A piece of Florida history was frozen in time; The Dade-Collier Training and Transition Airport—once heralded as the future site of the world’s largest airport—now stands as a relic of grandiose ambition. Long abandoned by commercial aviation, its single, cracked runway has become the center of a new storm: a political, environmental, and humanitarian clash over a bold and controversial plan to convert the remote airstrip into a migrant detention facility, now chillingly dubbed “Alligator Alcatraz.”
A Forgotten Runway, A Renewed Purpose
On a June morning, under the brooding heat of a subtropical sun, a convoy of trucks rumbled into the ghostly expanse of Dade-Collier. Satellite images, drone footage, and on-the-ground reports confirmed the presence of construction crews, cranes, and fencing materials—evidence that the project had been greenlit at full throttle. All hell was gonna break loose and the news lines will spike with all kind of weird stories and assumptions.
“This is a force multiplier,” Governor Ron DeSantis declared at a press conference in Tampa. “We had a request from the federal government to do it — and so, Alligator Alcatraz it is.” Like him or not – Once Ron clamps down on something it’s a done deal.
The announcement sent shockwaves across the state. With federal immigration enforcement escalating and detention facilities elsewhere at capacity, Florida had stepped forward. The Everglades site, remote and controlled, was seen as ideal for housing up to 5,000 detainees, with a projected cost of over $450 million annually. It was, in DeSantis’ words, a “temporary solution” designed to support state and federal law enforcement.
But to many, it felt like the beginning of something more permanent — and more troubling.
The airport itself has a strange and storied history. In the 1960s, planners envisioned a cutting-edge “superport” capable of accommodating Concorde-style supersonic aircraft. It was to be a marvel of engineering, the centerpiece of a booming Florida future. But environmentalists, Indigenous leaders, and local communities pushed back hard. By the 1970s, public opinion had shifted, and the ambitious plan fell apart.
The airport was never completed. Today, one lonely runway slices through a vast wetland wilderness teeming with wildlife: gators, herons, panthers, and invasive pythons. It’s a place where nature reclaimed what human hands abandoned—until now.
Environmental Flashpoint
To environmental advocates, the new construction at Dade-Collier is an act of ecological vandalism.
“This proposal is not only deeply inhumane — but it is also profoundly irresponsible from an environmental, ethical, and fiscal standpoint,” said Javier Estevez of the Sierra Club, standing before a crowd of journalists in downtown Miami.
Estevez pointed out the deep contradiction: How could the same administration that advocates for Everglades restoration justify building a detention center in the middle of one of the world’s most sensitive ecosystems?
“The Everglades is not a staging area for mobile infrastructure,” he said. “It’s a fragile and irreplaceable ecosystem—central to our heritage and Florida’s future.”
Drone footage showing bulldozers plowing through sawgrass did little to calm public concerns. Ecologists warn that even temporary facilities risk polluting water tables, disrupting wildlife migration paths, and damaging protected species’ habitats.
Garrett Stuart, director of the Eco Preservation Project and a descendant of the Miccosukee Tribe, was even more forceful in his condemnation. “This site is sacred. It’s where Nixon stood when he declared that we needed to protect the environment,” Stuart said, referring to the historic 1970s conservation efforts that eventually led to the formation of the Environmental Protection Agency. “To give this land over for cages and razor wire is like cutting off my own scalp and handing it to them.”
Cultural and Historical Reverberations
About a mile from the site lies Indigenous land where Miccosukee traditions still thrive in airboat-access-only communities. These communities have long fought to protect the Everglades, not only as an environmental resource but as a spiritual and historical home.
Chokofa Billie, an elder in the Miccosukee Tribe, told local reporters, “We were here before the airport. We will be here long after it’s gone. But what happens to the water happens to us. You can’t separate the land from the people.”
The proximity of the detention center to sacred sites has sparked protests and legal threats. Tribal representatives are consulting with environmental lawyers about the legality of building what some have called a “floating prison” on the edge of sovereign lands.
Political Calculus and National Impact
While Florida’s state leaders present the project as a temporary and necessary response to national immigration pressures, critics argue it’s also a political play — part of a broader narrative pushed by DeSantis and other conservative leaders.
“This is about optics as much as policy,” said Dr. Angela Paredes, a political science professor at the University of Florida. “‘Alligator Alcatraz’ is a name that evokes fear, control, and power. It’s designed to resonate with a specific base that feels the federal government has lost control over immigration.”
Inside the Wire
According to leaked planning documents obtained by investigative journalists, the facility will include several large prefabricated structures, tent barracks, medical units, and helipads for deportation transport. The fencing — topped with motion sensors and barbed wire — is being installed with round-the-clock security.
The documents also mention “minimum human contact” policies, suggesting a heavily automated or drone-monitored site. Civil liberties groups have already begun filing Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) requests to better understand how detainees will be processed, housed, and released or deported.
“This is a black site in the making,” warned Emily Chen, a legal analyst for the Florida Civil Rights Alliance. “No transparency, no oversight, and no easy access for family or legal aid. That’s not a detention center — that’s a human rights crisis waiting to happen.”
Community Reactions and Uneasy Silence
In nearby Collier County towns like Everglades City and Ochopee, the reaction is mixed. Some locals welcome the increased economic activity, especially the promise of temporary construction jobs. Others fear what the presence of the facility will mean for their already small and isolated communities.
“My cousin just got a job working security,” said one anonymous Everglades City resident. “He’s got a family, and there ain’t much work around here. But even he says it feels wrong.”
Local businesses, many of which rely on eco-tourism and the image of the Everglades as a pristine wilderness, worry the detention center could drive visitors away.
“What are we supposed to tell people?” said Amelia Brooks, who runs an airboat tour company. “That they can see alligators by day and hear screams from a detention camp by night?”
DeSantis’ Defiant Stand
Despite the uproar, Governor DeSantis has doubled down on the project. Speaking again just days after the initial announcement, he reiterated the temporary nature of the facility.
“This thing’s been used a bunch of times over many, many years — and so the impact will be zero. That’s in keeping with our policy,” he said, referencing previous use of the airport site for military and training purposes.
But environmentalists, tribal leaders, and civil rights advocates aren’t convinced.
“They say it’s temporary,” said Estevez. “But so was Guantanamo Bay.”
A Swamp of Questions
As July matures and the facility nears operational status, questions abound. How will detainees be treated? Who will oversee the center? What legal protections will exist? What happens if a hurricane hits the site? How much environmental damage will be done before the first migrant even arrives?
And perhaps most troubling of all: Is this the beginning of a new era in immigration policy — one where remoteness becomes a tool for secrecy?
For now, the runway at Dade-Collier, flanked by buzzards and cypress trees, is quiet. But soon, it will hum not with jets or tourists, but with the machinery of incarceration, powered by politics, fear, and the unforgiving sun of the Everglades.
“Alligator Alcatraz,” as the governor calls it, may be temporary. But the scars it leaves — on the land, on the people, and on the soul of Florida — could last far longer.
I say give Rick LoCastro a chance to waltz through the myriad of information and give his findings to the public. We all know that Commissioner LoCastro is one of the best when it comes to resolving issues.
