The media found him irresistible. And not just the local media, either. For remember, this was the era of Texas Chic, of John Travolta and Gilley's and all that. Furthermore, here was a family business worthy of the name: Scoville's 64-year-old father, Bob, kept the production line clanking; his mother, Jeanne, also 64, served as customer-service representative; and his sister-in-law Lenetta Scoville ran the office. The Wall Street Journal, Texas Monthly, Beverage World, and Beverage Industry -- everybody wanted a piece of the story. And each time an article appeared, he'd make a copy and send it around to the next batch of potential interviewers.
By early 1985, Scoville had accumulated a media package as thick as the San Antonio white pages -- and sales figures to match. Revenues were approaching $3 million and were expected to double the following year, with profits holding from 10% to 15% of sales. By now, his was the top-selling sparkling water in Texas, bigger even than Perrier, with distribution that spread to New Mexico, Florida, Oklahoma, Louisiana, and Georgia. INC. listed Artesia 95th on its 1985 list of the 500 fastest-growing privately held companies in America.
To many in San Antonio, it now looked as if Rick Scoville had made it. There was the custom-modified Porsche. The gold gleaming from wrist and neck. The narrow pink tie set off against the pleated white shirt, worn open over his chestl. Unlike some entrepreneurs, Scoville never intended to grow old with his creation. His hope had always been to grow a company and sell out, while he was still young enough to boogie through the night under Houston's bright lights. Now, as his fortieth birthday rolled around, the dream looked within his grasp.
But that was before Ron Bownds came along.
Rick Scoville admits he overreacted to the challenge -- it's the redhead in him, he says. "I'm the James Dean of the bottled-water business. I live in the fast lane."
He was probably behind the wheel of his Porsche when the first heard the radio ads last summer for something called Utopia Sparkling Water, from "deep in the heart of the Texas hill country." And before long, billboards along the freeway were picturing the new product with a pretty blue waterfall right there on the label. The advertising appealed to Texas pride, and stressed purity and health: tests showed that Utopia Sparkling Water had less sodium and more magnesium than any of its competitors.
To Rick Scoville, it was pretty clear that somebody was trying to do to him what he had spent six years doing to Perrier. It was a "me-too" copy, as far as he was concerned, and he was riled.But up in the tiny town of Utopia, population 350, Ron Bownds, the creator of Utopia Sparkling Water, was telling reporters that Scoville had it all wrong. "I didn't start the company with any kind of marketing strategy. I just thought people would enjoy a water from Utopia."
If Ron Bownds had not started out with a marketing strategy, he discovered one quickly enough. And his well-orchestrated campaign to out-Texas the original Texas water company became something of a press agent's dream. Bownds was a natural for the role, what with his muddy cowboy boots, silver belt buckle, and a wad of smokeless tobacco always wedged in his cheek. People in San Antonio would see him driving through town behind the wheel of a four-wheel-drive wagon, with a blue plastic spittoon mounted on the dash. A public relations agency was hired to stir up some attention, and journalists interested in the story would be invited to Utopia to eat chicken-fried steak in the local cafe. They'd hear Bownds recount the tales of his great-grandfather's covered-wagon trek to the Sabinal Canyon River Valley, or his own stint as deputy sheriff in nearby Bandera, the "cowboy capital of the world." On the way to see the spring, Bownds might point out a deer grazing in the oat fields. Then he'd show the reporters his source, bubbling up cool and clear, a constant 68 degrees, spilling over into a perch-filled pool -- "the old fishin' hole."
Bottling water from the family spring had not always been Bownds's ambition. At an early age he realized the family's 600 acres could no longer support a working ranch. And so, like countless Texans before him, he set out in search of oil -- in his case, as the senior Gulf Coast petroleum geologist for a private independent driller. Then, in 1983, the company wanted to transfer Bownds from San Antonio back to Houston. Bownds had always hated Houston for lots of reasons, including the drinking water. And he was loathe to give up the family ranch. Backed by $150,000 in savings, Bownds decided to "switch natural resources" and went into water, bottling noncarbonated spring water from the family spread for homes and offices in San Antonio.
It was every bit as humble a beginning as Rick Scoville's: Bownds and two employees worked from a makeshift plant behind his mother's house. "God-made water" he called it, but even with the Deity behind his company, Hill Country Spring Water of Texas Inc., profits were limited by low margins and relatively high shipping costs. He needed something more lucrative. And, down in San Antonio, Rick Scoville was pointing the way.
