It wasn’t about playing God. Rather, it was a better way to feed the world.

That’s how a biotech company called AquaBounty described its AquAdvantage salmon, the first genetically modified animal approved by the federal government for human consumption. By adding a gene from Chinook salmon to Atlantic salmon and using DNA sequences from eel-like ocean pout as a “growth promoter,” the company said its salmon could grow twice as fast.

The silvery superfish is indistinguishable from other Atlantic salmon, the company said, but, with freshwater tanks and less feed, it can reach market size sooner than its conventional cousins. No ocean required.

But it was all easier said than done. After decades of backlash, boycotts and persistent financial losses, on top of the regulatory slog, AquaBounty hooked its hopes for the future on a village in Ohio with an enterprising name — Pioneer — and an accommodating mayor, Ed Kidston.

Eventually, it fell apart. And the village that hoped for a transformative industry is carrying the cost.

Pioneer, population 1,410, is just south of the Michigan border, in a county where fields of corn are cut by spear-straight country roads. AquaBounty promised 112 jobs, plus resources for schools and infrastructure.

And it promised something different from the metal stamping plant or Menards distribution center that opened in the area in past years. Researchers and advocates have long suggested that the Rust Belt use its water wealth to build a “blue economy.” AquaBounty seemed like a forward-looking prospect.

Although the company never made a profit in its 30-some years of existence, public officials rolled out the red carpet.

AquaBounty got a state permit to withdraw up to 5.25 million gallons of groundwater per day to operate the fish farm. JobsOhio, the state’s private economic development arm, executed an agreement to grant it $1 million. The Toledo-Lucas County Port Authority authorized up to $425 million in revenue bonds.

An enterprise zone relieved AquaBounty of 15 years of property taxes. With the help of state dollars, Pioneer extended a road, a project estimated at $1.7 million.

Pioneer, which operates its own electric system, borrowed $3.95 million on the municipal debt market — later upped to $5 million — for a new substation project. The substation would provide a boost to AquaBounty’s energy needs.

And before AquaBounty’s plans were public knowledge, a company owned by Kidston purchased land for $600,000. He later flipped it to AquaBounty for nearly $2.1 million.

The mayor did well. Pioneer and the state did not.

Nearly three years after AquaBounty broke ground, there are no fancy fish tanks. No designer fish. No new jobs. Even with so much public assistance, it’s not clear if AquaBounty will ever finish building the farm. This month, it auctioned off “new” and “unused” equipment from the site.

Neither Kidston, who has said that he was merely trying to help the town, nor AquaBounty responded to questions for this story.

Locals are left to grapple with a partially developed site, a short-circuited growth strategy and questions about whether the project was ever viable.

The saga “could potentially send a message that it’s difficult to develop in Williams County,” said Ashley Epling, who took the helm of the county’s economic development organization after AquaBounty arrived in town.

Todd Roth, who oversees the Williams County engineering department, said the promise of development can require tradeoffs that compel public officials to make difficult decisions.

“How far do we go on hope?” he asked.

Panama to Ohio

In the highlands of Panama, tucked behind padlocked gates and barbed wire, AquaBounty wanted to prove what was possible. There, in 2008, it opened a demonstration facility — a venture that “no one would ever think that anyone in their right mind would do,” said Ron Stotish, former president and chief executive officer.

“We built a small farm basically by hand, with local labor and this local trout farmer,” Stotish said. A visiting reporter told television viewers that it had “shades of Jurassic Park.”

Without precedent for AquAdvantage salmon, the Food and Drug Administration reviewed it as a new animal drug. Inspectors visited AquaBounty’s Panama facility and its hatchery on Canada’s Prince Edward Island. They assessed environmental risks, like transgenic fish escaping and interfering with salmon in the wild. The company said it designed AquAdvantage salmon as sterile females so they won’t reproduce.

Journalists and activists scrutinized AquaBounty too, reporting on a mishap in Panama that cost the company its first batch of commercial-sized fish and supermarkets pledging that they wouldn’t sell bioengineered salmon.

With the fish not even for sale yet, AquaBounty patched together financing to stay afloat, including from a former Soviet oligarch.

Federal approval came in 2015 — for the Panamanian and Canadian sites only. New facilities needed individual approval. Meanwhile, a coalition of environmental and industry groups, including the Center for Food Safety, filed a lawsuit challenging the FDA’s review. In a case that would take years to resolve, they argued that the agency failed to fully assess the risk of AquAdvantage salmon escaping into the wild.

And genetically modified salmon had an influential foe: U.S. Sen. Lisa Murkowski of Alaska. Following FDA approval, she inserted language into a spending bill that stymied the introduction or distribution of genetically modified fish until labeling guidelines were in place. In comparison to what she dubbed “frankenfish,” she noted that Alaskan fisheries “are world-renowned for their high-quality, productivity, and sustainability.”

Momentum shifted after Canada approved AquAdvantage salmon and the U.S. developed a labeling policy. By 2019, reporters and at least one politician were touring AquaBounty’s small salmon farm in Indiana.

The future seemed bright when Stotish left the company at the end of the year. “I’m the guy that won the Super Bowl and then walked out the door,” he said.

AquaBounty’s search for a place to build its first large-scale production facility brought it to the northwest corner of Ohio, where, according to an account written by Kidston, it considered property he owned. He didn’t name the prospective developer in his letter to a state commission, but details correspond almost exactly to AquaBounty.

The company decided to pursue its project elsewhere, Kidston wrote — paralleling AquaBounty’s announcement about a site in Kentucky — but it retained his business, Artesian of Pioneer, to evaluate the water supply at the site it was considering in another state. The company found the water characteristics unsuitable for its purpose, he wrote.

AquaBounty eventually decided to build on property that it bought from Kidston’s company. At the 2022 groundbreaking, Aquabounty President and CEO Sylvia Wulf was enthusiastic about the company’s future in Ohio. “We thought that Pioneer’s the kind of community that would be receptive,” she said in a newscast.

Pioneer would set a template, the company later proclaimed. AquaBounty would build new farms every two years or so. It eyed global markets: Brazil, Argentina, Israel, China.

Ohio was just the beginning.

The Mayor’s Land, a Town’s Hopes

On a cold night in January 2021, the Madison Township trustees gathered in a truck bay. Kidston, mayor of the village encircled by the township, had requested a special meeting.

First elected in 1995, he’s believed to be Pioneer’s longest-serving mayor, exceeding another Mayor Kidston — his father, Bruce. He has trim white hair, a ruddy complexion and a prominent presence. At last year’s Christmas tree lighting, he dressed as an ornamented evergreen, wearing a crown of lights.

His presence stretches into property and business holdings, including Artesian of Pioneer, founded by his parents, and now specializing in water supply and wastewater treatment. It dips below ground, too. He sparked protests in 2018 and 2019 when he tried to extract and sell up to 14 million gallons a day of groundwater to the Toledo suburbs, which many feared would deplete the local aquifer. Kidston defended the effort, but ultimately the suburbs went with another water plan.

In the truck bay, the topic was a proposal to allow Pioneer to annex about 160 acres from Madison Township so that the village could spur development at its expanded industrial park. Minutes summarizing the meeting indicate that while two Pioneer council members and the Pioneer administrator were present, only Kidston spoke about the proposal with the township trustees that evening.

Kidston signed in as the mayor of Pioneer, according to the minutes and the trustee who said he recorded them. Thanks to a recent purchase, his company Kidston Consultants was one of two landowners of the site. Kidston described his interest in the annexation, what he’d like to accomplish and how development would benefit schools, according to the minutes.

When trustees worried about traffic costs, Kidston offered $5,000 for road maintenance — an annual contribution for 10 years, he indicated.

There was no vote that night. Within days, Kidston wrote an email to several officials who attended the meeting, saying that he was present that night merely as a landowner and representative of the other landowner, not as mayor.

His goal, he added in the email, has always been to ensure that everyone wins. The financial offer was to compensate the township “in exchange for a non-adversarial ‘quick’ agreement,” he wrote.

Kidston then contacted the Ohio Ethics Commission, describing his intersecting interests in a prospective development. His water business had provided services for a company that was interested in a site he’d like to have annexed by Pioneer. The company might also be interested in an ongoing business relationship. He wouldn’t participate in village decision-making about annexation or efforts to secure a tax abatement, Kidston wrote.

An attorney’s response noted that Kidston may retain the same access to governmental entities as any other citizen. But, it said, he cannot use his position as village mayor, “formally or informally,” in any matters involving the proposed annexation of the property, or to secure the annexation of the property. It also said that Kidston cannot take action as a village official “to benefit your personal financial interests or the financial interests of a company with which you have an ongoing business relationship.”

Kidston didn’t attend another special meeting about annexation, held 12 days after the first. But, according to the minutes, Kidston’s company would pay the township $50,000 if the trustees signed an annexation agreement that day. A local development official spoke on behalf of the proposal, telling trustees that she couldn’t guarantee payment from Kidston beyond that day.

The township board unanimously rejected the $50,000 offer. Two of three trustees told ProPublica they felt pressured and had concerns about the ethics of what they considered such an unusual offer, echoing remarks in the local news at the time. (The third trustee didn’t respond to inquiries from ProPublica.)

Two days later, the trustees approved a deal where Pioneer would pay the township $390.54 annually, the approximate sum the township would forgo in taxes.

Kidston Consultants purchased more than 80 acres on Jan. 22, 2021, three days before the truck bay meeting. The communities approved annexation on Feb. 8. On July 23, Kidston’s company nailed down an agreement to sell the land to AquaBounty. The profit: about $1.5 million.

News of AquaBounty’s arrival spread locally when The Bryan Times published a story a week later: “Salmon farm planned for Pioneer.” It was believed to be the largest investment ever in Williams County.

Suddenly, an Upstream Battle

As AquaBounty made its move into Ohio, everybody seemed to get on board.

There were the JobsOhio grant and the port authority’s bond authorization. There was a 15-year property tax exemption. With assistance from state agencies, the village committed millions to developing roadway and power infrastructure that would support AquaBounty.

Some incentives were contingent. In exchange for the abatement, for example, AquaBounty agreed to maintain a certain number of jobs and donate a percentage of its savings to a county infrastructure fund and area schools.

North Central Local schools could get $750,000 a year for 15 years, Kidston estimated in news reports. Maybe even a million.

The coming jobs would have higher wages than usual for the area, a local economic development official told the county commission. They were new types of jobs, too, suitable for people with biology and chemistry degrees or research expertise.

“We both have personal experiences with people who have left our region or not worked in their field because they don’t have those types of jobs here,” she said.

Now, maybe, that’d change.

Besides financial and infrastructure support, AquaBounty got an unusual state permit to withdraw up to 5.25 million gallons of groundwater a day. The company planned to treat and discharge most of it into the St. Joseph River, where it would eventually flow into Lake Erie instead of replenishing the aquifer.

That instigated a backlash from people who said the plan would draw down the aquifer, thinning lakes and threatening drinking water even beyond Ohio’s borders. The Pokagon Band of Potawatomi Indians asked why AquaBounty couldn’t reuse or recirculate more of what it took, and why there wasn’t a review of the impact on wetlands. With the impact from the proposed withdrawal swelling across its border, Michigan’s environmental agency also weighed in with concerns. Sherry Fleming of Williams County Alliance, a grassroots environmental group, said that Ohio “continues to treat water as nothing more than a commodity.”

Some skeptics questioned AquaBounty’s ties to the mayor. “Mr. Kidston swears up and down that the aquifer has enough, and will always have enough water, to withstand 5.2 million gallons of withdrawal a day,” wrote a retiree with a farm to an official with the Ohio Department of Natural Resources. The mayor sold AquaBounty property and services, he said. “This man has always had a dog in this fight!”

Despite the opposition, the state granted the water permits, explaining that all requirements were met and certain safeguards were in place. But AquaBounty still had a problem: It didn’t have a way of moving water between its farm and the site about a mile east where it planned to withdraw and discharge it — on land owned by Kidston’s company.

Pioneer applied three times for a right-of-way permit so that AquaBounty could build pipelines across private property. The county rejected each request.

Pioneer and AquaBounty sued, arguing that the pipelines are a utility, serving the broader public good. The commission responded that pipelines between two private property owners are not a public utility, and even if they were, nothing compels commissioners to grant the right of way.

Roth, the county engineer, expressed concern at how much government support AquaBounty got before its plans were clearly viable.

They still didn’t have a way to get the water to their farm, Roth said to ProPublica, “and yet, they were starting to get money.”

Problems mounted. The Indiana farm was fined over permit violations for excess pollutants in its discharged water. Due to a ruling in the FDA lawsuit, the agency was further reviewing the salmon’s escape risk.

And expected costs in Pioneer more than doubled from initial estimates, flirting with $500 million. The bonds authorized by the port authority were never issued. (Contacted by ProPublica, an authority official wouldn’t say why.)

In June 2023, about 13 months after breaking ground, AquaBounty announced a pause on construction in Pioneer, citing “a substantial increase in its estimated cost.”

With its stock price deflated, the company was at risk of slipping off the trading market, so it performed a reverse stock split. It sold the Indiana farm for less than it paid, with certain equipment purchased for Pioneer included. It twice replaced the CEO, put one Canadian facility up for sale and announced it was winding down another — its only remaining active farm.

Along a smooth new road, the Pioneer site now sits frozen, roughly 30% complete, according to a company estimate.

Pioneer officials said in a statement to ProPublica that the village has not been advised that AquaBounty has terminated its project. They emphasized that the court dispute over the pipeline was still not settled and that an initial ruling was in the village’s favor. On Friday, a judge ruled against the county’s appeal.

AquaBounty’s interim CEO said in December that the company would “assess alternatives for our Ohio farm project.” To investors, it mentioned higher costs due to inflation.

The outlook is bleak. While AquaBounty once estimated that it would be operational by now, with salmon ready for market in 2025, there was instead an online auction for its “new unused” assets earlier this month: tanks, filters, pumps, even a 200,000-square-foot pre-engineered metal building.

An Uncertain Future

In Pioneer and beyond, there has yet to be a full public accounting of what went wrong.

Not every development can be expected to make it, even with incentives, said Greg LeRoy, executive director of the nonprofit Good Jobs First, which scrutinizes public subsidies in economic development. But, he said, it’s important to vet companies with unproven business plans before spending public resources on their behalf — and to have a transparent process before deals are approved.

“If you’re taking on debt or giving them equity, or you’re laying out cash for utilities,” LeRoy said, “those are risky things.”

JobsOhio’s million-dollar grant depended on the creation of 112 jobs, $222 million in capital investment and a payroll of more than $5.4 million by the end of 2026, according to a spokesperson.

When a company fails to meet grant commitments, he said, “we will claw back our dollars so they can be used for future economic development projects to benefit Ohioans.”

As a private entity with a funding mechanism set up by the state, JobsOhio reveals few details about how it spends its money — a lack of transparency that has long been criticized. The spokesperson didn’t respond to a question about whether AquaBounty received some or all of its grant money.

AquaBounty was expected to pay Pioneer millions of dollars a year for the electricity it used and reimburse it for certain costs associated with building the substation. The $5 million note matures in November. In response to ProPublica’s inquiries about the substation, the village said it will pay any debt that it owes, “even if AquaBounty should cease to exist.” According to the state treasurer’s office, the village, which has about 800 electricity customers, is expected to use its electric revenue to pay the debt.

Local schools also face uncertainty. The district has long struggled with finances, and AquaBounty’s contributions were presented as a salve. But that funding hasn’t materialized. Last year, the district twice turned to taxpayers for help, seeking support for basic needs such as utilities, transportation, staffing and custodial supplies.

At both the March and November ballots, voters rejected it.

The district hasn’t responded to ProPublica’s questions. School board President Kati Burt, Kidston’s daughter, declined to comment.

Mark Schmucker, a Madison Township trustee and former board president, marvels at how officials championed AquaBounty as “the biggest infrastructure project in Northwest Ohio,” despite its shaky history.

“They were going to donate a million to the school every year,” he said. “How can they donate a million to the school when they never made a million in a year? Or showed a profit in 30 years?”

Epling, who has led the county’s economic development agency since 2023, said that the government incentives for the company “were publicly documented and structured with clear performance-based contingencies.”

She added, “Moving forward, my goal is to ensure that economic development efforts are well vetted, clearly communicated and beneficial to the community.”

Late last year, an unexpected provision showed up in a massive bill introduced in the Ohio Legislature. It exempted village mayors and other executive officers from key ethical requirements when they do business with the communities they represent. One of the bill’s sponsors said that other ethics laws would still apply.

Kidston’s company, Artesian of Pioneer, employed the lobbyist behind the provision, according to the bill sponsor and disclosure records.

The Legislature passed the bill. But Gov. Mike DeWine vetoed it, citing opposition from the ethics commission.

The change, according to the commission, would “invite misuse of taxpayer money.”