Rustic Homes in Florida’s Stiltsville Tremble on Their Last Legs

Thatcher Edmunds recalls back in the early 1960s when the stilt structures dotting the flats of Biscayne Bay were notorious hangouts for gamblers, boozers and flashy women.

Characters such as Plucky Pierre and his right-hand man, Shipwreck Kelly, ran a joint called The Bikini Club, where a pink card gained entry for members any time of the day or night.

Sailors found their way to the Quarterdeck Club, which was fully equipped with a bar, table games, and, for a time, slot machines.

“Ours, though, was strictly for family,” said Edmunds, who calls his dwelling on stilts the “A house.”

So-named because of its distinctive A-frame architecture, the faded yellow retreat sits in several feet of water along with 13 other such vacation homes and weekend retreats off the southern coast of Key Biscayne.

Pleasure boaters cruising Biscayne Bay can hardly miss the stilt homes that have become a veritable Miami landmark.

Curious Miamians and visitors alike pass through Stiltsville’s natural deep-water channels en route to the ocean and sometimes leave slashes in the sea grasses after dragging their engines on the bay bottom in the clear, shallow water around the homes.

But even with its reputation considerably mellowed and more family oriented, Stiltsville will no longer exist at the turn of the century.

Residents’ leases for quarter-acre underwater sites won’t be renewed after July 1, 1999, by decree of the state. The state allowed the bay bottom to be leased through the next decade but prohibited new construction after the Legislature passed the Biscayne Bay Aquatic Preserve Act in 1974.

“We are taking this area, which is close to a large urban area, and returning it to its natural state,” said Lisa Garvin, spokeswoman for the 173,000-acre Biscayne National Park.

Although some people have called Stiltsville an eyesore and environmental concerns have been raised, Edmunds and others say the homes should be saved.

“Maybe they’re jealous because they can’t build,” Edmunds said. “We were there long before it was a national park. We’re not bothering anyone.”

Edmunds, 61, a retired trucking company supervisor from Pembroke Pines, shares the retreat with three other families. The 40-by 50-foot, three-bedroom house, about six miles offshore from Miami and a mile from the Cape Florida lighthouse, has stood for 27 years. Hurricane Donna leveled the original structure.

Residents now can rebuild homes damaged during storms only if at least 51% of the structure remains intact.

It took about a year for the families to build the A-frame house themselves, towing scrap lumber and materials to the site in small outboards.

“It was almost like homesteading,” Edmunds said.

In 1965, he said, a movie studio featured the house as the base of operations for an underwater coal-mining company in the film “ ‘Round the World Under the Sea.” Church groups and Boy Scouts also have borrowed the place for special retreats.

Don’t expect any luxuries here, Edmunds said, though it’s the best getaway possible still within sight of the Miami skyline.

“You never run out of things to do--relax, fish, water-ski, dive, or watch the boats go by,” he said.

There is no television, no telephone. They catch rainwater for showers and washing dishes. Generators provide electricity, and the breeze off the bay provides “the world’s best air conditioning,” Edmunds said as he threw open the wooden doors off the combination sitting room-kitchen-dining area.

The bay, its water patches of light green and indigo blue, used to offer some of the best bonefishing anywhere before Miami’s population boomed, Edmunds said. But despite the decline in marine life, it is still easy to catch a panful of fish for supper.

“You can cast off the porch any time you want and catch all the fish you want,” Edmunds said.

Old pictures from family outings cram a large bulletin board inside the wooden house, many of them showing bloody sharks bigger than the young boys who caught them.

Over the course of about 60 years, residents of Stiltsville have often helped boaters who became stranded or got caught in a bad storm.

“Through the years I can’t imagine how many I’ve pulled off the flats or helped them repair their boats or towed them in,” Edmunds said.

Residents pay the state Department of Natural Resources $1,000 annually to lease the site. When the first structures began shaping Stiltsville, the bay bottom was leased for $1 an acre. The community peaked after World War II, with some 20 residences.

Today, some of the structures have fallen into disrepair after years of constant exposure to wind and salt spray.

Edmunds said it is a constant battle to keep up his retreat, replacing beams, painting and making repairs. He worries about Stiltsville’s possible deterioration in the next decade because owners may decide that it is not worth spending the money for repairs if they’ll have to move or tear down the residences.

If the state remains committed to eliminating Stiltsville, Edmunds said, it’ll do more than just take away a slice of paradise for owners in the area.

“It’ll take away a lot of pleasure for people who visit,” he said. “It’s just the neatest place in the world.”