A look at what happens when a husband-and-wife team with a big-business background buy a small business in Maine.
Bob Hammer and Sue Crowe abandoned their successful big-company lives and high-rise Chicago home to buy a small business on the coast of Maine. Here's what happened next
A chilling January wind whips off Penobscot Bay as Bob Hammer and Sue Crowe duck into Seafarers for lunch. Like most local restaurants, the place is nearly empty this time of year, since the coast of Maine isn't terribly popular in winter -- even local business owners close up shop and flee to kinder climates. Among those who remain, there is a relaxed camaraderie. The results of last year's toboggan race are posted behind the bar, and Hammer takes some good-natured ribbing about the "strategies" that won him and three employees eighth place out of 65 entries. "I had some theories on wind resistance," he jokes. "Then there was the secret ingredient we sprayed on the bottom of the toboggan," adds Crowe. It's a far cry from lunch in the executive dining rooms at Motorola and Abbott Labs, where Hammer, 60, and Crowe, 51, were senior managers for the better part of their careers. Now here they sit in the land of moose-crossing signs, having traded in their tailored suits for Levi's and their high-rise luxury apartment in Chicago for a sprawling renovated "cottage" on the bay.
Hammer and Crowe, who have been married for 21 years, share a passion for sailing and a distaste for traditional retirement. "We had talked on and off about running a little business when we retired," says Crowe, a former director of human resources at Abbott Labs who still projects remnants of a high-powered executive's demeanor. "We were always giving advice to management, and we liked the idea of being management." As Hammer approached retirement age they began to look for opportunities that would not "break the bank" (which they concede is substantial). The company had to be small, with a price tag of no more than $500,000, have some growth potential, and, ideally, be situated on the east side of Lake Michigan "so we could go sailing when we weren't that busy." Business brokers presented a hodgepodge of choices -- a wholesale flower business, an electronics subassembly plant, a cherry orchard, a furniture company. They were too risky, too narrowly focused, or too dependent on outside variables. But BlueJacket Ship Crafters, a mail-order model-ship-kit manufacturer in Searsport, Maine, seemed, well, just right. True, Hammer and Crowe hadn't planned on being that far east of Lake Michigan, but the coast of Maine held its own appeal, as did the company's nautical theme. "And we liked that it was a mail-order business," says Crowe. "We envisioned ourselves sitting with the cell phone on the back of the boat, saying, 'Yes, we'll get that out to you tomorrow."
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Of course, it didn't quite work out that way. Hammer and Crowe made their first visit to BlueJacket in autumn 1991, after they had thoroughly reviewed the company's profit-and-loss pro formas with their accountant and had done their own analysis of the market. Dun & Bradstreet's reports on a handful of similar companies showed Crowe and Hammer that BlueJacket probably had less than 10% of the market. But, reckoned Hammer, aging baby boomers would expand that market, since it is primarily older men with leisure time who tinker with model ships. "If we could just maintain our market share, the company would grow quite comfortably," he recalls thinking. Assured by model-ship retailers that BlueJacket had a loyal following and a solid reputation for quality products, Crowe and Hammer began to think that they had discovered a diamond in the rough. They paid $331,000, a little less than the asking price. The sellers accepted, eager to move on.
It wasn't until the due-diligence phase of the sale that Hammer and Crowe got their first inkling of the challenges they would face. BlueJacket was situated in a former schoolhouse, a circa-1840 building with a second-floor apartment that was home to the company's managers, a married couple who were minority shareholders. Around their kitchen table, Hammer and Crowe interviewed each of BlueJacket's six employees, searching for clues that might better prepare them for their new roles. "I've managed several corporate realignments, and I've never met a group of people that were more apprehensive," recalls Crowe. Although the employees had suspected that BlueJacket was on the auction block, no one had bothered to tell them outright that the company was being sold. "When we found out who Bob and Sue were, it boggled our minds," recalls Joanne Trefethen, who works in the shipping department. "How could they run a company like this? We couldn't imagine it." Hammer and Crowe, on the other hand, were unconcerned. They had, after all, managed hundreds of employees. They had reengineered. They had restructured. Heck, they had even shifted a paradigm or two. And they fully intended to try it all out on BlueJacket. But while they hinted at what they had in mind down the road, they were quick to reassure the employees that no dramatic changes would be made right away, that everyone still had a job, and that the employees' current boss, Jane Holt, would remain on staff to ease the transition.
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The sale was made final in December 1991 -- the beginning of Hammer and Crowe's toughest year. To be eligible for full retirement benefits, Hammer would need to stay at Motorola through 1992. Crowe would manage BlueJacket on her own while living at a nearby hotel, and eating -- mostly alone -- at local restaurants. On weekends, the two would take turns commuting between Bangor and Chicago. It was exhausting, expensive, lonely, and often frustrating. "The learning curve was intense," Crowe recalls. "We didn't know what we were doing, so we had to keep asking employees how things worked." Accustomed to being told what to do and rarely asked for their opinions, employees regarded Crowe's questions as further proof that BlueJacket was in uncertain hands. The couple's commuting arrangement, which prevented them from putting down roots in the community, also struck employees as odd. "There wasn't a feeling of permanence," says Sandy Whitney, who is in customer service.
