A Trucker's Arithmetic
On the morning of April 26, 1956, about a hundred guests gathered at Port Newark, New Jersey, to watch a crane do something that looked, at first, like nothing much. Every seven minutes it lifted an aluminum truck body off a wheeled chassis and set it down on a steel frame built above the deck of an old tanker called the Ideal X. After lunch most of the dignitaries drifted away. By the end of the day, in less than eight hours of cargo work, fifty-eight boxes were aboard and the ship had sailed for Houston.
The man who had organized the day walked up and down the ship checking clearances and alignments. Malcom McLean was forty-two, a North Carolina trucking operator with no background at sea, and he had sold one of the biggest truck lines in the country to be standing there. What mattered to him came later, when his accountants finished the numbers. According to the historian Marc Levinson, whose book The Box is the standard history of containerization, loading loose cargo onto a medium-sized ship in 1956 cost $5.83 a ton. McLean's people put the cost of loading the Ideal X at 15.8 cents a ton.
That gap, a reduction of more than 97 percent in the cost of getting freight onto a ship, is the whole story in miniature. McLean did not invent the metal box. Railroads and ship lines had experimented with containers for half a century. What he understood, as Levinson puts it, was that the shipping industry's business was moving cargo, not sailing ships, and that cutting costs meant redesigning everything that touched the cargo: ports, cranes, ships, trucks, paperwork, and labor. The system he built helped make it cheap enough to manufacture goods on one side of the world and sell them on the other.
By the Numbers
McLean and the Box
58Containers aboard the Ideal X on its first voyage, April 26, 1956
$5.83 → 15.8¢Cost per ton of loading loose cargo in 1956, versus the Ideal X
1,776Tractor-trailers McLean Trucking ran across 37 terminals in the early 1950s
$10,000McLean's own cash in the 1955 takeover of Waterman Steamship, per Levinson
$530MPrice R.J. Reynolds agreed to pay for Sea-Land in 1969, in cash and stock
$1.27BLiabilities of United States Lines when it filed for bankruptcy in November 1986
Maxton
Malcom Purcell McLean was born on November 14, 1913, in Maxton, North Carolina, a farming town in Robeson County settled generations earlier by Highland Scots. He was one of seven children of a farmer. As a boy he sold eggs by the roadside and, according to John D. McCown, who worked with him for two decades and later wrote about him, went from store to store in town with a shoeshine kit.
He finished high school in 1931, in the depths of the Depression. There was no money for college. He stocked shelves at a grocery store, then took a job managing a gas station in nearby Red Springs. There he noticed that the trucker who brought the station's gasoline from Fayetteville, about twenty-eight miles away, was paid five dollars a load. McLean worked out that he could haul it himself for less. He borrowed an old tank trailer from the station owner, bought a used tractor with money he had saved, and started moving his own fuel.
In 1934 he formed McLean Trucking, with himself as the only driver. He bought a used dump truck on installments to haul dirt for the Works Progress Administration, then a truck to carry farmers' produce. Each contract financed the next vehicle. He brought in his brother Jim and his sister Clara, and the three settled into a division of labor that lasted decades: Jim ran day-to-day operations, Clara handled administration, and Malcom sold and planned.
McLean kept driving long after he could afford not to. He watched how cargo was loaded and unloaded, what it weighed, what it was worth, and where it sat and waited. McCown recalled one of his favorite sayings: if you don't have something to compare, you don't have anything. The habit of measuring one way of doing things against another became the core of how he ran a business.
The Rate Filings
The Motor Carrier Act of 1935 put interstate trucking under the Interstate Commerce Commission, which controlled routes and rates and required carriers to justify their prices by their costs. For most operators, regulation was a cage. For McLean it was a lever. If he could prove to the commission that his costs on a route were lower than his competitors', he could win permission to charge less and take their customers.
So he drove his costs down relentlessly. McLean Trucking switched to diesel engines early, and its drivers bought fuel only at stations that agreed to a discount. Its trailers had crenellated sides to reduce wind resistance. Its hub in Winston-Salem moved freight between trucks on conveyor belts. New drivers were paired with experienced ones, who earned bonuses if their trainees went a year without an accident, which cut insurance and repair costs. McLean studied his competitors' public ICC filings to find where he had the biggest cost advantage, then argued for lower rates on exactly those routes. In one case recounted by the Federal Reserve Bank of Richmond, he persuaded the commission that his administrative and terminal costs were lower for cigarettes than for other freight, which let him haul cigarettes from Durham to Atlanta at half the rate other truck lines charged.
The business compounded. By 1940 McLean Trucking had thirty trucks and grossed $230,000 a year. Five years later the fleet had grown more than fivefold. After the war, long-haul truck traffic more than doubled, and McLean grew by leasing routes and buying smaller carriers, including by signing up returning veterans who used government loans to buy their own trucks. By the early 1950s the company ran 1,776 tractor-trailers from 37 terminals across the East, and Levinson reports it ranked third among American trucking companies in after-tax profits in 1954. It was also one of the first in the industry to run a formal management training program; its college hires began by learning to drive a truck.
The Hoboken Story
Late in life, when people asked McLean where the idea of the container came from, he told a story. In 1937, he said, he had spent hours waiting at a pier in the New York harbor, variously described as Hoboken or Jersey City, while longshoremen unloaded his truck piece by piece and hoisted each bale into a ship. It occurred to him that it would be quicker to lift the whole truck body aboard. His obituary in The New York Times repeated the account.
Levinson left the story out of The Box because he found no contemporary evidence for it and doubted it happened as told. The more documented origin is duller and more revealing. By the early 1950s, highway congestion on the East Coast, before the Interstate system existed, was slowing McLean's trucks and raising his costs. Coastal shipping lines, meanwhile, were buying surplus wartime vessels for next to nothing and could undercut trucks on long hauls. McLean's first plan, around 1953, was defensive: build waterfront terminals where trucks would drive up ramps and leave their trailers aboard ships running between North Carolina, New York, and Rhode Island, bypassing the traffic.
As he worked the numbers, the plan changed. Trailers with wheels and axles wasted a third of the space on a ship and could not be stacked. Detaching the bodies from their chassis and lifting only the boxes aboard would let each vessel carry far more cargo, and since the ship was the most expensive part of the operation, more boxes per ship meant a lower cost per box. The Port of New York Authority costed the concept on Ballantine beer, which McLean Trucking hauled from Newark, and estimated that loading it in containers would be 94 percent cheaper than conventional handling.
Selling the Trucks
To carry freight by sea, McLean needed a shipping company, and in 1955 he found two: Pan-Atlantic Steamship, which held valuable coastal operating rights, and its parent, the Waterman Steamship Corporation of Mobile, Alabama, a large, debt-free line with thirty-seven ships and a lot of cash. The obstacle was the law. Regulators did not allow one party to control both a trucking company and a shipping line without ICC approval, and the railroads were certain to object.
McLean's answer was to give up the truck line. He and his siblings placed their controlling shares of McLean Trucking in a trust with independent trustees empowered to sell, and the stock was sold in 1955. He was walking away from the company he had spent twenty years building to bet on a service that did not yet exist. Levinson later asked whether he had thought about protecting his trucking fortune from the risks of the new venture.
You've got to be totally committed.
— Malcom McLean, quoted by Marc Levinson in Zócalo Public Square, 2017
The Waterman purchase showed a talent for finance that few truckers possessed. McLean worked with Walter Wriston, then a young banker running the shipping loan business at First National City Bank of New York, who would later become chief executive of Citibank. The bank lent $42 million for the acquisition. When senior officers at the bank balked shortly before closing, McCown recounts, one of them dismissed Wriston as a clerk, and McLean replied that the clerk would soon be the boss of both of them. The loan went through.
The closing, on May 6, 1955, in a Mobile boardroom, has become a small legend of corporate finance. The Waterman board lacked a quorum, so a lawyer went downstairs and paid a passerby fifty dollars to serve as a director for the afternoon. The old directors resigned one by one and were replaced by McLean's nominees, and the new board immediately declared a $25 million dividend to McLean's holding company, which wired it to the bank to pay down the loan. As the meeting broke up, lawyers for a rival bidder served papers to block the dividend. The money was already gone. McLean sold off a hotel, a dry dock, and other unwanted Waterman assets within two months to reduce the debt further. By Levinson's count he had put up $10,000 of his own cash to take control of one of the largest ship lines in the country.
In a sense, Waterman was the first LBO.
— Walter Wriston, quoted in Marc Levinson, The Box, 2006
The Ideal X
Nothing McLean needed could be bought off the shelf. In March 1955 his staff called Keith Tantlinger, chief engineer at Brown Industries, a Spokane trailer maker, who had designed an early aluminum container for barges running to Alaska. Tantlinger flew to Mobile the next day. McLean's plan was to fit two surplus T-2 tankers with raised steel frames above their decks to hold truck bodies, while keeping the tanks below for petroleum so the ships could carry oil on the return leg if containers failed to sell. Using old tankers limited the downside.
When Tantlinger arrived at the Bethlehem Steel shipyard in Baltimore to show off two prototype containers, he found McLean, his brother, and several associates jumping up and down on one of the thin aluminum roofs, trying to prove it would buckle. It held. McLean ordered two hundred boxes and hired Tantlinger as chief engineer. Tantlinger went on to design the fittings and locks that let containers be stacked and secured, and a spreader bar that let a crane operator pick up a box by its corners with the flip of a switch, without anyone climbing on top to attach hooks.
The obstacles were regulatory as much as mechanical. The Coast Guard wanted proof that stacked boxes would not shift in heavy seas, so Tantlinger loaded two containers with coke briquettes, packed modeling clay into the gaps to record any movement, and sent them back and forth between Newark and Houston until a stormy crossing satisfied the inspectors. Standard shipboard winches could not lift a twenty-ton box without destabilizing the ship, so McLean bought two large revolving cranes from a disused shipyard in Pennsylvania, cut them down, and installed them on rails at Newark and Houston. The ICC, over the railroads' objections, did not approve the service until late 1955.
Then came April 26. According to the most widely repeated version, as the Ideal X was being loaded, a senior official of the International Longshoremen's Association was asked what he thought of it and replied that he would like to sink it. Five days later the ship docked safely in Houston, where waiting trucks carried the boxes off to their destinations. Pan-Atlantic's container service settled into one sailing a week each way, and McLean's engineers soon found a way to squeeze sixty-two containers onto ships built for fifty-eight.
Lean Years
The breakthrough did not pay for years. In the autumn of 1956, when a dockworkers' strike idled East Coast ports, McLean used the down time to send six Waterman freighters to the company's reopened shipyard in Mobile, where their holds were rebuilt with a honeycomb of steel cells so that containers could be lowered in and stacked. The first of these fully cellular ships entered service in late 1957, carrying 226 containers each, about four times the Ideal X's load. Nobody had stacked containers five or six high at sea before, and McLean, in Levinson's account, did not dwell on the unknowns; he told his staff to solve them.
Demand lagged. From 1957 through 1960, according to Levinson, the container business lost $8 million. McLean kept borrowing to buy and convert more ships, including tankers that could carry 476 boxes. He moved Pan-Atlantic's headquarters to a warehouse near the Newark docks in 1958 and staffed it largely with people from trucking rather than shipping, reasoning that most of the business was now terminals, cargo handling, and inland transport. In 1960 he renamed the company Sea-Land Service. McLean later told McCown he had designed its red-and-black logo, a stylized S, to suggest a dollar sign.
What eventually won customers was not the box but the bill. McLean and his sales chief, Paul Richardson, created a form called the Total Transportation Cost Analysis, which every salesman had to present. It compared the full cost of moving a customer's product by truck, rail, conventional ship, and Sea-Land, including pickup, delivery, warehousing, and insurance, then multiplied the per-load savings by the customer's annual volume. The container also sharply reduced theft and damage, which shippers of valuable goods like liquor noticed quickly.
Sea-Land expanded to Puerto Rico, where it became the dominant carrier, and through the Panama Canal to California, becoming the first line to serve both coasts. In early 1964 it bought a ship line serving Alaska, shortly before one of the most powerful earthquakes ever recorded created enormous demand for building materials shipped by sea. In 1966 Sea-Land began transatlantic container service to Rotterdam and Bremen, and within two years the North Atlantic trade had largely gone over to containers.
One Box for Everyone
The biggest barrier to container shipping's growth was incompatibility. Each line that followed Sea-Land ordered boxes to suit its own ships, and each used its own design of corner fitting. A factory that packed a shipment into one carrier's containers could only use that carrier's ships and ports. The U.S. Navy, worried about supplying troops in a war with a fleet of mismatched vessels, pushed American transport companies to begin standards talks in 1958, and the International Organization for Standardization soon took up the effort.
McLean, treated by the shipping establishment as an outsider, was not part of those talks. After years of stalemate, negotiators turned to him. He agreed to surrender Sea-Land's patents so that containers everywhere could use the same corner fittings, and with agreement on standard lengths, including the forty-foot box, any container could fit on any ship and be handled by any crane. McCown, who knew him well, argues that if McLean had cared only about accumulating wealth he would have acted differently. McLean had grasped that the more the whole industry containerized, the more ports, cranes, and customers there would be for Sea-Land to serve.
He also understood something his competitors did not, which Levinson summarizes as the fallacy of fixed freight. The industry assumed that the amount of cargo in the world was more or less given, so that anything moving by ship was taken from rail or truck. McLean saw that if moving goods got much cheaper, people would ship far more of them. Freight costs in 1961 amounted to about 12 percent of the value of American exports, in effect a tariff imposed by inefficiency. Removing that tariff would create trade that did not yet exist.
Vietnam and the Empty Return
The war in Vietnam gave McLean the demonstration he needed on the other side of the world. As the American buildup accelerated in 1965, the ports of South Vietnam were overwhelmed. By late that year, McCown writes, dozens of ships were waiting offshore or in the Philippines to be unloaded. McLean flew to Vietnam to see the ports himself and lobbied the Pentagon to let him prove what containers could do.
Sea-Land's first foothold, in April 1966, was a trucking contract to distribute cargo from Saigon. In May it began running container ships from Oakland to Okinawa, a staging base for the war. That October, after Defense Secretary Robert McNamara toured the congested ports, Sea-Land won a contract to carry containers directly to Vietnam and operate the terminals and trucking there, at a fixed price rather than the usual cost-plus arrangement. Direct service to Cam Ranh Bay began in 1967. Three Sea-Land ships soon did the work of more than a dozen conventional freighters. Each round trip, according to the Richmond Fed's account of Levinson's research, earned Sea-Land more than $20,000 a day.
Because the military paid for round trips and sent little cargo home, the ships were free to carry anything on the way back. As a trucker, McLean hated running empty. He went to Japan in 1967 and signed up manufacturers, and by 1968 Sea-Land was running containers from Yokohama to California. Levinson notes that the service made it possible for companies like Matsushita and Pioneer to export televisions and stereos to the United States in enormous volumes. A logistics fix for a war became one of the channels through which East Asia's export economy reached American households.
Selling Sea-Land
By the late 1960s competitors had built bigger, faster container ships, and Sea-Land needed capital to keep up. McLean turned to R.J. Reynolds, the Winston-Salem tobacco company whose cigarettes his trucks had once hauled. In January 1969 Reynolds agreed to buy Sea-Land for $530 million in cash and stock, one of the largest acquisitions of its time, and formed a holding company, R.J. Reynolds Industries, to make the purchase. McLean became a director and, by McCown's account, the largest individual shareholder in Reynolds.
He was not suited to it. McLean left day-to-day management of Sea-Land in 1970, began selling his Reynolds stock in 1975, and left the board in 1977, unhappy, Levinson writes, with the company's bureaucratic ways. Sea-Land under Reynolds ordered the SL-7s, a class of very fast, fuel-hungry container ships that set transatlantic speed records just as the 1973 oil shock made them ruinously expensive to run. Reynolds eventually sold them to the U.S. Navy.
In the meantime McLean invested widely. A real estate company he controlled bought the Pinehurst golf resort in North Carolina in 1971, and he developed a residential community called Diamondhead on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and a large hog farming operation in North Carolina. In 1972 he met a young
Frederick Smith, who was looking for an anchor investor in an overnight air freight company. McCown recounts that McLean questioned Smith closely on his pricing but did not invest in what became FedEx.
The Econships
McLean could not stay out of freight. In 1978 he bought United States Lines, a large but struggling carrier, for $111 million, according to Time. The plan he built around it rested, once again, on cost per box. Oil had been climbing through the 1970s, and he expected it to keep rising. So instead of fast ships, he ordered a dozen enormous, slow, fuel-efficient vessels, known as Econships, from Daewoo in South Korea, each able to carry more than 4,000 twenty-foot boxes and, at over 57,000 gross tons, larger than any container ship afloat. They were to run eastbound around the world in a continuous loop, covering the strongest legs of the company's routes and opening new ones. U.S. Lines spent more than $1 billion on the new fleet and on buying two other American carriers, Moore-McCormack and Delta Steamship, to build volume.
The bet depended on the price of oil, and the price of oil collapsed. By 1985 crude had fallen from around $30 a barrel to around $10, erasing most of the Econships' advantage over faster rivals. Overcapacity triggered rate wars. U.S. Lines lost $236.9 million in the first three quarters of 1986, according to the U.S. Naval Institute's annual review of the merchant marine, and on November 24, 1986, McLean Industries and United States Lines filed for Chapter 11 protection, with liabilities of $1.27 billion. It was one of the largest bankruptcies in American history at the time. McLean owned 89 percent of the parent company. The ships were laid up and sold, and thousands of people lost their jobs.
McCown, who worked at the company, blames the failure partly on management. Senior posts were held by a relative, McLean's son, and his two sons-in-law, none with much relevant experience, and the operating team never changed as the company quadrupled in size. McLean, he writes, came to acknowledge the mistake. Levinson describes a man who afterwards withdrew from public view, ashamed of a failure that had cost so many people their livelihoods, and who shunned reporters for the rest of his life.
Three Long Blasts
He kept working. In the early 1990s, in his late seventies, McLean founded Trailer Bridge, which carried freight between the U.S. mainland and Puerto Rico. The inventor of container shipping chose roll-on, roll-off barges towed by tugs, carrying the 48- and 53-foot trailers that American trucks had by then adopted. His reasoning, as McCown describes it, was that if there were an actual bridge to Puerto Rico, freight would move in the same large units it used on the mainland, so the ships should behave like a floating highway. Trailer Bridge went public in 1997, the fifth public company McLean had founded. Mindful of what had happened at U.S. Lines, he insisted that no family members would manage it.
Malcom McLean died at his home in Manhattan on May 25, 2001, at the age of eighty-seven. Transportation Secretary Norman Mineta called him the father of containerization and said his idea had replaced a method of loading ships not much changed since the Phoenicians. On the morning of his funeral at Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, container ships around the world sounded their horns in tribute.
The box outlived its inventor's reputation. The container eliminated most traditional dockwork, hollowed out old port neighborhoods in New York, San Francisco, and elsewhere, and gave manufacturers the freedom to build wherever labor was cheapest, with consequences for workers in rich and poor countries alike. It also made an astonishing range of goods available to ordinary consumers at prices that would have been unthinkable in 1956. Levinson's verdict is that McLean's innovation, meant only to make a trucking company a little more efficient, changed the world in ways no one had imagined, including McLean himself.