Trying to Keep Stiltsville, its Stories and Legends

September 5, 1995
by Howard Kleinberg

Word that a taxpayer-funded quarter-million dollar cleanup has begun of Stiltsville, that unique community of houses perched on concrete pilings in the shallow waters south of Cape Florida, has brought out the latent activism in some.

Almost 20 years after the state ruled that Stiltsville must be abandoned by 1999, there are those who do not see a need to do so; as well as those who believe that it's not necessary to clean up the debris.

In his Aug. 9 Readers' Forum letter, Leave Stiltsville refuse, Dudley Smart of Hollywood argues that the sunken debris - including two barges - presents no hazard to navigation, has been there for years, and in fact, has become artificial reefs.

Miami-born Mary Mills also challenges the soon-to-occur destruction of the remaining seven homes and the private club of Stiltsville, which have survived the hurricanes that destroyed the other structures.

"Stiltsville has stories and legends just as much as the Art Deco section of Miami Beach, the Barnacle of Coconut Grove, Vizcaya, the, Deering Estate, and others," argues Mills, who says that she owns no part of Stiltsville but has fished and boated in and near there all her life."

"The few houses still standing after the hurricane (Andrew) tell their own stories and secrets," she continues, almost passionately. Her feeling that Stiltsville is unique is not without merit.

Stiltsville had its origins around 1939 when Commodore Edward Turner created the Quarterdeck Club on stilts in the shoals below Cape Florida. The club had electricity, heating, refrigeration, a bar, a dining room, a bridge deck, a dining deck - and a remarkable view.

One maverick enterprise led to another, and soon, houses were built on the submerged land - without benefit of any legal transaction. As the water-bound village took root, other forms of residence and/or entertainment found their way to the shoals, the Bikini Club in particular.

In July 1965, state beverage agents raided the Bikini Club, which was nothing more than a 150-foot yacht hard aground on the flats. The raiders charged the proprietor with selling alcoholic beverages without a license.

In September 1965, Stiltsville took a hit from Hurricane Betsy. Where 20 houses had perched atop stilts, less than a half dozen remained, and the Bikini Club was listing 20 degrees to port.

Some of the houses were replaced, at which time the state began to take notice of Stiltsville. In 1968, the Florida Cabinet issued leases on the properties.

By 1975, however, the state was looking at Stiltsville as not being worth the small lease stipends, particularly because the Biscayne Aquatic Act of 1974, creating a park of much of south Biscayne Bay, had included Stiltsville. The Department of Natural Resources tried to evict everyone.

Calmer heads prevailed, maybe because the leaseholders included a local judge, attorneys, a realtor, corporate executives, and corporations. In 1976, a deal was struck: The Cabinet renewed leases for 15 stilt houses for 23 years, on the condition that the houses be vacated by 1999. That condition, however begrudgingly, was accepted by the owners at the time.

What works against Mary Mill's almost-petition to keep Stiltsville is the fact that in the 19 years since the Cabinet reached its decision, there has been little public outcry about the fate of the sea houses. It was not until the effort began to clear debris that the total picture came into focus: The remaining houses have no future. Perhaps another look at the situation is in order.

South Florida is a strange place. While other cities relish their past and protect their early institutions, we appear to have a penchant for killing or giving them up. Hardly a day goes by without a cogent plea to save a bridge, home, roadway - or house out in the middle of the bay. Alas, there is so much to save and so little to save it with.