by Carl Hiaasen
For a long time developers have been slobbering over the prospect of invading and paving this preserve—a notion recently endorsed by county commissioners, who once again have rolled over compliantly at the whiff of money.
This time the money came in hefty election-time checks from developers, their attorneys and members of the Latin Builders Association—those who most eagerly want to bulldoze the wetlands.
To no one's surprise, the landowner's attorney insists that West Dade's Glades aren't worth saving because the land has little environmental value. That this unsupported assertion contradicts the view of virtually every expert public agency doesn't seem to matter to the county commission, which never lets facts get in the way of a favor.
The Bird Road basin and surrounding wetlands feed the Biscayne Aquifer, which filters and supplies our drinking water. Originally the area was closed to development under the county's master plan. Last summer, heavily lobbied by building interests, the commission voted to open several tracts.
Leading the charge was Commissioner Jorge Valdes, who's never met a developer he didn't like. The developers like him, too. Building interests contributed heavily to Valdes' $471,000 re-election campaign this year.
In an inspired, if not transparent, bit of strategy, the commissioner lobbied to build a new high school in the Everglades basin.
It's one thing to indignantly fight the construction of a shopping center, or a high-rise, or a tacky warehouse—but a school? A school is for children. A school is patriotic. Who could argue that we don't need new schools?
No one, certainly. The question is: Of 95 possible sites for the high school, why was the Bird Road Everglades Basin chosen?
The answer is easy—to open up the protected wetlands. You can't have a school in the middle of a marsh. Think of the mosquitoes. Think of the snakes. Think of all that green space just sitting there, not making money.
No, once you have a school, you need a neighborhood to go with it. And you can't very well have a neighborhood without houses and apartments and gas stations and burger joints. This is the history of growth in South Florida.
Proposing a new high school is just a ruse to unlock new territory. It also gives Mayor Steve Clark and other county commissioners something respectable to hide behind when explaining their votes. What's harder to explain is why they ignored the advice of their own environmental staff, and waived all the usual requirements for the new school site.
Luckily, the future of the Glades does not ultimately rest with politicians who obediently kiss the rings of big-time zoning lawyers. It rests with federal officials who take a broader and less predatory view of Florida's withering resources.
The Environmental Protection Agency says the Bird Road basin is a lousy site for a new school. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service agrees. So does the National Marine Fisheries Service. They say that the basin, while not pristine, is important enough not to be disturbed.
The issue has gone to the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, which can kill the project outright, or demand an environmental study that might take years to complete.
As you might suspect, a thorough scientific survey is the last thing county administrators want to see. They've asked the Corps to please just skip all the environmental stuff and approve the new school as fast as possible.
And, just to be sure its letter made sense, the county cleverly let the landowner's lawyer write it.
Ill-conceived landfill plan begets smoke
April 6, 1990
In North Dade, the Munisport landfill is burning, and has been for weeks.
The city of North Miami can't put the fire out because it doesn't have a fire department. Dade County, which has the trucks, apparently doesn't do underground fires.
The adjacent city of North Miami Beach, which is getting smoked out, is now considering a lawsuit to force somebody to extinguish the blaze. It doesn't seem like too much to ask, but this is Munisport, where nothing is simple.
To begin with, it wasn't supposed to be a dump.
Twenty years ago North Miami bought a 350-acre tract from the county with the promise that the land would be used for public recreation. The purchase was financed with a $12 million bond issue, which the taxpayers of North Miami are still paying off.
The original plan called for a swimming pool, tennis courts and two municipal golf courses—rolling emerald hills. Trouble was, no natural hills could be found. So North Miami agreed to allow the developer, Munisport Inc., to dump so-called "clean" fill to raise the elevation to a level suitable for golfers.
As it turned out, what got dumped in the landfill was not always clean—acetone, hospital waste, veterinary remains, chemical drums and, by some accounts, Freon and asbestos.
The perils should have been obvious. Munisport sits next to Florida International University and the Oleta River State Recreation Area. Heavy rains could leach toxins from the landfill into public waters—and that's exactly what happened.
Dumping continued day and night, and hills of waste rose majestically. Years passed, but not a single verdant fairway materialized.
In March 1976, Munisport and the city of North Miami received an after-the-fact permit from the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to fill 291 acres for a "recreational" facility. Mangroves were to be destroyed. Garbage was to be piled in 103 acres of wetlands.
Lots of people in North Dade got upset. So did the Environmental Protection Agency, and in 1981 it vetoed the Corps permit.
Later Munisport was found to be so contaminated that it was placed on the EPA Superfund cleanup list, and that's where the battle has simmered for years.
The city of North Miami—whose negligence and bungling created the fiasco—has insisted the landfill really isn't so bad. A high-powered Washington law firm was hired to lobby congressmen into pressuring the EPA to lay off.
North Miami said the state was perfectly capable of cleaning the dump without federal supervision. City officials wanted Munisport "de-listed" from the Superfund so it could be sold and developed. Yes, developed.
At City Hall there was talk that Hyatt was interested in building a high-rise hotel on the Munisport site (probably as soon as they finished the Hyatt Chernobyl).
Meanwhile the EPA was reporting that the lakes on the dump site showed excessive levels of cyanide and ammonia. The mangroves were tainted with lead and silver. The fish had arsenic and PCBs in levels that posed a cancer risk to human beings. Aquatic life in north Biscayne Bay was threatened by the contaminated runoff.
North Miami's answer to this nauseating litany was to threaten to sue EPA.
On March 18, EPA finally recommended a plan to remove the ammonia from the wetlands at Munisport. Some environmentalists say the proposal is inadequate because it leaves the state with the most crucial task—cleaning up the landfill itself.
Before that can happen, somebody will have to get a hose and put out the fire.
Everyone agrees that Munisport should be cleaned up immediately. The questions are: Who pays for it—and who decides when it's really safe.
Maybe some day it will be a golf course, just like they promised 20 years ago. They can always sell gas masks in the pro shop.
Key plan shows just how low developers go
February 13, 1991
The battle to save Soldier Key isn't finished.
Faced with a rejection by the National Park Service, developers seeking to convert the tiny islet into a pseudo-tropical tourist trap are appealing their case to Washington.
The group includes the folks at Blockbuster Entertainment, who have attached the company's name, logo and slogan ("Wow! What a Difference") to this abominable scheme for exploiting the island.
Though privately held, Soldier Key is located in the protected waters of Biscayne National Park, a few miles south of Cape Florida. The government has tried to purchase the island before, but the owners have always held out for more money. Last year they turned down Uncle Sam's offer of $135,000 and instead sold the option to a F
ort Lauderdale-based tour operator, Florida Princess Cruise Line. Initially, the project called for shore-to-shore cabanas, ersatz beaches and a gift shop to sell the sort of tasteful merchandise that heatstroked, booze-addled tourists seem to favor. In the face of a decidedly unenthusiastic response, the developers slightly scaled down their plans for a Soldier Key resort, though it would still be a blight on the bay.
Forget pelicans, porpoises and sea breeze; think cocktail bars, steel drums and limbo madness.
Park superintendent James Sanders has officially notified the promoter that he opposes the day-cruise project for several reasons. A rare sea turtle, the hawksbill, successfully nested on Soldier Key last year for the first time since 1981 .The presence of five hundred carousing beachcombers might discourage future visits from the shy, endangered animals.
Beyond the turtle problem is the impact of cruise parties upon the whole park, one of the most ecologically sensitive marine preserves in the country. Soldier Key is the first link in a delicate necklace of small islands that the National Park Service has been acquiring for preservation. Tom Brown, the park system's associate regional director for planning, says that Soldier Key should be "maintained in its natural condition."
Which doesn't include the concrete swimming pool now planned for construction. Opponents, including Everglades Earth First!, plan a protest regatta to the island Feb. 23.
Recently the government substantially hiked its cash offer for Soldier Key, but the option holders didn't accept. Through congressional channels, they are quietly trying to persuade high officials in Washington, including Secretary of Interior Manuel Lujan, to overrule the park service and allow the island to be developed.
Such a reversal would be unusual, but not unprecedented. Blockbuster Entertainment chairman Wayne Huizenga is a wealthy Republican campaign contributor whose phone calls would probably be swiftly returned, were he to express a personal interest in getting the Soldier Key project approved.
Three and one-half acres isn't much to work with, but promoter Robert F. Lambert hopes to make the most of it. An optimistic brochure for Blockbuster Cruises invites travelers to "our private island in the Bay" for a day of sailing, sunning, swimming, snorkeling and "live calypso music."
Finally! Something to drown out the cries of those pesky seagulls.
The nighttime excursion sounds even more enchanting. I quote from the brochure: "Sailing south through the Biscayne Bay, witness a beautiful sunset as the moon rises over Miami."
That will be a neat trick, getting the moon to come up in the west. We can hardly wait. But there's even more tropical excitement after our ship drops anchor off Soldier Key: "Ashore, guests will be treated to a sumptuous Island luau under the skies and a live native review. Dance to the sounds of our steel drums or see 'how low you can go' in our limbo contest."
How low, indeed. Take a perfectly lovely island and turn it into the Tiki Bar from Hell.
All things considered, we'd rather stay home and rent a movie.
Pipeline crisis could turn Bay into cesspool
June 13, 1993
Think what would happen if your toilet somehow started flushing into your swimming pool. Bubble, bubble, bubble—until the pool was up to the brim: 15,000 gallons of you-know-what.
Now picture 6,000 swimming pools full of the rancid stuff, and imagine that much—90 million gallons—pouring into Biscayne Bay every single day.
That's what will happen if the old sewer pipe running underwater from mainland Miami to Virginia Key breaks. The bay will turn from blue to brown, and we're not talking pastels.
Fearing a Chernobyl-under-the-palms, the Environmental Protection Agency has sued to force Dade to rebuild its disintegrating sewers as soon as possible. Local and state agencies belatedly began brainstorming the crisis a few months ago, but the feds aren't waiting. The situation is that dire.
Two good things might come from the lawsuit. First, a new cross-bay pipeline could be built in time to avoid the catastrophe that would result from the old pipe fracturing.
Second, prosecutors could block most new construction while the sewer system is being rebuilt. Theoretically, more hookups wouldn't be permitted until more capacity is added. At least for a while, growth in Dade might slow to a healthier trickle.
A few no-growth years is the best thing that could happen here. Breathing room is what people need, especially the thousands still struggling to rebuild after Andrew.
Reckless, runaway expansion is what caused the system to fail in the first place. Faithful to the developers who bankroll their campaigns, past county commissioners approved one subdivision after another—tens of thousands of new toilets—even as sewers began to burst, literally.
Thanks to a few corrupted bums, we're now facing a septic eruption that will do for Miami's tourism what Exxon did for bird watching in Alaska.
Disaster could strike any time. The 72-inch pipe across Biscayne Bay is aged and perilously overloaded. Hydrogen sulfide gas (an aromatic product of human waste) is aggressively eating the metal from the inside out.
Much of Dade's waste is treated at Virginia Key so it travels silent and deadly across the bay. In 1992, the grand jury said the Biscayne sewer line was "a time bomb."
For years, the county environmental office has badgered the Water and Sewer Department to start work on a larger pipeline. And, for years, the Water and Sewer people have pondered and hypothesized and written reports on the problem.
Meanwhile, the building frenzy continued. The sewers got more full, and the pipes got more fragile. The most recent failure occurred at Easter, tainting the water from the Julia Tuttle Causeway to the Rickenbacker. And that was a relatively piddling leak, only 20 million gallons.
When the mother lode ruptures, forget about diving, sailing or swimming. Forget about the fish and the manatees. Biscayne Bay will look, and smell, like an immense tropical cesspool.
Fact: Fecal contamination is very bad for tourism. Fact: A moratorium on sewer hookups will be costly to powerful builders.
For one or both of those reasons, a new sewer line will be built across the bay. Pray that the old one holds out until the new one is finished. In the meantime, enjoy the lull.
Because when the new pipe is done, developers will stampede the county seeking thousands and thousands of new sewer hookups. And the commissioners will say … yes, yes, yes!
Same old story. Same old you-know-what.
'Revitalization' a threat to Virginia Key
April 3, 1997
The cash-starved city of Miami is again trying to deliver Virginia Key to favored developers and concessionaires.
Under the pretense of "revitalization," nine parcels currently marked for conservation are proposed for rezoning. The result could be hotels, marinas, shops and even houses.
Planners insist the zoning changes are technical corrections that won't affect the character of the island, but there's no reason for optimism. The stewardship of Virginia Key has been one of bungling, neglect and political favoritism.
Practically everything the city touched has turned to failure. The Marine Stadium has been a wreck since Hurricane Andrew. The beach and park on the Atlantic side—refurbished a few years ago at great expense—is now closed, supposedly because of the budget crisis.
It's as if Miami purposely abandoned Virginia Key and let it crumble, in order to stir support for development.
Mayor Joe Carollo has grandiose dreams for reviving the bayfront lagoon area by the Marine Stadium: hotels, restaurants, shops and a Jet Ski extravaganza that would bring needed lease revenues to City Hall.
At least, that's the pitch. In reality, the "technical" rezoning opens the door for transforming the island into another Dinner Key—an aesthetic calamity, and a grab bag for political cronies of commissioners.
For years the city has been aching to carve Virginia Key into a resort. The chief obstacles have been public opposition, and a large, odoriferous sewer plant.
In 1995 commissioners endo
rsed a preposterous proposal to put an RV park on 153 acres. The "ecologically sensitive" project included 300 motel units, a convenience store and miniature golf.
Voters, who weren't fooled by the city's tree-hugging hype, killed the plan.
This time around, commissioners don't want the public mucking up their big ideas for Virginia Key. Conveniently, rezoning can be accomplished without referendum.
Miami planning chief Jack Luft says there's no reason to worry. The changes, he says, actually will help preserve the island's unspoiled stretches.
Removing the "conservation" designation seems an odd way to protect land, but the city does many odd things at Virginia Key.
Twenty years ago the city leased out prime bayfront to the private Miami Rowing Club. Price: a whopping $100 annually.
Eventually the rowers built an 11,000-square-foot clubhouse, a swimming pool, a banquet hall and bar. In 1987 it was revealed that the club was renting out the facilities, and in one year had collected $147,000.
Guess how much the city got. And when the rowers needed storage space, commissioners generously let them fence off 10,000 square feet of land.
At the time, beet-faced officials denied any connection to the fact that then-City Manager Cesar Odio was a former president and life member of the rowing club.
Another funny coincidence: According to members, security services at the club once were provided by a firm owned by a young city commissioner named Carollo. Small world, isn't it?
Ironically, Miami wouldn't be broke today if it hadn't mismanaged city holdings and given away so many costly favors; if it had collected reasonable rents and leases (not to mention a few debts).
It would be good if the ghost-town lagoon area could be "revitalized" without ruining the rest of Virginia Key, but promises of preservation seem far-fetched. The city can't take care of a beach, much less an entire island.
Rezoning is just the first step toward another giveaway and you don't need to be downwind from the sewer plant to smell the truth.
