South Florida

In the Disney computer-animated film WALL-E, a scene in a cruise spaceship shows passengers slowly moving in levitating lounger chairs, sipping from milkshakes and generally not engaging in any physical activity.

For some reason, I always think of this scene when I go to South Florida.

Parts of South Florida I truly enjoy: the state parks, botanical gardens, and, of course, the coastline, but then, I turn around from gazing at the beach, and I see development as far as the eye can see.

It makes me sad. Sad for what it must have looked like when it was pristine—untouched by man. I imagine what it must have looked like when explorers or pirates landed.

There are pockets of the nature this land once was— the mangroves, the forests, the swamps, but dominating much of the scenery now are gated communities of identical, terracotta roofed houses, manicured golf courses, and strip malls.

As someone from a rural area, I find it all very disconcerting.

Though I certainly enjoy visiting Grandy and Grandpa (what my children call Tyson’s parents) down in Englewood and running on the Siesta Key beach as the sun is rising, I feel relief when I return to Georgia—I feel more at peace in the hills and woods.

Maybe it is the population density in those crowded coastal areas or the hacking away at nature that gets to me. Every time I go there, I viscerally feel the raw wounds to the natural habitat. South Florida, to me, always seems like it is bleeding from a manmade wound.

And it doesn’t seem sustainable.

A quick check of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s (NOAA) website on sea level rise shows that much of coastal South Florida will be inundated should the waters rise—even by just a foot (which is predicted by the turn of the century, taking into account the lowest greenhouse gas emissions). Increase that to ten feet, and much of the southern part of the state is at risk.

According to predictions from NASA, if the Greenland ice sheet melted, then sea levels could rise by 23 feet—a level that was not available for modeling on the interactive NOAA map I explored.

At just four feet of sea level rise (which would be the case by 2100 with continued emissions of greenhouse gasses), the entirety of Siesta Key along the gulf coast south of Sarasota disappears underwater.

According to a NASA report citing independent scientists, the probability is 95% that human activity has contributed to climate change due in large part to the burning of fossil fuels, industrialization and deforestation.

Down in South Florida, all of these activities are in evidence and seem to be increasing—power generation, development, clearing . . . all in a place that is most vulnerable to the impacts of sea level rise.

The evidence of climate change is unequivocal. Carbon dioxide levels are far beyond the natural, cyclical cycles of the past millennia. Global temperature is two degrees higher since record keeping began. The oceans have warmed in excess of 0.5 degrees. Ice sheets on Antarctica and Greenland have decreased in mass.

And yet, we clear subtropical hammock forests. We fill marshlands. Gated communities abound and rows and rows of cars clog the interstate.

And I feel I am part of the problem, driving nine hours on that interstate, cut through that hammock, through that marsh, but maybe, if I can learn more and share more, maybe I can make a difference.

You may recall, if you’ve seen the movie WALL-E, that Earth was essentially rendered a wasteland. And, of course, like all of us, I don’t ever want to see our home get so bad, so unlivable, that we have no option other than to abandon it.

I want to preserve what we have—to learn how we can develop and grow as a society in a sustainable way, one in which resources and nature’s beauty are preserved for future generations.