What's happening right now to Treasure Island, that funky beach town due west of St. Petersburg, happens, eventually, to every beach community in Florida. Money comes to town, and the people who live there have to make a choice.
Do they try to keep their small-town ambiance, with bohemians and retirees living down the street from each other? Do they let their town morph into a wealthy enclave of million-dollar homes? Or do they go for the big beach glitz?Mom and pop, Architectural Digest or Marriott?
One can visit many parts of coastal Florida to see how this has played out. Longboat Key, near Sarasota, has a beautiful beach, secluded homes, low-rise condominiums and an exclusive reputation. Clearwater Beach has big hotels, a resort mentality, fun in the sun and wall-to-wall tourists. St. Pete Beach has a mixture of both: The main part of the island has a row of big hotels on one side of Gulf Boulevard, commercial strip malls on the other and an old forgotten downtown; keep going south past the last bridge to the mainland, however, and the Pass-a-Grille section is a mixture of quaint, perky and classy, with a long stretch of public access and no buildings on the beach.
Treasure Island has a touch of all this and more. A towering neon thunderbird and a gigantic Caribbean pirate stare down at a Cape Cod-style town square. Cabanas line a few acres of stunning, wide rough-sand beach — dredged up, several times, from the Gulf of Mexico. You can buy an authentic Chicago dog, McDonald's hamburger or Sloppy Joe out here, but a fresh grouper sandwich is hard to find. You can see the ocean, park on a whim and walk out on the beach.
There are tony out-of-sight mansions and classic beach 'hoods still paying homage to the retro 1950s. Eclectic Sunset Beach, the city's southern tip, is a survey taker's nightmare. Artists, bums, the wealthy, the bohemian and Randy "Macho Man" Savage are crammed together between high-end condos and a string of popular beach bars that appear to have been tacked up last weekend by the Gilligan crew.
More than 100 hotels, motels and rental condos perch on this 3-and-a-half-mile-long sandbar of a city. Most were built in the '50s and '60s and give the city a retro-goofy barefoot charm that people either despise or love.
During much of the year, you can rent these places for $40, even $25 a night. Right on a Florida beach! Bring your own groceries, cook barbecue ribs on the ancient pits by the pool (if there is a pool), drink beer from your cooler, cruise The Dollar Zone, sneak in and use the Jacuzzi at the hotel next door, and watch a trophy sunset for free.
Good karma? Bad business? "You could say both points of view are correct," says Realtor Mike Seinitz. "But everything is at a standstill right now. A decision must be made."
It so happens there's an election next week. Here are some of the competing interests:
* The hotel/business coalition has the most money. They feel the beach is theirs because they serve the tourists who spend the money. And they want looser zoning restrictions and high-rise hotels.
* Many wealthy homeowners don't want that kind of change. Even as property values and taxes soar, they're not keen on sharing their sleepy town with hordes of new tourists.
* Some property owners want to sell out. They want the most money for their property, even if it means the city loses its charm.
* Politicians are either honest, crooked or crazy; in any case, they feel it is their charge to control the future.
* The low-end locals fear any change that might force their rents up, their seedy bars to close and their fixed-income, beach-bum butts off the island.
* Activists are the foot soldiers, seeking to protect quality of life from the greedy enemy. They rally the apathetic to fight against tall buildings on the beach.
The DevelopersThat scene at the $25 mom and pop motel drives Harry Black nuts. Where's the commerce? Dollar ain't changin' hands seven times like the Chamber says it should. Every poolside barbecue screws a local restaurant. Every cheap T-shirt screws the fancy clothier.
"That tourist is not the future of Treasure Island," says Black, president of the local hotel association. He believes rules permitting 10-story gulfside hotels are necessary to attract the big chains with their $195-per-night suites. That's the only way, he says, to save this languishing Florida beach.
It is also a template for the homogenization of almost every Florida beach on the Rand McNally. Funky culture and small town charm, the big money asserts, is not as good for business as their proven formulas. Up and down Florida's fruited coasts, political and real estate shenanigans have shrunk beach cultures into museum displays, or worse, into rustic themes for restaurants and bars.
Come on, Harry, be honest. Is it really fun to endure 45 minutes of traffic jam just to cram among thousands of lotion-smelly bodies at Clearwater Beach? How about waiting 10 minutes for the elevator at one of the big hotels? The $5 beer? That kind of fun can get ugly fast. Are you sure this is Treasure Island's dream?
Black, along with local business association president Ken Brown, Naples attorney Tim Ferguson and land baron Sid Rice are known collectively around town as "the enemy." The fall of any Florida beach must have an enemy. They lead an aggressive, monied coalition of hotel and business owners who are worried about the future of their investments.
Their shtick: elaborate presentations to Treasure Island government bodies, local newspaper ads, courting city officials and waving legal action threats at their opponents.
A Happy HomeownerRetired businessman Allan Sansotta's Treasure Island has dramatic sunsets, laughing gulls, cool Gulf breezes and bikini-clad maidens everywhere. The mom and pop motels don't bother him. "There is a whole class of tourist who wants that sort of classic experience. They come back year after year after year," says Sansotta, who moved the house he lives in now from its beachfront lot to a new lot several blocks away
"There are also a lot of people who aren't into gated communities and guards at the entrance. We like living our lives in the old beach cottages. We like the close neighbors and the friendly atmosphere."
Sansotta can list positive aspects about small town Treasure Island all day. The lowest taxes of any full service city in the county. Best live bar music on Florida's west coast. He doesn't mind driving off the island to find good restaurants or grocery stores. "We are Florida's best kept secret — the crown jewel of the Gulf Coast."
The Land BaronThe city's largest landowner is angry at those who oppose his right to cash in. At City Commission meetings, Sid Rice routinely denounces the fools who "want to change Treasure Island from a tourist town to a residential community." His pioneer family owns 10 acres fronting the southern shore of John's Pass, which separates Treasure Island from neighbor Madeira Beach. (After years of wrangling with that city, the Rices recently won variances to develop a $60-million marina/hotel complex on the north side of John's Pass.)
"Why do I have to live by blanket rules that make sense on one end of the island but not on the other?" asks Rice. The value of his family's land would skyrocket if rezoned for a resort hotel, but he prefers to think of how new development would enhance the city.
"I would like to do something great for Treasure Island. My hands are tied. Why?"
Good question. By virtue of his land holdings alone, Rice is a special exception. His holdings right now are a hodgepodge of cheap rental units, little tourist shops, a closed restaurant, a gambling cruise dock and a raucous sports bar called Gators. Rice's redneck style and political connections have given many people reason to pause, including the Florida Ethics Commission, which is investigating City Commissioner Butch Ellsworth — a key Rice employee — on conflict of interest charges regarding his pro-development votes.
Then there is wealthy businessman/resident Bill Edwards, who paid for airplanes to buzz Treasure Island for nearly a week, towing signs urging residents to vote against an anti-development referendum last fall. Edwards, CEO of Mortgage Investors Corp, one of the nation's largest, is widely regarded as the money man behind the effort to build up the beach. Pro-development interests, including Rice, have dropped Edwards' name often.
Edwards says his role in this conflict is strictly constitutional: "My right to vote has been taken away from me."
The controversial referendum, if it passes court muster in the months to come, is one of the strongest environmental measures in Florida history. It requires a "super majority" (51 percent of the electorate) to make height or density changes to the city's land development regulations (LDRs). Edwards considers it "a statistical impossibility" that 51 percent of all registered voters will ever show up and vote in unison.
Edwards rolls up his pants leg and pushes back a shirtsleeve revealing battle scars suffered in Vietnam combat. "I served my country so that we could retain the freedom to vote. Now that has been taken away from me."
"People automatically assume I am on that team," says Edwards, referring to the would-be high-rise developers. "They think I have some ulterior motive. I own a house, a Putt-Putt course and a restaurant (Mr. B's) on Treasure Island. That's all. I am not interested in — and have no plans — to build high-rise hotels out here. I am interested in getting back my right to vote."
The PoliticiansWhen City Commissioner Barbara Blush looks at her town, she sees old black-and-white televisions, dripping "window shaker" A/C units, paper thin towels, the color beige accented with brown, and her knees knocking the wall as she sits on the toilet. Politician Blush feels "Ozzie and Harrietville" needs to be revitalized, redeveloped, remade to keep up with the times, "or we are going to lose our tourists and our tax base. We have to do something." Her votes consistently supported height and density proponents.
A polite woman and mother of three, politician Blush is booed regularly. A cross was left near her car after one meeting. She is an outcast in a neighborhood her family has lived in for three generations. And Blush is at war with her own Sunset Beach constituents. They have collected signatures to boot her out of office. She has sued the city — sued herself, actually — to stop them. She has sacrificed longtime friendships and, perhaps, her political career for her pro-development beliefs.
Blush's mentor is longtime pal Mayor Leon Atkinson. Every Florida beach development disaster has to have someone like da Mayor on the inside. Sometimes they go to jail. Sometimes they are merely sent out to pasture. When Atkinson looks at his city, he is pissed off. He sees "idiots" among the populace and drive-by bird fingers whenever he steps out in public. He sees himself as a misunderstood shepherd whose unruly flock won't go where he demands.
"Change is coming whether we like it or not. You can't stop progress," is the mayor's tired mantra.
Last fall, Atkinson engineered an end run around the November referendum, rushing a new ordinance onto the books — with liberal height and density tools — two weeks before the public vote.
After residents turned out in record numbers to vote the referendum in anyway, then a Pinellas County judge granted a temporary injunction against his pro-development ordinance, Atkinson announced his retirement from politics. He spends his last days in office obsessively poring over campaign contribution records, trying to find faults on candidates he doesn't like and fighting for the ordinance to be reinstated.
Today, every resident is forced to take a polarized side. Longtime friendships have been destroyed, political careers ruined. Rumor and innuendo have replaced trust and confidence. Twice the Weekly Planet has been stolen, every issue from every Treasure Island rack, when it contained articles about the controversy.
Next Tuesday's run-off election is supposed to heal the city. Mayoral candidates George Makrauer and Mary Maloof both say they will vote to rescind the Atkinson ordinance, honor the referendum and bring the divided city back together.
But Makrauer, a businessman and former city commissioner, originally sided with the developers. After the lopsided referendum vote, however, he broke ranks and has since supported "the people's will to keep tall buildings and higher densities off our island."
Maloof, a sitting commissioner, voted against Atkinson's rushed ordinance, but the outgoing mayor has enthusiastically endorsed her candidacy. Maloof says she agrees with the business community but, like Makrauer, asserts "I must support the people."
A record $40,000 — remember, this is a small town — has been spent by candidates for the three races to be decided April 8. Makrauer is quick to note: "Everywhere there was a Vote No (referendum) sign there is now a Maloof sign. Do they know something we don't know?"
In debates, Maloof downplays her overwhelming support by hotel, development and business interests as beyond her control: "I have people on both sides supporting me."
The LocalsFor Tim, the kitchen guy at Robbie's Pancake House, living on Treasure Island on a fixed income is a hell of a lot better than living anywhere else. It's a short bike ride from his tiny apartment to work, to the 7-Eleven, to the ocean, to the beach bars. He hears the late afternoon bell toll at Nick's Seabreeze and knows it is sunset. He feels the companionship of a tight group of snaggletooth friends who have lived out here for decades. The total volume of beer consumed by these old-timers, over the years, at the Ka'Tiki Bar, could keep the entire Iraqi army buzzed at least until the war is over.
Tim and his friends like Treasure Island the way it is. A lot of ashes have been sprinkled into the Gulf over the years.
"We don't mind the tourists," he says. "On their way out of town."
Statewide ActivistsSuspicion — mind-gnawing, headache-squinting, stay awake at night suspicion — is what drove resident Mike Daughtry into the fray. Too much action, too many deals, too many high-powered cats hanging out with each other.
"I don't trust anybody right now. Everyone has their own agenda. And it is all based on greed." says Daughtry. "There are so many ways to hide partnerships and projects that it isn't funny. Developers are known for taking small parcels and assembling them into larger parcels."
Daughtry spearheads a powerful "concerned citizen" coalition that stands defiantly against radical change — tall buildings, higher beach density — in the city. Working at the sea oats level, they walk the streets, band fliers on doorknobs and man roadside petition tables. Tirelessly, obsessively, they rail on about infrastructure woes and backroom deals, burden the city with public records requests and use pro bono legal help to guard their line in the sand.
Daughtry and Co. transformed an apathetic electorate into a reform-voting machine that passed the referendum by a 66-34 percent margin.
"It is incredible what they have accomplished in Treasure Island," says Cocoa Beach activist Eric Fricker, whose fight against similar fast-growth measures in his city were profiled recently in The New York Times. "They are fighting to retain their small town atmosphere. The only way to do that is put the future in the hands of the residents. I applaud their efforts."
Daughtry has been in touch with Fricker and others around the state who are embroiled in similar fights. He is considering forming a nonprofit organization that will keep an organized vigil on development efforts in Treasure Island and up and down the Florida coast.
A former mortgage broker who manages apartments and dabbles in real estate himself, Daughtry understands the intricacies of the real estate market and the political power of those who know how to manipulate it: "There is a much bigger picture to consider. There's so much money floating around, it's not funny. I wonder about some of these guys who already have millions of dollars. Why do they need more? Leave us alone!"
EpilogueBack at Sunset Beach, Raiford Starke wails a requiem with his Silvertone guitar at Nick's Seabreeze. No rain tonight, so the bar is not full of water. Millionaires and mullet fishermen hoist toasts, lamenting the scheduled May 31 closing of the legendary hangout. Owner Ken Brown, tired of the fight, dropped plans for a hotel and put his five beachfront lots on the market for $750,000 each. Single residential lots beneath the Seabreeze and Beach Nutts next door have sold and the wrecking ball is waiting.
The end of an era. A beach anthropological disaster. Another cultural death.
Down the street, tiny Ka'Tiki's owners are holding out for the big bucks. The little chickee hut bar is listed at $1.5-million. Neighbor Tony Amico turned that deal down but has been buying up properties all around Ka'Tiki, contiguous with his Caddys on the Beach, soon to be the last Gulf front tavern left on Sunset. Rumor has it that Amico wants to bring in a Hooters, right across the street from Ka'Tiki.
At the Ka'Tiki outside bar, Tim from Robbie's shakes his head and grins like a Cheshire cat. He can hear the train a'comin' but he is quick to dismiss it: "I'm not worried," he says, a full Gulf moon glinting off his eyeglasses. "Hurricane season will be starting reeeeal soon."
Peter Gallagher is a freelance writer living in St. Petersburg.
This article appears in Apr 2-8, 2003.