Kick Ass: Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

Customers who buy GDC land site-unseen are offered a company-paid trip to visit their new property. By taking the trip, however, they waive their option to cancel the sales contract. Some might say this policy is unfair and defeats the whole purpose of the trip, but look at the other side. Think of how many freezing snowbirds would try to weasel a free vacation to Florida this way!

Then there's the recurring problem with property appraisals. It seems that when residents try to sell their GDC lots or homes, the appraisals sometimes come up just a tad short of what was originally paid. One couple purchased a house for $65,000 in 1984; just a year later, an independent appraiser valued the place at $40,500. Another woman bought a house at Port Malabar for $67,000, and eight months later it was appraised at $43,000.

I'm sure there are excellent reasons for these minor discrepancies. So much can happen to a new house in eight months or a year—the paint can fade, the dog can mess up the carpets, the sprinklers can turn the sidewalks orange. Fifty bucks here and there, and before you know it, you've got $24,000 worth of serious depreciation.

More to the point, why would anyone want to sell their lovely GDC home anyway? The whole idea is to move to Florida and spend eternity in paradise, assuming the roads eventually get paved.

Instead of whining about it, I say we applaud GDC for goosing up its prices and discouraging resales. Florida needs citizens who stay put, not buy-and-sell vagabonds who disturb the stability of a carefully planned community.

Even more important—and forgive us for getting a little misty-eyed—is preserving Florida's glorious tradition of hawking itself as shamelessly and profitably as is humanly possible. If someone sells you swampland, it's because someone sold swampland to their fathers, and perhaps even to their grandfathers before that.

Maybe it's in our blood, or maybe it's just something in the water, but it is part of our heritage. Thank heavens it's still alive.

Maybe first Thanksgiving soured early November 24, 1989

A University of Florida historian reports that, contrary to American folklore, the first Thanksgiving did not take place in 1621 after the Pilgrims' arrival at Plymouth Rock.

Rather, the original feast supposedly was held 56 years earlier at St. Augustine when Spanish explorer Pedro Menendez de Aviles invited the Timucua Indians to dinner. The prayerful gathering was called to celebrate the Spaniards' safe landing on the Florida coast.

If true, this revisionist account of the holiday raises important historical questions. Why did tradition embrace the New England Thanksgiving instead of the original Florida Thanksgiving? What really happened on that autumn evening in 1565 when the Spaniards and the Timucua broke bread? Did something go terribly wrong to spoil the occasion? Perhaps it all went sour on the day after the big cookout, when ...

"Chief, you look awful—what's the matter?"

"It's those damn garbanzo beans. I should never have let Pedro talk me into a second helping."

"Speaking of Pedro, he and his men were up at the crack of dawn this morning. They chopped down many of our finest trees, and now they seem to be building something on our beach."

"I wondered who was causing all that racket. What are they making, another one of those ugly forts?"

"Not exactly, Chief. Pedro calls it a high-rise."

"I don't understand—what is that word, 'high-rise'? How would we say it in Timucuan?"

"Literally, it means Tall Box Full of Noisy Strangers."

"But why would Pedro put such an unnatural thing on such a beautiful shore!"

"He says he had a spiritual vision, Chief. He says that thousands upon thousands more settlers will soon be coming to Florida, and they will all need a place to sleep and eat and give thanks."

"What's he got against good old-fashioned thatched huts?"

"Pedro says the new settlers will want something fancier than palmetto. He says they'll be willing to pay major trinkets and beads to live in a high place with a good view of the ocean."

"This high-rise—exactly how high will it be?"

"Higher than the tallest pines, Chief. Higher than the eagles soar."

"Ha! I think our friend Pedro had a little too much grape last night."

"He seems quite sober, Chief. And his men are swift carpenters. I don't mind telling you, the rest of the tribe is very concerned."

"I, too, am worried—and surprised. They seemed like such nice fellows, these explorers. Much friendlier than the French. I can't believe they'd want to build a giant box on our beach and fill it with noisy strangers. What're we going to do?"

"Well, Chief, we could always eat them. Like we did with those Huguenots."

"Yeah, and we all had the trots for a month afterward, remember? Let's try to think of a different way to discourage Pedro."

"We could pass some tough coastal zoning ordinances."

"Naw, that'll never work. Pedro's lawyers would find a loophole somewhere."