Endangered Icon
By Mike Thomas

The most beautiful quarter-mile drive in Florida begins at the eastern tip of the Bridge of Lions. From there, go west across the Matanzas River, toward the city of St. Augustine. On the right is the Castillo de San Marcos, built in 1676 from coquina blocks. The old Spanish fort, although it has been battered by time, by the elements and by hoards of trampling tourists, still appears sturdy enough to withstand a moderately fearsome siege.

Rising from the center of the bridge are four bascule towers, and ahead is the city’s world-famous historic district, with it majestic cathedrals and ornate former hotels, many of which were built during the halcyon days of Henry Flagler, one of the state’s original real estate developers.

No, this is not Florida’s most towering skyline, but it is the prettiest. Standing guard at the mainland end of the bridge, where it disgorges drivers into the heart of the Oldest City, are two huge, carved marble lions, which give the venerable structure its name.

The 71-year-old Bridge of Lions would be considered a real relic almost anyplace else in Florida. But in St. Augustine, where the age of many buildings can be measured in hundreds of years, it is a relative newcomer. Still, the concrete is worn and cracking, and the faux old Spanish design blends nicely with its surroundings. Consequently, preservationists have adopted the local landmark as though it had been trod upon by Juan Ponce de Leon himself.

Yet, like so many old (if not exactly ancient) architectural treasures, the bridge is rich in heritage, but poor in efficiency. It sports only two narrow lanes, which are easily overpowered by rush-hour traffic. Cars back up even more quickly when the low center span rises for passing boats.

But, these engineering shortcomings serve an important purpose. St. Augustine, which is best taken in at a leisurely pace, is blessed (or cursed) with a charmingly slapdash road network better suited for horses and carriages than for speeding automobiles. Therefore, the bridge gently begins the process of slowing people down to a more appropriate pace.

Indeed, most visitors to St. Augusitne remember two landmarks: the Castillo de San Marcos and the Bridge of Lions. Given this, would it not be a crime to tear down such a bridge, as some are suggesting? Would it not make more sense to restore it, so that its beauty could be enjoyed by another generation?

Before answering, look out into the Mantazas, where a dark ship approaches. It is a sinister-looking black barge, with thousands of gallons of oil splashing inside its thin hull. The middle span of the Bridge of Lions is only 76 feet wide, so the tug captain pushing the 60-foot-wide vessel has only eight feet of clearance on each side.

With such scant margin for error, strong currents could pull the barge off course, causing it to strike the pilings. Could the impact of such a collision topple the bridge, sending cars and people plunging into the water? Or, could the barge spring a leak, spewing its cargo into the river and causing and environmental disaster?

Probably yes, say some experts. Probably no, say others.

Yet, assuming even the slightest chance of an epic accident, does it make sense to allow the bridge to remain? Why not let the architects design another one, just as beautiful and better suited to meeting the demands of the 21st century transportation?

These are questions now being hotly debated in St. Augustine, where the Spaniards and the English once fought with muskets to gain a foothold in the New World.

Bill Henderson is not your stereotypical official from the state Department of Transportation (DOT). He is gregarious, and actually displays a decidedly nonbureaucratic sense of humor.

This particular attribute serves Henderson well, since he is the DOT’s point man on the Bridge of Lions. As such, he is in the midst of the fray, striving for compromise in a conflict where there appears to be no middle ground.

“Look at this!” he says, digging into a box. “You’ve go to see this.” It is a letter from the U.S. Coast Guard, threatening to invoke the Truman-Hobbs Act of 1940. Henderson shakes his head in disbelief. The Truman-Hobbs Act? He had never heard of it before the letter arrived.

Suddenly, however, these obscure, 58-year-old piece of federal legislation has become quiet important. It apparently gives the Coast Guard the power to “order the alteration” of a bridge that is deemed to obstruct navigation. And according to the Coast Guard, the Bridge of Lions unquestionably falls into that category.

Henderson wonders what, exactly, the phrase “order the alteration” means. Can the Coast Guard simply blow the darned thing up? “I’ve never seen anything like this since I’ve been here,” he says.

Henderson, a 20-year DOT man, works out of a Lake City office filled with filing cabinets, which are bulging with folders, studies and correspondence about the Bridge of Lions. There are, in fact, literally thousands of documents with which to contend. Henderson’s thankless job is to condense everything relevant into a report, which will, in turn, be sent up the chain of command to all the local, state and federal agencies that will have a say in the bridge’s future.

His executive summary: “I’m glad I’m not making this decision.”

Undoubtedly, Henderson’s report will, like the weakest chick in the coop, be pecked painfully apart. Those who wish it gone will seek to discredit any conclusions unfavorable to their cause.

So, it is not surprising that Henderson missed his deadline last year. In fact, he makes no promises about when the report will be complete, although he is hoping to be ready with a document this summer. “Every time I turn around, something changes that I have to put in there,” he sighs.

The Bridge of Lions, which connects the city to Anastasia Island, was built in 1927, replacing a creaky, wooden structure that repeatedly got stuck while opening for boat traffic.

There was no angst about its historic importance when the city decided to tear it down, but there were firm opinions about what its replacement should be. Because city leaders did not want an ugly, concrete monstrosity tarnishing their beautiful downtown, they decided to build a bridge that would serve not only function, but also design. They would construct “The Most Beautiful Bridge in Dixie.”

Therefore, the new bridge had arches lining its underbelly. It was built low and narrow, so its scale would not overpower the picturesque waterfront. It had four bascule towers rising from its center, and was flanked by sidewalks for those wishing to stroll out and enjoy the view.

The charming and much more practical structure quickly made its way onto St. Augustine postcards, and became one of the city’s most widely known landmarks.

But, while the area grew over the ensuing decades, the bridge did not. The volume of traffic began to overwhelm it, and the city proposed replacing it with a four-lane bridge in 1972. The DOT eventually agreed.

However, residents of St. Augustine did not. Their opposition was fierce and vocal, prompting road officials to back off and simply patch up the old bridge. Still by 1989, it became apparent that the bridge was deteriorating faster than it could be repaired, and that a more permanent solution was required.

Luckily for preservationists, an engineering report showed that the underlying framework was still solid, which meant that the bridge could be rebuilt atop the old pilings. This “restoration” would allow the bridge to retain its listing on the National Register of Historic Places because the center, containing the trademark towers, would remain intact.

Bridge supporters got yet another boost when state road engineers ruled out building a new, four-lane bridge. This would be an exercise in futility, DOT officials said, since a wider bridge carrying more cars would simply worsen congestion on St. Augustine’s narrow streets.

Invariably, state agencies take the path of least resistance. And, until the Coast Guard sent state officials a copy of the Truman-Hobbs Act, that path appeared to be restoration, not replacement, of the Bridge of Lions.

The Coast Guard has many jobs. It promotes boating safety, it rescues people at sea and it intercepts drug smugglers. In addition, a lesser known responsibility is maintenance of the nation’s inland waterways, including the 3,100-mile-long Intercoastal Waterway, which originates near Boston, skirts both Florida coasts and terminates near Brownsville, Texas.

About 100 bridges cross the Intercoastal in Florida, linking the mainland to the state’s beaches. Most of the bridges have 90 feet of horizontal clearance beneath them, which had previously been the width requirement by the Coast Guard.

Then, in 1996, the minimum width requirement was increased to 125 feet to accommodate larger barges. Still, the DOT did not believe this new standard applied to the Bridge of Lions, since the project was considered to be repair of an old bridge, not construction of a new one.

The Coast Guard, however, begged to differ, claiming jurisdiction over the bridge and grumbling about the narrow channel beneath it. The Bridge of Lions is hit by more barges than any other in Florida, say Coast Guard officials. Yet, while it is true that the span has been struck 30 times since 1982, none of the mishaps seriously threatened the bridge or the public.

Regardless, the Coast Guard is worried that a more serious accident is inevitable. “A good striking of the bridge could knock it into the water, and we are concerned about the resulting loss of life and property,” says John Winslow, chief of the Coast Guard’s Bridge Section in Miami.

The odds of a serious accident increase, the Coast Guard says, as barges get wider. In 1980, they averaged 26 feet in width. Now, they average between 35 and 45 feet, with some as wide as 60 feet. Further complicating navigation are strong currents, caused by tidal changes at an ocean inlet less than a mile away, which can pull a barge off course.

“We are attempting to let the DOT understand our position,” Winslow says. “There are safety issues perhaps more paramount than simply the historical nature of the bridge.”

But, are these safety concerns overblown?

Few people have pushed more barges beneath the Bridge of Lions than Vince Roberts. The St. Augustine tugboat captain figures that, over the years, he has shepherded hundreds of them through the narrow opening.

Nonetheless, he has never so much as bumped the bridge’s wooden boat fenders. As he says this, he reaches down and knocks on the pine floor of his home. Nonetheless, Roberts admits he is in the minority of captains when he says the Bridge of Lions should stay.

“A lot of them don’t like it,” says Roberts. “They start talking about the bridge when they leave Fort Lauderdale.”

They are not afraid of knocking the bridge down, he says, because they are not going fast enough to do that. What really makes them nervous is the possibility of hitting the bridge's fragile wooden fenders, resulting in damage claims against their companies.

Roberts says the bridge and barges can co-exist if safety measures are taken. Already, massive wooden posts stand a few hundred yards on either side of the bridge, allowing barges to tie up and wait for slack tide, a brief period of calm water occurring when the tides are shifting directions, before passing underneath. There have been no accidents since the waiting posts were installed last year, according to Coast Guard records.

So, captains should be required to wait for slack tides, Roberts says. Currently, the Coast Guard recommends, but does not require, this precaution. Consequently, captains who are trying to meet tight schedules are tempted to forge ahead.

Indeed, a Coast Guard report on an October 1995 bridge accident notes that the tugboat captain, unfamiliar with the area, tried to steer through the bridge when strong currents were pushing from behind. The barge lost control, causing $53,000 in damage to the bridge fenders.

“I hate to see them tear the bridge down just because a few people are not competent enough to get through there safely,” says Roberts. The Coast Guard could also require shippers to use smaller “assist tugs” to help steer barges beneath the bridge, he adds, and the state could fortify the wooden fenders.

However, the Coast Guard says such restrictions pose an undue financial burden on shippers. And, it is concerned about the risk of spill, which would devastate the Matanzas River. About 85% of barges crossing under the Bridge of Lions carry oil, usually around 10,000 barrels. Most of these vessels have only a single hull, which means a nasty incident could result from a sharp collision. Double-hull barges, already mandated on ocean-going barges, are not required on inland waterways until 2015.

Historian David Nolan asks: Is this colonial building real, or fake?

Real?

Wrong, he says. He points to a spot where the stucco has worn away, and the bare spot reveals brick. Original St. Augustine buildings were constructed of coquina.

Nolan has inventoried most of the city’s old buildings. Walking down St. George Street, the shop-lined tourist strip of St. Augustine, he point to storefronts that could easily pass for historic to the untrained eye. The St. George Pharmacy? Fake. The Columbia Restaurant? Fake. “These are authentic reproductions,” he says. “An oxymoron.Ô

It would be fair to call Nolan persnickety. He is one of the city’s best-known preservationists, all of whom are locked in a never-ending battle to protect the city's heritage in the face of rapid growth and development.

Back in the 1970s, says Nolan, the city’s historic preservation board allowed a developer to raze old Victorian homes and replace them with fakes. He points them out, noting that the patterns carved in the wood railing are wrong, among other architectural discrepancies.

The Bridge of Lions controversy is simply the latest example of a general disregard for history, says Nolan, who scoffs at the notion of building a new bridge that would look just like the old one.

It would not be the same bridge crossed by Model Ts back in 1927. It would not be the same bridge crossed by Martin Luther King Jr. in 1964, when he led a protest against segregation in the city. It would be, just like the Victorian houses, another fake.

“The bridge is a great symbol of the city,” says Nolan. “You don’t throw your symbols away.”

Unless you are Art Runk. He is one of three ex-mayors of St. Augustine who have embarked upon a crusade to get rid of the bridge. “Preservation is nice, but this is a vital traffic link,” says Runk.

Runk adds that the bridge is too narrow, which could be particularly dangerous if Anastasia Island had to be evacuated for a hurricane. Police cannot even get to a broken-down car, he says, while people and bicycles must share a five-foot-wide sidewalk that has no barrier to shield it from traffic.

Runk would prefer a four-lane bridge, but will settle for a wider two-lane bridge, if that is all the city can get. He sees little sense in restoration plans that would basically rebuild the bridge from atop the original pilings.

“That’s not saving the old bridge,” he says. “Ninety percent of it will be replaced. That's laughable.”

As for the preservationists? “They are a small minority, but they are strong,” he says. “The thinking people can see the need for a new bridge.”

So, how will all this play out? When Henderson finishes his report, hopefully this summer, there will be public hearings, followed by a final decision from DOT, perhaps before the end of the year. “I’ll be honest with you,” he says. “We (the DOT) are probably leaning toward favoring a replacement bridge.”

A new bridge would offer other benefits, he says, such as wider traffic lanes and breakdown lanes. These additions would make the bridge 24 feet wider and eight feet higher. Also, a new bridge would last for 75 years, while DOT engineers cannot say how long a restored span would last. Maybe 50 years; maybe 35 years.

But, even if all the bureaucrats agree to tear down the bridge, the battle will not be over. Historians could challenge them in court. The bridge is not only on the National Register of Historic Places, but it also was chosen as one of America’s 11 Most Endangered Sites by the Historic Trust for National Preservation. No site on the list has yet been lost, and preservationists will not want a precedent set in the nation’s oldest city.

The Florida Bureau of Historic Preservation already knows what it would like the road agency to do. “We would like to see the existing bridge rehabilitated,” says Laura Kammerer from the bureau.

Nonetheless, Henderson hopes the DOT can avoid both controversy and lawsuits. “We wouldn’t build your normal old DOT concrete bridge in there,” he says. “We would make a bridge that looks just a pretty as the old one.”

Yet, that is what scares some people in St. Augustine.

Says Save the Bridge committee member Janis Williams: “My greatest fear is that they’re going to try and gussy it up with a bunch of Spanish doo-dads.”