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The John F, Leavitt, red and white, constructed from the oak and pine of the Maine forest, is the fulfillment of Ackerman's dream, but he resents that description. The very word suggests impracticality, something Ackerman wants no part of. "Would it seem like a dream to you if you bought a new truck?" he asks. Is he the forerunner, the leader in something new, something that could become a trend? "Nah," he sneers in a New Hampshire twang. "If a lot more schooners are built, it will be because a lot of people independently came by the same conclusion I did." His conclusion: with fuel now responsible for 40% of the cost of running any engine-driven ship, and the price still rising, freight rates will force merchants to find a cheaper way to haul goods. "Some day," says Ackerman, "there may not be any more fuel-driven trucks or motor ships at any price. But wind is plentiful." Cargo sailboats used to make the run from Maine to South Carolina in as little as a week's time. But there is always tacking against the wind. All together, Ackerman hopes to average 100 miles per day.
The John F. Leavitt is named after a maritime writer whose book Wake of the Coasters first inspired Ackerman's notion that the era of the wooden sailing ship might again be at hand. Ackerman gave up the pursuit of a doctorate in Middle English, Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-Norman French at the University of Pennsylvania to build his ship. There is enough romance in the hard-nosed seaman that he sought out John Leavitt's widow, Virginia, and invited her to break the obligatory bottle of champagne over the ship's prow at the christening. She did, splashing it all over her face, dampening her snow white hair and proper navy blue dress. The crowd cheered. The Thomaston High School band thumped out a march. Members of the Newmarket militia fired a one-gun salute.
Once aboard, not even Ackerman could remain dour. Lovingly fingering one of the telephone polelike masts, which will carry 6,441 sq. ft. of sail, he allowed his eyes to drink in the full magnificence of the vessel. An understandable pride began to creep into his voice: "I'm personally responsible for every penny in this schooner. I've put everything I own into her. It's quite an investment. I've got to get it back." How much? "That's my secret." The Leavitt will use cotton sails, partly because they are cheaper, partly because they wear longer on a working ship. A set will probably cost $15,000. Her hull and spars must have cost more than $350,000. The total outlay had to be considerable. But, snaps Ackerman, "whatever it is, there is no mortgage. Not one cent."