For some, life on the water is a refuge; for Biscayne Bay, it’s becoming a burden. Miami’s new anchoring restrictions aim to curb a growing fleet of decaying vessels threatening Dinner Key’s fragile ecosystem.
Once she was a stately double-cabin trawler, capable of crossing oceans from her 1983 Taiwanese birthplace to the clear blue waters of South Florida. Who knows where she tied up along the way, who captained the boat, what stormy seas she may have traveled?
What we do know is that the 38-foot Marine Trader called Procyon ended her days right here, keeled over in a seagrass bed near Coconut Grove’s Dinner Key, waves lapping over her starboard side, just one of many wrecked and decaying boats that now deface Biscayne Bay like scars.
Derelict vessels — boats that are unseaworthy, abandoned, sinking, falling apart, taking on water and leaking fuel — can be found throughout South Florida, from the Florida Keys to Palm Beach County. But nowhere are the problems posed by these dangerous watercraft more acute than in the Dinner Key area.
“The number of vessels documented as derelict pales in comparison to the number that are out there,” says John Ricisak, a manager with Miami-Dade County’s Division of Environmental Resources Management (DERM). Since 2007, he has overseen the removal and destruction of more than 550 boats from local waters, at an expense of more than $2 million. “We remove one and two more take its place,” said Ricisak, whose nickname, Sisyphus, reflects the never-ending struggle of his job. “In recent years the problem has only grown.”
READ MORE: Legislature passes bill to crack down on abandoned boats, hold owners financially responsible
Fueling the surge of derelict vessels is the steady growth of the liveaboard community — a population drawn here by the housing crisis, the enduringly romantic appeal of a life on the water and, in Coconut Grove, plenty of sheltered anchorage close to grocery stores, restaurants, public transportation and shopping.
“Everything is just so convenient here,” said musician Jesse Jackson, 48, whose home is a 34-foot Creekmore sloop he named Naval Gazer. “I absolutely hope to continue living here a while.”
In the past year, the State of Florida, Miami-Dade County and the City of Miami have come up with laws designed to crack down on those who live outside designated, regulated mooring fields by limiting the time a boater can anchor in one place and restricting areas where sailors can drop anchor, citing the damage caused to the environment and threats to public safety.
Some well-off seaside communities — Miami Beach, for example — have issued regulations making it all but impossible to live offshore by providing no place where it is legal to land in a dinghy.
Dinner Key does provide a place for liveaboards to come ashore — the Seminole Dinghy Dock — but many wonder how long those who pay no anchorage fees will be welcome.
Commissioner Damian Pardo sponsored an ordinance, passed by the commission last month, that establishes an overnight anchoring limitation area within the city’s part of the bay to address what the bill describes as “a haven for unregulated vessel living, which leads to pollution, both physical trash and human waste, being directly emptied into the city waterways, causing continued harm to the environment.”
The legislation adds that “the long-term anchorage of vessels without restriction has created an abundance of derelict and abandoned vessels which requires the City to expend its funds or find other funding in order to remove the vessels from the waters.” Under the new law, no vessel can remain anchored in designated city waterways for more than 30 nights in any six-month period and boats would be barred from anchoring within 300 feet of a public mooring field.
Pardo says the legislation is aimed at stemming the influx of liveaboards being chased out of other communities in Miami-Dade, Broward and the Florida Keys. Liveaboards have also been pushed out of anchorages around Miami Marine Stadium and Watson Island.
“These changes will help prevent marine squatters from occupying public waterways, address abandoned vessels, and ensure we can better manage transient dockage for residents and visitors alike,” said Pardo in a September Instagram post.
Enforcing the new law falls to the Marine Patrol in cooperation with the city’s code compliance inspectors, says Lt. Corey Couto, who commands the police detail of 20 officers. To track how long any one boat has been in the anchorage, “we would start in a small location and then get bigger and broader,” he said.
Couto acknowledged the task is daunting. “We do what we have to do,” he said.
Burt Korpela, a salvor who was raised on the waters of Dinner Key and for years has lived on a 65-foot Hatteras in the anchorage, estimates the community has grown by up to 150 vessels in the last six months. Some are occupied by liveaboards and others are just anchored and left, he said.
One of his chief concerns, says Korpela, is that many new arrivals do not know how to securely anchor their boats. “I’ve been hit already” by a runaway boat, he said. “People drop a 25-, 30-pound anchor and think that’s enough to hold the boat. It’s not.”
Most of those who live full time on the water are responsible and care for their vessel. And they value the laid-back ambiance of the Dinner Key’s boating community. Novice sailor Malynda Salamone began life on a 35-foot Beneteau in October and admits she is still learning the ropes. But she expresses confidence that “this is a great way to live.”
Veteran sailor Anthony Mikel, at the helm of a 1980 Hunter 33 named Salt Therapy, has been cruising up and down the Florida coast this year, returning often to Dinner Key. “Coconut Grove is so friendly, and there is everything we need: legal access to shore, trash disposal, water and shopping,” he said. “Thank God, this place is still magical.”
Mikel does all his own boat repairs, and says he can live on $6,000 a year. He makes some of the money he needs by ferrying his electric bicycle ashore and working for Uber Eats. But other liveaboards are financially strapped, and maintenance is expensive. “People see living aboard as a low-cost option to living on land,” says Ricisak. “And we have a cottage industry of crappy boats, given away or rented cheaply. There are always people eager to live out their dream.”
When the dream dies, the boat becomes wreckage. “There has been a big increase in derelict vessels, especially since COVID,” says Marine Patrol Ofc. Arturo Del Castillo.
On a recent cruise through the Dinner Key area in a steel-gray Metal Shark 27, Del Castillo and fellow Ofc. Maikel Mendez quickly spotted several boats that had already been slapped with a yellow sticker, indicating it had been targeted for removal and destruction. “Boats with no mast, no sail, no propulsion – they get tagged,” said Del Castillo.
But between tagging and removal lie months of delay as funds are identified and contracts let. Often the money to pay for vessel removal comes from the Biscayne Bay Environmental Enhancement Trust Fund and with grants from the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, Florida Inland Navigation District, and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, according to Ricisak.
The Procyon was tagged by the Marine Patrol in August. In a police report, the owner was identified as Christie Michelle Huston, 32, whose permanent address was listed as the Dinner Key Marina. Marina manager Guillermo Quinones said he does not know Huston, and police say they cannot find her to answer two charges, having an abandoned vessel and no required lights. In absentia, she has been fined $140.
Meanwhile, the Procyon – named after a star system in Canis Minor or a genus that includes raccoons – continues to sink. The cost of hauling the boat out of the water, estimates Del Castillo: $19,000.
“I’m not opposed to people anchoring out and being responsible, but there is a lot of irresponsible behavior, too,” said Del Castillo. “This is a resource rich in mangroves and seagrass and these vessels do a lot of damage. You can see it on Google Earth — they wholly trash the bottom.
“Personally,” said Del Castillo, 42, “I’m a fan of canoeing and kayaking.”
