Tag: Florida RV Park and Campground Assoc.

Cornwell crows about a sham victory

It’s only natural that Bobby Cornwell, president of the Florida RV Park & Campground Association, would preen about a legislative “major victory” in which he played—at best!— only a minor role; he is, after all, a politician of sorts, dependent on the association’s dues-paying members for his livelihood. Stretching the truth—and then some!—comes with the territory. But you can’t say as much for Woodall’s Campground Magazine, which at least pretends to be a journalistic product. Would that it were so, in which case its Florida readers would have some insights into what’s going on in their backyards.

I gave passing mention to Woodall’s continuing slide toward industry sycophancy a couple of posts ago, reporting on its superficial coverage of a Citrus County glampground, so there’s not much purpose in rehashing that issue here. But that was only one of the two “victories” recounted in a page 6 Woodall’s article under the assertive headline, “Florida Association Scores Major Property Tax, Development Wins,” in which Cornwell boasted of the association’s “necessary show of force” to prevent officials in two counties from “making a big mistake.”

That second averted mistake supposedly occurred in Sumter County on Aug. 22, when the county’s board of commissioners considered a proposal to increase its fire assessment fee from $124 to $323.64 a year for residents and businesses. The increase was needed, proponents said, to avoid $26 million in budget cuts for fire and ambulance services in the county as well as in The Villages, possibly the country’s largest retirement community, with which it shares emergency responders. Retirees don’t look on tax increases favorably, and they have a lot of time on their hands, so there’s no surprise that the Aug. 22 hearing was packed, passionate and ran for five hours. Cornwell’s contribution was a mere sliver of the whole. The commissioners, dutifully cowed, ended up defeating the entire proposal by a wobbly vote of 3-2.

Which, of course, didn’t resolve the underlying problem, so the cutting has already started. Sumter County’s fire chief says he’ll be laying off 30 firefighters and deep-sixing plans that had been made to hire an additional 27 employees next year. The chief of the public safety department at The Villages said he will lose 57 new positions that had been planned for next year, and has already lost three of the seven staffed ambulances the community had been leasing from American Medical Response. County officials said they’re trying to “come up with solutions.”

None of this was mentioned in Woodall’s coverage, nor in Cornwell’s public pronouncements, which would have us believe that the Florida RV Park & Campground Association had successfully repelled an attack specifically targeting RV campgrounds and not tens of thousands of homes and other businesses. Defeating the fire assessment fee “was a great night for Florida’s RV park industry,” Cornwell crowed, quite likely forestalling “similar proposals in other counties.” Yadda-yadda.

The point that Cornwell failed to explore—aside from, you know, that whole context thing—is the curiously specific number assigned to the proposed new fee: $323.64 a year according to press reports, $323.40 per RV site, according to Cornwell. Without getting into the complexities of how either number was derived, suffice to say that numerous variables were factored into the proposed fee, including ten years of actual responder histories, and the result was to be charged per single dwelling unit—which is to say, under the proposed fee schedule each site at an RV park was to be treated as a separate residence. And that, all by itself, deserves attention for at least two reasons.

Number one, it suggests that public officials are starting to view RV parks less as providing transient lodging akin to hotels and more as wheeled subdivisions, which means campground owners are seen as having a multiplicity of taxable units rather than owning just one large business entity. And number two, this shifting perspective means that RV parks are becoming recognized as an agglomeration of discrete cost centers, with separate and distinct demands on fire and rescue services, demand for road and school access and claims on other county amenities, such as libraries, community centers and landfills. Those costs have to be underwritten, and how to do that equitably without charging for each site?

Campground owners, of course, are aghast at such an idea. As Cornwell pointed out, a 200-site RV campground in Sumter County, had the proposed fee schedule passed, would have been on the hook for an annual (and additional) tax bill of $64,680. Others, pointing to a different aspect of the defeated fee that included square-foot calculations, said they would have been been hit with six-figure assessments—indeed, one unnamed campground owner with two properties told a local reporter her annual assessment would rise to $490,000.

Alarmist, perhaps—but also willfully determined not to recognize the perceptual shift that’s underway, much less how to respond in a meaningful way. It should be evident that much of this change is of the industry’s own doing, as campgrounds increasingly rent long-term sites to people who are not passing through but are, in fact, living in their RVs. And as recent events in Georgia have demonstrated, rolling back the tide in one state, however temporarily, doesn’t mean it won’t rise elsewhere—and, eventually, become an industry standard.

Next post: Monroe County, Georgia, approves a $250-a-year surcharge per RV site in its campgrounds for basic services, as it also clamps down on residents living in RVs on private land—potentially forcing some to move to those pricier RV parks, further enhancing their long-term housing attributes.

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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