Tag: Citrus County

What we should learn from Otis

One week after eviscerating the tourist mecca of Acapulco, Mexico, Hurricane Otis is assured of long-term notoriety for two reasons. The first is its sheer ferocity: a Category 5 monster with gusts of up to 205 miles an hour, Otis ripped apart large high-rises, claimed at least four-dozen lives, severed all water, electricity and internet service and left a tattered landscape of denuded trees and streets jammed with mud and debris.

But the second reason for Otis’s historic significance is the speed with which it ramped up. When Acapulco’s residents went to bed Monday night, they expected no more than a tropical storm, with maximum winds of 60 miles an hour. Yet within 24 to 30 hours (Otis made landfall at 12:25 a.m. Wednesday) the storm’s winds had gained more than 100 miles an hour, a virtually unprecedented rate of strengthening that caught forecasters off guard—and a city of 800,000 flat-footed and unprepared.

In some ways, however, none of this should have been a surprise. Climate scientists have warned of just such rapid intensification for at least six years, starting with a 2017 paper titled, “Will global warming make hurricane forecasting more difficult?” Nor is this a problem limited to the Pacific basin, where El Niño gets a lot of blame for spawning Hurricane Hilary in August—the first tropical storm to hit California since 1939—and now Otis. Just two weeks ago a New Jersey-based researcher published a paper contending that “quickly intensifying tropical cyclones are exceptionally hazardous for Atlantic coastlines.”

The number of tropical cyclones (aka hurricanes) in the Atlantic that intensify from category 1 (or weaker) into category 3 (or higher) within 36 hours has more than doubled over the past couple of decades, according to the author, Andra J. Garner. “Many of the most damaging tropical cyclones to impact the U.S. in recent years have been notable for the speed at which they have intensified,” Garner added, in part because such rapid development “can create communication and preparedness challenges for coastal communities in the storm’s path.” Translation: hurricane-prone coastal areas that once could have a week’s advance warning of a brutal storm may now have only a day or two.

Public recognition of this changing reality, however, is sadly lagging. This cognitive dissonance is notably on display when municipal planners and private developers get to talking about RV parks and campgrounds, which all too often are seen as suitable for low-lying and flood-prone areas that would never get approved for residential development. RVs, goes the thinking, have wheels—what could be simpler than to pull them out of harm’s way? No harm, no foul, and otherwise “wasted” land can be put to productive use.

Just such a rationale was evident in Citrus County, Florida, where opposition to a proposed glampground was based, in part, on concerns about the low-lying coastal area’s vulnerability to hurricanes. Pish-posh, retorted Stephen Hill, a glampground supporter, who claimed in a letter to a local newspaper that “the tourist industry stays a week or more ahead of storms” and so has plenty of advance notice of a potential problem. “All visitors will be off the property well before locals, who tend to delay, decide to evacuate,” he added.

Similarly, in the North Carolina town of Leland, a proposal earlier this year to allow RV parks in flood hazard zones came with a suggestion that such sites “have a sign indicating that the RV shall be removed from the site within 24 hours of the town declaring a state of emergency for a potential flooding event.” The town eventually agreed to allow RV parks in the flood-prone areas—but also apparently decided such warning signs would not be necessary, perhaps because they would have created some liability for the town if it failed to give timely notice of “a potential flooding event.” Instead, caveat emptor!

The problem with both rationales, as Otis underscores, is that there is no longer any assurance that the tourist industry can stay a week ahead of storms, or that a town could declare a state of emergency more than 24 hours in advance of a cataclysmic rainfall or hurricane. Tropical cyclones, it’s becoming clear, can sweep in as suddenly as a forest fire, a week-long life-cycle compressed into mere hours. Wheels or no wheels, in such circumstances an RV can be just as much a sitting duck as any bricks-and-mortar dwelling.

None of this is to say that an RV is a preferred shelter anywhere when a Cat-Five storm hits; as photos of see-through high-rises in Acapulco attest, even the sturdiest of buildings can be stripped down to its skeleton by such winds, never mind a tin-can of a home that quite literally can be kicked down the road. But that doesn’t justify adding another layer of risk by putting those tin cans on land that we know will flood because, you know, they can just roll out of the way.

Greed and fear: the twin motivators

On returning to the U.S. after more than a month of hiking and cycling in western Europe, I’m struck by how little has changed in the domestic RV and campground industry—and how much has changed in the world it occupies, and how little it seems to care.

RVing trends that were already evident in mid-summer continued as before: softening midweek campground reservations, ongoing declines in RV production and sales, relentlessly upbeat industry assurances that any downswing was bottoming out and that 2024 will see a rebound. The natural environment within which the industry operates, on the other hand, continued to grow increasingly inhospitable (as of Oct. 10, the daily average Northern Hemisphere temperature had been at a record high for 100 consecutive days and at least 65 countries recorded their warmest Septembers on record)—and was just as resolutely ignored by RVing promoters, who much prefer to rhapsodize about the exploding growth of glamping and the latest gee-whiz innovations in RV design than to wrestle with issues of climate change and global warming.

The industry’s determination not to acknowledge the existential threat on its doorstep has been enabled by a lack of internal critics, but outside business pressures may finally crack its insularity. In recent weeks, for example, First Street Foundation issued its ninth national climate risk assessment, this time focusing on property insurance—or, more precisely, on the skyrocketing cost or outright unavailability of such insurance because of increased wildfire, flooding and windstorm risks. (I’ve written about some of First Street’s earlier assessments, here and here.) It’s a sobering read. Campground owners will feel the squeeze twice over, first through the increased expense of insurance premiums and then—if they try to sell their property—through the devaluation of their capital investment, as higher expenses mean lower net operating income and a higher cap rate.

This dynamic was further explored in a Grist article published this past Tuesday under the headline, “As climate risks mount, the insurance safety net is collapsing.” Reporting that natural disasters now cost the U.S. insurance industry $100 billion a year, the article rhetorically asks, “What happens when no one wants to pick up the tab?”

The First Street report and Grist’s article both pay particular attention to Florida because of its hurricane vulnerability, so it’s ironic that there is no more extreme example of a state’s businesses and politicians remaining stubbornly oblivious to climate change. A prime example was provided in August by Citrus County commissioners, who voted unanimously to reverse their planning commission and approve creation of the Fishcreek Glampground, despite the coastal property sitting a mere two to three feet above sea level. Bobby Cornwell, president of the Florida RV Park and Campground Association, had lobbied on behalf of the applicants and was only too happy to describe the approval as a major industry victory.

“For well over a year the owners of Fishcreek, Jen and Dimitri Magradze, have meticulously planned the project to co-exist with the beautiful natural setting and to provide outdoor enthusiasts and nature lovers with needed accommodations and access to the waterway without harming the environment,” Cornwell gushed to Woodall’s Campground Magazine. “But even though they had everything perfectly planned for their land and had many local supporters and studies showing how the project would benefit the area and not harm the environment, there was a large, organized effort against their proposal.”

Imagine that. A “large, organized effort” that Woodall’s couldn’t be bothered to describe or Cornwell to rebut, but which was rooted in the same environmental considerations that had prompted the county’s planning commission to reject the proposal not once, but twice, by votes of 5-2 and 6-1. Mere weeks later, Hurricane Idalia struck. The putative glampground’s Facebook page advised followers Sept. 3 that “there is a trailer full of logs submerged in the water along Fishcreek. Please use extreme caution when navigating out here.” So it goes.

Meanwhile, a few hundred miles north, along the coast of North Carolina in the Cape Fear region, the Leland planning board unanimously reversed its own unanimous May decision and voted to allow RV parks in flood hazard areas. The decision was urged by developer Evolve Acquisitions, which contended that it was seeking to “correct a mistake”—that the town had not really intended for flood zones to be off-limits to RV parks. As further evidence of the reasonableness of its request, Evolve’s spokesperson averred that RV parks are often located in flood-prone areas. The case for putting people in harm’s way having been put forth so cogently, the Leland town council unanimously approved the change Sept. 14.

Back when I reported on capital markets, one of my mentors stressed that market movements can be attributed to just two basic impulses: greed and fear. So it is with most things in life. Greed initially has the upper hand when developers start trotting out their honeyed visions, but as the real costs of such laissez faire policies start accumulating, fear will start coming on strong—and then watch out. You’ll be amazed how rapidly things can unravel.

Oct. 14 addendum: Inside Climate News reports that the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service will consider tightening protections on the West Indian manatee because of substantial scientific evidence that it faces renewed threats to its survival. Citrus County supports the state’s largest concentration of manatees in a natural spring area; the Crystal River National Wildlife Refuge, relatively near Fishcreek Point, was established specifically to protect manatees.

Careful what you wish for in Florida

A developing tropical system in the Caribbean is moving north, among predictions that give it an 80% chance of becoming a tropical storm before it reaches the Gulf Coast—because, you know, Florida. Even though the tentatively named Idalia probably won’t hit before mid-week, by which time there’s some chance it will have strengthened into a hurricane, Governor Ron DeSantis already has declared a state of emergency for 33 of the state’s 67 counties—because, you know, DeSantis.

And right in the middle of the potential impact zone is Citrus County, where the county commissioners this past week gave a thumbs-up to building a coastal RV park and glampground on a site that averages two to three feet above sea level—because, you know.

Florida.

Remember when you first learned about the supposed suicidal behavior of lemmings chasing each other off a cliff, making you wonder how any animal could be so dumb? Uh-huh.

Sunshine RV-Fishcreek Glampground & Boat Ramp is the brainchild of Jennefer and Dimitri Magradze, who less than three years ago bought a 16-acre parcel at the end of a narrow, key-hopping two-lane road that snakes through the bayou about 60 miles north of Tampa. As I’ve previously reported, the site is bounded by the St. Martins Marsh Aquatic Preserve and the Crystal River National Wildlife Refuge, a rich off-shore area of marshes, mud flats, oyster bars, mangrove islands and seagrass beds, as well as the only wildlife refuge dedicated to the protection of the West Indian manatee—just the place, the Magradzes decided, to put in a campground for 32 RV sites, 16 glamping cabins and 20 “primitive” sites.

But because the parcel is zoned as a coastal and lakes residential district, which doesn’t allow for RV parks, the Magradzes had to get the approval of the county’s planning development commission—which it declined to give. Twice. Nonetheless, unfazed by the commission’s 5-2 and 6-1 denials or by the gathering storm of local opposition its plans were whipping up, the Magradzes persevered, culminating Aug. 22 in a unanimous vote by the county commissioners to reverse the planning commission. The 5-0 vote came after a five-and-a-half hour meeting attended by hundreds of local residents, which judging from census figures, may have accounted for virtually everyone living within a mile of the contested site.

To be fair, it must be acknowledged that the Magradzes have their supporters, a combination of those with a thin hope they’ll provide an economic boost to the area and those who resent any government attempt to control land use. But the local turnout—so great, according to the Citrus Chronicle, that it overflowed the the hearing room and forced many to watch the proceedings on closed circuit TV—attested to widespread concerns about septic tank contamination from flooding during the inevitable storms, as well as the potential for life-threatening bottlenecks on the narrow roads in an evacuation emergency. As quoted in the Chronicle, one of the planning commissioners said he’d had trouble navigating the access roads in an SUV, “let alone an RV,” adding, “The infrastructure is not there to support this project.”

No matter. The county commissioners overrode their own advisory board for largely inarticulate reasons, such as the commissioner who expressed her “confidence” that the Magradzes would address the various issues that had been raised, or the one who confessed that she still had “concerns” about the effect of flooding and septic tanks on the environment—but had decided to side with her colleagues anyway. But as made clear by county commissioner Jeff Kinnard, who made the winning motion, the whole process was simply a buck-passing exercise. The Magradze proposal still must be approved by several state agencies, including the Florida Department of Environmental Protection, Kinnard observed, before paternally counseling those in attendance to “take time to heal and get to know your neighbors again.”

The wider RV community seemingly greeted this reversal with glee, if a fawning report from Modern Campground can be believed. In an Aug. 25 post bearing the unmistakable imprint of chatbot assistance, the online news service claimed the Florida RV Park and Campground Association had “celebrated” the decision as a “landmark victory.” The association’s support “was instrumental” in securing approval for a glampground that “had faced significant opposition,” according to Modern Campground. “However,” it added, “the meticulous planning by owners Jen and Dimitri Magradze, emphasizing harmony with the natural environment and catering to outdoor enthusiasts, swayed the county commissioners.”

No mention, of course, of why the Magradzes had faced “significant opposition,” nor of the planning development commission’s double-barreled rejection. Nor was there any description of the couple’s “meticulous planning”—which, forgive my cynical heart, may have amounted to no more than lobbying the Florida RV Park and Campground Association—nor how that planning is going to cope with a storm surge that will handily roll right over the little bit of heaven they’re proposing to build.

The next week may demonstrate just what awaits, even before the first glamping cabin makes an appearance or an RV tries to flee the floods.

On a related note: It’s been hard to miss the drumbeat of reports about Florida’s growing insurance crisis, much of it driven by, yes, soaring hurricane coverage premiums. At least six insurers went insolvent in the state last year, despite average annual property insurance premiums that rose at the end of last year by triple the national average. Commercial rates are rising even more sharply and are expected to go up 45%-50% this year—and a doubling of premiums won’t be out of the question, according to a report from Yardi Matrix, a commercial real estate data and research firm.

Premium levels are determined by risk, and with each new risky development—such as the Fishcreek Glampground—the industry’s overall risk factor goes up. That suggests the Florida RV Park and Campground Association should hold off on celebrating developments in Citrus County, which in the long run will mean higher insurance costs for all of its members.

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Florida’s land rush still going strong

Few states—Arizona comes to mind—are as closely identified with land speculation as Florida. Indeed, Carl Hiaasen has made a prodigious career out of writing a slew of books about a rogue’s gallery of grifters who view the state’s natural resources as theirs to be plundered. Casual readers who think these fast-buck artists and their pitiless machinations are a product of Hiaasen’s feverish imagination should remember that his day job, until a couple of years ago, was as an investigative reporter and columnist for the Miami Herald. As Hiaasen himself has observed, Floridians read his books “more as documentary than fiction.”

So it is in Citrus County, some 60 miles north of Tampa on U.S. 19. Snugged up against the Gulf of Mexico, much of the county is defined by wildlife management areas and state forests. Ten miles north of the junction with U.S. 98 you can make a left turn onto West Ozello Trail, which, naturally enough, will lead you to the small, unincorporated hamlet of Ozello. Make a jog here and a jog there along narrow, winding roads that hopscotch from one key to another and you’ll end up on Fishcreek Point, your route dead-ending at a battered parking lot and an old boat ramp.

Except for the way you came in, you are now surrounded on all sides by the St. Martins Marsh Aquatic Preserve and the Crystal River National Wildlife Refuge, a rich off-shore area of marshes, mud flats, oyster bars, mangrove islands and seagrass beds, as well as the only wildlife refuge dedicated to the protection of the West Indian manatee. The land you are standing on averages two to three feet above sea level. There are perhaps 400 people living along the few roads, plus a church, a couple of restaurants, a bait shop—just the place for an RV park and glampground, you’ll think to yourself.

Or at least that’s what Jennefer and Dimitri Magradze would like their new neighbors to think. Having bought 16 acres at road’s end two years ago, they’ve spent the last nine months seeking county approval for what they maintain will be an eco-tourism business that will give the somnolent area an economic shot in the arm. Maybe three-dozen RV sites plus a couple of dozen glamping “tents” on platforms, a tiki hut, pavilion, inground swimming pool and pool house, a score of boat slips—or at least that was their opening salvo. It convinced the local Chamber of Commerce, which weighed in with its endorsement, but the rest of the community? Not so much.

There’s the roads, scarcely 16 feet wide and without shoulders and the scary thought of weekend adventurers trying to navigate them in 45-foot motorhomes towing a car or boat trailer. There’s the all-encompassing FEMA flood zone and an average of twice-a-year flooding, and the question of how those 400 or so residents—never mind the itinerant guests— will be able to escape an oncoming hurricane when a single jack-knifed fifth-wheel can block the only way out. There’s the question of what’s going to happen to all the human waste created by 100 or 150 campers, sitting in a possibly submerged cesspool, and the noise that those same campers will be making each evening, and the light pollution that will dispel a formerly stygian night.

Most of all, there’s the fact that the property the Magradzes bought is zoned as a coastal and lakes residential district and would need to be rezoned to allow an RV park. For many of their neighbors, that’s really all that needs to be said. “It’s not complicated,” wrote one local resident to the county planning and development commission. “They knowingly bought coastal swamp land, on a pristine nature space, that is flood prone, has limited access, is zoned for residential use only—and that is what they got!“

Aside from the question of how such a glampground could be an economic driver in a substantially residential area, there’s a niggling belief that the whole “eco-tourism” premise is just a bit, well, pretentious. Or even duplicitous. The Magradzes, after all, lived on their property in a fifth-wheel for some time before the locals ratted them out to the health department, their sewer connected to a decades-old cesspool; the fifth-wheel was hauled off. Then they got cited in March by the Florida Department of Environmental Protection for illegally cutting down more than a thousand square feet of mangroves, which the department deemed a “significant non-compliance” with state regulations. And all along they’ve been selling access to their boat ramp, in apparent violation of rules restricting commercial operations in a residential neighborhood.

It is all, say their opponents, indicative of a pattern of noncompliance with existing regulations and hardly indicative of an ecologically sensitive approach to tourism. It’s also so Florida.

Because, let’s face it, Fishcreek Point is hardly an unspoiled paradise. Part of the Magradzes’ property is an island, created some fifty years ago when a former owner dredged a channel through the marsh, apparently without any official sanction. The area around the boat ramp was at one time an RV campground, as evidenced by a few remaining pedestals and hydrants—but precisely how (or even if) it was permitted is lost to history, the county confessing its records don’t go back that far. A couple of concrete pads and a couple of ramshackle sheds are all that remain. That, and some 200 tires and more than a thousand beer bottles that Jennefer Magradze says the couple has already hauled out. Fishcreek Point, in other words, was for decades a good ol’ boys’ fishing hole and hangout, a remote corner of a Florida bayou where a lot of rules didn’t apply.

For the Magradzes’ supporters, and of course there are some, their proposed Fishcreek Glampground and Ramp will only resume an interrupted use of the property. It will mean cleaning up a dumping ground and bringing in tourists who will spend at least some money that isn’t being spent now. And their enthusiasm has been only whetted by the eye candy prepared by the Magradzes, of paved drives and manicured grounds and South African luxury “tents.” Moreover, in an effort to demonstrate their sensitivity to local concerns, the couple has repeatedly trimmed away pieces of the original proposal: gone now are the tiki hut and pavilion, the 21 boat slips have been cut back to three or maybe one, the number of RV sites and glamping tents reduced to 32 and 16, respectively.

Yet for all that, the Magradzes haven’t grappled with the basic issue: that they’re attempting to stick a commercial operation into the middle of a residential and environmentally fragile community. Literally scores—perhaps hundreds— of letters have flooded county offices in opposition to their plans. Many come from people who own RVs of their own, and even one who owned a Maine campground for 23 years, all saying the same thing: bad idea. Terrible idea. Quite possibly an enormously stupid idea.

The Citrus County Planning and Development Commission agreed with those views in February, rejecting the Magradzes rezoning application by a vote of 5-2. They did it again this past week, this time even more decisively, voting 6-1 to reject an attempt to “lessen the scope of the project.” But now the matter goes to the county commissioners, who are scheduled to decide June 20 whether to accept the planning and development commission’s judgment. Early indications are that they may be inclined to do so.

Then again, this is Florida. And Carl Hiaasen hasn’t made a literary career out of writing about reasonable people being caretakers of Florida’s delicately balanced environment. . . .

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