The Last High Ground

Truman Avenue in Key West is lined with historic Bahamian-style cottages, their pastel-painted wood siding and deep porches shaded by mature gumbo-limbo trees. These structures were built by nineteenth-century shipwrights and salvagers who used Dade County pine, a wood so dense it resists termites and rot alike. Today, many of these homes sit behind high security gates, owned by seasonal residents who visit for only a few weeks of the year. The working-class "Conchs"—descendants of the original settlers who established the island's unique cultural identity—have largely been priced out, forced to commute from trailers and modest developments on the lower keys.

This demographic shift is occurring in parallel with a physical one. During the king tides of late autumn, the saltwater bubbles up through the storm drains, flooding the streets of the historic district with several inches of brackish water. The city has embarked on an ambitious, multi-million-dollar plan to elevate streets and install one-way valves in the drainage system, but these measures are temporary fixes at best. For the service workers who run the island's restaurants and hotels, the daily commute is becoming increasingly difficult as high tides flood the low-lying stretches of the Overseas Highway.

Sitting in a cafe off Duval Street, retired shrimper Manny Pinder watches a group of tourists take selfies in front of a newly restored historic mansion. Pinder’s family has lived in Key West for five generations, but he recently sold his family home when the insurance premiums became larger than his pension. He plans to move to Georgia, joining a growing diaspora of locals who can no longer afford to live on the island they built. As the dusk settles, the tide begins its silent, predictable rise, filling the gutters of Truman Avenue with the dark, brackish water of the Atlantic.