Florida's Legislature is usually a nightmare, but it turns out they did at least one thing right
True, they failed to name the flamingo the state bird, but they passed legislation that could help preserve Florida's varied coastal areas
EDITOR’S NOTE: Florida has approximately 1,300 miles of coastline—many times more, actually, if you count all the bays, barrier islands and inlets. It’s the most in the contiguous 48 states. Only Alaska has more, but let’s face it, it’s not a great place for sunbathing. Historically, preservation of this marvelous asset has taken a back seat to development and tourism. But as Craig Pittman of Florida Phoenix reports, sometimes our state Legislature does things right. Tropic Press is pleased to share Craig’s story.
By Craig Pittman
I have something startling to tell you. You’d better take a seat. Are you ready? The Florida Legislature did something good.
Do you need to lie down? Can I get you something to drink? A touch of the hard stuff, perhaps?
Their recent legislative session was an almost total disaster. Our fine lawmakers failed to repeal one bad law they had already passed — SB 180, that awful pro-sprawl, anti-local government bill that’s led to multiple lawsuits.
They did absolutely nothing to fix affordability, Florida’s biggest crisis. Instead, they approved even more bad bills, like putting a rotten cherry on a sewage sundae.
They passed a bill to ban local governments from doing anything to eliminate their carbon emissions. They gave their blessing to one to make it even harder for local governments to say no to damaging development. And a popular effort to remove the decrepit dam creating the Rodman reservoir and restore the Ocklawaha River slammed into a last-minute roadblock in the Senate.
But on this one bill, they did the right thing. Shocking, isn’t it?
It was Senate Bill 302, which concerns something called “coastal resiliency.”
You may have seen a little news coverage about it because of a late amendment designed to knock down a deeply unpopular plan to build a cruise ship port in an aquatic preserve.
But you probably heard very little about the rest of the bill — even though, in the long run, it promises to be much more significant to the state’s future.
“It really was a bright spot,” said Katie Bauman of the Surfrider Foundation, one of the environmental groups that pushed this measure.
Seeing that this bill passed amid so many other, far worse legislative results reminded me of something Willie Wonka told young Charlie: “So shines a good deed in a weary world.”
It also made me wonder: Where did it come from? How did this glimmering pearl make it through all the wretched refuse of the legislative session? How did it reach final approval when so many others fell short?
Rather than continue worrying about whether we’d have a nuclear holocaust in the Middle East this week that would make gas prices even worse, I figured I should pursue something positive. I did some research, made some calls, asked some questions.
The story behind SB 302’s passage is more interesting than I expected, with several twists and turns. And it involves a now-forbidden term in Florida politics: climate change. Shh, don’t tell anyone!
Instead, lean closer and I’ll whisper the tale to you.
Tallahassee’s Circle of Life
I have to admit that I’ve spent years mocking the term “coastal resilience.”
The plain-English definition is that it’s a way for a battered coastline to bounce back after damaging phenomena such as massive storm surges. But to me it was usually just a dodge that politicians would trot out to sound like they cared about the environment.
They’d brag about being in favor of coastal resilience when what they meant was: “This is an opportunity for me to hand out government contracts for major construction work that will only briefly cope with rising sea levels.”
Of course, as the sea level continued to rise, those construction projects would prove to be inadequate to stopping the water. We’d have to build something even bigger, requiring even more expensive government contracts, and so on.
Meanwhile, the recipients of those big government contracts would funnel campaign contributions to the aforesaid politicians. See how that works? It’s the Tallahassee version of the “Circle of Life.”
Perhaps the ultimate example of the build-it-big solution to Florida’s increasing flooding problem was the ginormous walls 20 feet high that the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers proposed in 2019 for Biscayne Bay. That project was a steal at a mere $4.6 billion!
People freaked out, as you might expect. This was NOT the “Wonderwall” that Oasis sang about.
The fact remains that we’re a particularly flat state with a coastline that stretches 1,300 miles. That means we’re particularly vulnerable to … umm … er … uh … that thing that Gov. Ron DeSantis doesn’t want us to discuss.
“South Florida is on the front lines of sea-level rise, stronger storms and increasing flood risk,” Sen. Ileana Garcia, the Republican from Miami who wound up sponsoring SB 302, wrote in an op-ed column. “The question is not whether we act, but how.”
As in: What if our storm-damaged coast were rebuilt using something other than those ugly concrete structures?
What if we used the natural materials that Florida coastlines are supposed to be made from — particularly mangroves? What if we made “living shorelines” the desired outcome instead of pumps and pipes and seawalls?
“People want to see infrastructure that looks like Florida,” said Dawn Shireeffs of the Environmental Defense Fund, which has been doggedly prodding the state to make the living shoreline the default setting. “There’s a real hunger for that.”
The problem is, Florida coastal rebuilding regulations have never covered that.
And local governments that tried to go that route “got caught up in the lack of guidance,” Baumann said.
Enter SB 302. It requires the state Department of Environmental Protection to create those guidelines. The DEP also must establish criteria for monitoring, inspection, and reporting requirements for permits. The goal: More dune and wetland restoration, reef restoration, and seagrass replanting.
This way the state can encourage more innovative nature-based projects, like one in Titusville designed to help repair the Indian River Lagoon. The plans call for planting new seagrass beds and then, using drones, the builder will drop in approximately 1 million clams to filter impurities from the water.
“Mangroves, seagrasses, living shorelines and hybrid systems work with nature to stabilize coastlines, reduce erosion and absorb wave energy,” Garcia wrote in her op-ed. “They protect communities while preserving the natural beauty that defines Florida.”
You say you want an evolution
The first time Garcia sponsored a version of SB 302 was in 2022. That was just a few months before Hurricane Ian clobbered Florida, inundating communities like Fort Myers with more than 7 feet of storm surge.
The Category 4 hurricane dropped more than a foot of rain, swelling rivers and causing floods. It was the deadliest storm in nearly a century, and most of the 150-or-so deaths were caused by water, not the wind.
The Ian disaster exposed our state’s poor planning and shoddy building practices. Many of the state’s waterfront lots were created and built before we knew that the sea was creeping up higher and higher, getting ready to inundate our communities.
But when local governments tried to adjust their development practices to what they saw the hurricanes do, the Legislature stepped in and ordered them to allow developers to rebuild in the exact same places that had been washed away.
Given our lawmakers’ hostility to common sense, it should come as no surprise that Garcia’s bill promoting all-natural restoration work failed to find sufficient support.
“There has been an evolution on this,” Shirreffs told me. “We spent three years having discussions on this.”
The first year they were just pushing for more mangrove planting, she said. Gradually, in subsequent iterations of the bill, they added other elements.
One thing that helped sell the bill: The natural approach to shoreline repair turns out to be much cheaper than constructing a lot of concrete infrastructure, she said. Several studies found that planting mangroves isn’t as expensive as piling up tons of concrete.
That way, even if the legislators weren’t interested in green solutions, they could be drawn to support saving the other kind of greenery.
Cruising to the finish line
Last year, the bill aaaaaallllllllllmost made it across the finish line, Shirreffs said. To supporters’ chagrin, it failed to make it to a final floor vote.
What made the difference this year, so that it finally passed every stop?
The amendment to block a new cruise ship terminal, Shirreffs said.
There are already three cruise ship terminals in Tampa. There used to be one at Port Manatee, too.
It sat on the landward side of the Sunshine Skyway bridge. From 1993 to 2003, the Regal Empress embarked from there for Mexico and the Caribbean. But then the Empress began having some royal problems.
The ship ran aground on one cruise. On another, it was chartered by folks in the adult film industry. There was a lot of concern over whether they, contrary to what the Hues Corporation warned everyone, might be rocking the boat.
Eventually the cruise ship line went out of business, still owing Manatee County about $300,000.
Manatee now handles only cargo, which is smart. In the years since the current version of the Skyway was opened in 1987, cruise ships have become a lot taller.
The bridge’s center span rises 190 feet above the water. Cruise ships, which are basically floating amusement parks now, tend to be more than 200 feet high. A modern-day cruise ship would crash into the bridge like a dump truck getting snagged under an overpass with a low clearance.
In January, SSA Marine and Slip Knott LLC proposed building a new cruise ship terminal in Manatee County that wouldn’t be limited by the height of the Skyway. It would sit beyond the bridge, so no ships would have to squeeze under it.
Unfortunately, the companies picked one of the worst possible places to build something industrial: the Terra Ceia Aquatic Preserve.
“The Terra Ceia Aquatic Preserve is home to healthy and thriving seagrass, wetlands and a vital wildlife habitat,” Justin Tramble, executive director of Tampa Bay Waterkeeper, wrote in a column about the proposal. “We’re talking about a pristine part of our estuary, one that has such significant ecological value.”
Because the aquatic preserve is a beloved fishing spot, enough protesters showed up to fill a cruise ship. More than 19,000 people signed a petition to stop the project.
As a result, Sen. Jim Boyd, R-Bradenton added an amendment to Garcia’s bill. The amendment would restrict large-scale dredging projects in the preserve — an attempt to shut down the cruise terminal project before it could even get started.
Because Boyd has been designated as the next Senate president, people in the Legislature were leaping to grant his every wish.
“The amendment helped it to become a must-pass bill,” Shirreffs told me. “The public outrage over the port really helped us.”
The wild card
Although the bill passed both houses easily this year, there was still one wild card: Gov. DeSantis.
Despite occasionally cosplaying as a conservationist, our goofball governor has repeatedly lined up for scrimmage against the environment on every major issue.
The Everglades? He built a polluting detention camp in it. State parks? He tried to build golf courses in one. Water pollution? He cut a deal with an Israeli company to do repeated cleanups of our algae blooms, instead of trying to stop polluters.
Now Florida is the No. 1 state for polluted lakes. A toxic algae bloom killed off so much seagrass in the Indian River Lagoon that more than 1,000 manatees starved to death. Florida’s longest river, the St. Johns, is coping with steadily increasing pollution from septic waste.
Heck, he even became the first governor in history to openly oppose restoration of the Ocklawaha River.
What, I wondered, would DeSantis the Destroyer do to screw this bill up?
Turns out, the answer was: Nothing. He didn’t like that cruise terminal proposal either.
“There’s not really a need to add another port in the middle of a conserved area, and an aquatic preserve,” DeSantis said during the bill signing ceremony. “So, construction of a new port next door I think struck a lot of people as being unnecessary.”
I don’t know if DeSantis realized he was signing a bill related to battling climate change. If he had, he might have vetoed it on general principle. Here’s hoping nobody tells him he did something right for a change.
Three lessons
There are sound lessons here for other environmental problems that need support from our ignorant, angry, and frequently distracted lawmakers.
Be prepared for a long fight. Getting this bill passed took years.
Be ready to show how the move saves taxpayer money as well as benefits the environment.
If possible, hitch your wagon to a popular cause favored by a powerful legislator. A massive public protest helps too.
Bauman and Shirreffs acknowledged that this isn’t the end of the effort. Now they have to prod the DEP to get these guidelines done and done right.
Bear in mind that in 2016 the Legislature told the DEP to draw up new rules to better protect the state’s springs by 2017. Instead, the agency has put off following the law for so long it should qualify for an Olympic gold medal in foot-dragging.
Still, it does my heart good to see the Legislature do something right every now and then. I just wish it was habit-forming.
The reporter on this story, Craig Pittman, is a native Floridian. In 30 years at the Tampa Bay Times, he won numerous state and national awards for his environmental reporting. He is the author of six books. In 2020 the Florida Heritage Book Festival named him a Florida Literary Legend. Craig is co-host of the "Welcome to Florida" podcast. He lives in St. Petersburg with his wife and children.
Florida Phoenix is part of States Newsroom, the nation’s largest state-focused nonprofit news organization. This story is republished with their permission. To support Florida Phoenix, click here:
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Thank you for sharing a bright spot in the chaos 🙏🏼❤️🐾 I have some hope for us yet
And what is really masterful about this article is the ironic use of the alliterative “wretched refuse” phrase to accurately label the destruction flowing from the FL legislature.