Georgetown

One of the canals bounding The Compound is on the north side. It is a narrow. At low tide one really could walk across to the next outcrop of land, which is a 162 acre area of urban wilderness. More exactly it’s 162 acres of a formerly tamed jungle world willfully without humans for five years. Locals call it Georgetown.

It used to be blocks of apartment buildings and two swimming pools and tiny docks. Parking lots and streets with sidewalks. The short story is that in 2004 the Motta Group of Fort Lauderdale paid $125 million for the site, and then went into foreclosure.

In 2009 it was bought for a stunning lowball deal: Christian Tyler Properties teamed with DeBartolo Development, Avanti Properties and Validus Group to buy the property from Bank of America for $30.5 million. The intention was to build condos. All the apartment dwellers were booted out. The swimming pools were filled in. All the buildings were bulldozed to the ground. And then it went nowhere.

Now it’s an enticing jurassic park mystery plot of land, a view of scrub and trees. Big birds circle. Squawks of various pitches carry over to The Compound.

The part of Georgetown fronting the main artery is edged by a twelve foot chain link fence which is sheathed by dense dark green nylon sheeting. There has got to be a place to get through and I go looking for it.

Immediate good fortune. The first part of the fence I check does have a section pulled down and I waltz right through. Inside are abandoned decaying streets narrowed by unchecked bush. Weeds poke through the pavement. Here and there are small piles of rubble and abandoned pieces of industrial detritus, which is stuff I love. Nearer the water are mangroves, red, black and white. Impenetrable. Every so often the scat of small creatures and something bigger gives me pause. Of course I am not alone. I half expect to bump into Kevin from Up.

The day is hot and still and buzzing. Streets and sidewalks, all going nowhere. The odd fire hydrant.  A few pallets of bricks. A wheelbarrow with flat tires. Thirty pounds of 1¼ nails in a plastic tub. Boy, if I lived around here I’d be hauling some of this bounty home.

Some kind of really sharp vicious burr gloms onto my socks and shoes and as I walk they work themselves into me. It is impossible to touch them.

Back home I scissor the socks from my feet and sit on the stoop, using tweezers to get them off my shoes.