"Plenty of my old friends and neighbors got what I got, and a lot of them got stuff I don't want to get," Lee told me last week when I joined a group of students from the women's studies department at the University of Central Florida. With Lee as one of their guides, they were touring the Lake Apopka area for a firsthand look at one of the country's most extreme examples of what happens when agribusiness shows utter disregard for the environment and for the welfare of workers.
Located 15 miles northwest of Orlando, almost in the shadow of Disney's Magic Kingdom, Lake Apopka has had many claims to fame. About 10 miles in diameter, it is the state's fourth largest lake. For a time in the first half of the 20th Century, it was nationally famous for its trophy largemouth bass, and 21 lodges sprang up on its shores to cater to anglers from around the world. But by the 1980s, Apopka had earned yet another distinction: it was the Sunshine State's most polluted large lake. The fabled bass were extinct.
Blame for the declining water quality was not hard to assign. In 1941, as part of the wartime effort to produce more fruits and vegetables, 19,000 acres of swamp on the lake's north shore were drained to make way for "muck farms" in the rich soil. During the growing season, farmers pumped water in and out of the lake depending on irrigation requirements and rainfall amounts. In the off-season, they allowed the lake to flood the fields to replenish the soil and prevent wind erosion and weed growth. With each cycle, the water not only picked up chemical fertilizers, but DDT, toxaphene, endrin, aldrin, dieldrin—a veritable witch's brew of endocrine-disrupting organochlorine pesticides. The water turned pea-green. The only surviving fish were tough, trashy, minnow-like gizzard shad.
By 1996, the situation had become so dire that the Florida government bought out the landowners and closed down the farms. The 14 landowners were paid $103 million for property and equipment. (In one of the sweetest deals, a farm sold the government a vegetable cooler for $1.4 million and then turned around and bought it back at auction for $35,000.) The 2,500 workers, who often had families that lived with them on the land, got nothing other than orders to clear out.
In the winter of 1998, the Saint John's River Water Management District decided to reverse the usual pattern of water flow and flooded the recently acquired land in the winter to attract migrating waterfowl. Sure enough, that year the Audubon Society tallied the largest ever recorded Christmas count of migrating birds for an inland location. The joy was short-lived. By the end of the winter, more than 1,000 fish-eating birds had died—blue herons, white pelicans, bald eagles. It was one of the worst bird-death disasters in United States history. A $1.5-million scientific investigation was launched. After a few years, researchers determined that the cause of the deaths was pesticide poisoning.