, made to soar over the water rather than ride through it, with the swiftness of a bird in flight.
Their names captured the imagination: Lightning, Sovereign of the Seas and best of them all, The Flying Cloud, which could sail from New York to San Fransisco in a record 89 days. There were many more: Flying Fish, North Star, and others with odder names: Santa Claus, Staghound, Mastiff, which I named enjoying their sheer strangeness.
“For many years, my name carried weight. Merchants and captains sought my hand to craft them the best vessels of their kind. I was well ahead.”
None of this would have been possible without my wife, Mary. Few know this, but it was she who taught me algebra and trigonometry by candlelight, patient as the moon, well before we married. Her intelligence, patience, and good humour made me realise she was the one I should spend my life with. Without her, I would have been a man with vision but no means to make it real.
My clipper ships had concave bows and square sails on several masts, as did all clipper ships, but my hulls were narrow for speed – which was how they broke so many records. I worked with my shipbuilders at every stage of construction, to ensure my designs took proper shape. No detail was left to chance.
For many years, my name carried weight. Merchants and captains sought my hand to craft them the best vessels of their kind. I was well ahead. But times change, and no man leads forever. As freight rates dropped and the Civil War began, the age of steam arrived too, inevitable as the tide.
I saw it coming and tried to embrace the change.
The first time I set eyes on a steamship I was struck by its squat inelegance, the sheer bulk of it. Stepping aboard, I realised it would be slower but roomier than my clippers, and its steel hulls more reliable. This sturdiness, I saw instantly, would herald the end of the clipper’s supremacy.
“To those who now stand at the helm of their own ventures, I say this: honour what you know, but never hold it so dear that you cannot embrace change.”
I would have to adapt and build steamships; to gain a new set of skills. I tried hard – studied the new designs and built several steamships for the United States Navy during the Civil War. Then, in the post-war years, I retooled my shipyard for steamships and built many more of them. But I was only moderately successful. As the financial pressures mounted, I sold my shipyard in 1869 and retired to this farm.
You see, I understood wood, the voice of the wind in the rigging, the dance of a well-balanced hull. But steel and steam − these were strange tongues to me. The fire of invention burned far brighter in younger men. And so, the world sailed on without me.
Was this failure? Perhaps. I could have fought harder, learned faster from those who understood the new ways, even worked alongside them more closely. A business must grow with the times, or it will wither.
But I moved with too little conviction – too little passion, perhaps – and my shipyard floundered, my name slipping from the ledgers of industry.
I do not regret the life I built. My ships still live in memory, in the stories of those who once stood upon their decks feeling the rush of the wind at their backs. This is my legacy, as much as any fortune or name carved in stone.
To those who now stand at the helm of their own ventures, I say this: honour what you know, but never hold it so dear that you cannot embrace change. The sea does not favour the man who sails against the wind – it rewards those who adjust their course well and swiftly.
It is a hard lesson, but one we all learn, willing or not. May those who read these words learn it a little better than I did.
- This story was based on extensive research, but we had to take creative liberties regarding how McKay as an old man saw his life, as this information was not available, based on what we learnt of his character.
Bertus’s last word:
Is our business, or the way we do it, becoming antiquated?
This is a big question that preoccupies us at Dolphin Bay – a question of fundamental change. We cannot carry on with the old, thinking it will suffice forever.
Our lives should reflect a continual progression upwards. The clipper ship story above is striking for me personally, and for Dolphin Bay, as it reminds me of the deep internal work we need to do to reevaluate our position in all of life, including business, day by day and year by year.
For me, this cannot be separated from my faith in Christ, which is the driver for continuous progress upwards.
We don’t always have all the answers, but we need to believe we’re moving in the right direction.
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