TAMPA, FLA. — The Georgetown apartment complex was one of this city's most coveted properties back in 2005. Now Greg Chelius and Alex Size were touring it as if examining an exotic ruin.
They walked past the unmanned guardhouse and its broken windows. Size snapped photos with a digital camera. Chelius lifted the green fabric on a fence tacked with No Trespassing signs.
Building after building loomed in the near distance, all of them quiet and vacant. From Chelius' vantage, it was difficult to judge their condition.
"We heard they were in such bad shape they'd have to be taken down," he said.
"It depends on the drywall," Size replied. "And the rot. And the mold."
They walked the eastern edge of the property, stopping at a place where they could glimpse -- through a thicket of weeds and Brazilian pepper trees -- the blue water of Old Tampa Bay, lapping at the property's edge.
As if on cue, a circling pelican dive-bombed for a fish.
"It's just outstanding," Chelius said.
These two men have big plans for the Georgetown property, 160 acres on the southwest side of the Tampa peninsula. But they are not planning to build.
Chelius is state director for the Trust for Public Land. Size is from the nonprofit's St. Petersburg office. Because of the steep decline in property values here, they believe they have a chance to help local government purchase and preserve this stretch of waterfront. A few months ago, it was slated to be covered with luxury condominiums, "mansion" town houses and single-family homes.
Instead, Chelius and Size spoke about the native plants that could be restored -- the sabal palmetto palm, the seagrape trees, the three native species of mangrove. With the vegetation would come more native animals, more birds.
"We're sort of like the un-developers right now," Chelius said, smiling.
Florida and California are what Gary R. Mormino, a historian at the University of South Florida in Tampa, calls the two great American "dream states," where surf and sunshine have lured generations with the promise of a better life.
Where Americans dare to dream, they have also dared to gamble on real estate, and the history of both states has been shaped by cycles of boom and bust.
Florida's dream-state status has led to intense fluctuations in the value of its land, and the fortunes of those who would gamble on it: One historian of the 1920s housing bubble there called it the "greatest speculative frenzy in history." More recently, an analyst at Goldman Sachs called Florida the "epicenter" of the nation's current housing bust.
Georgetown was the kind of dream that defined much of Florida's post-World War II growth -- a workingman's idyll, paradise on the cheap.
Built in the early 1960s by a child of the Great Depression named Ralph Kaul, it offered a clean, if unassuming, place to live and modest rents. There was a swimming pool, a clubhouse and a plain-Jane marina -- and of course that postcard-perfect view of the bay.
By 2005, however, a more glamorous Florida dream fueled by borrowed money and unbridled optimism was set to overtake Georgetown.
Few imagined that the new dream would dissolve so spectacularly. By 2007, the state led the nation in foreclosures and unsold inventory, and neighborhoods like southwest Tampa were left with half-realized and abandoned projects.
A development planned for a few blocks away, called New Port, still has a website that promises "restaurants and cafes, residential balconies, boutiques, offices, verdant parklands, gardens, trails. . . ." Today it is in foreclosure; the land is an empty lot. Nearby, work on the gated Westshore Yacht Club has been indefinitely suspended. The developer is in bankruptcy.
And then there is Georgetown, which could now revert -- at least in part -- to the untended field of mangroves that it was when Ralph Kaul first laid eyes on it.
Kaul's widow sold the Georgetown apartments at the market's dizzying peak. The place isn't her problem anymore. Yet Virginia Kaul bristles with frustration when she drives by.
"I have to keep telling myself, 'We don't own it anymore,' " she said. "But I wish they had torn it down. It's just sad."
Ralph Kaul, an experienced developer from the Washington, D.C., suburbs, began looking for places to build in Florida after losing a 1960 race for an Arlington, Va., congressional seat.
He arrived in Tampa at a time when the city was struggling to grow into a major metropolis. The region's signature cigar industry had been on the wane for decades, and civic leaders were campaigning for new kinds of business.
They didn't have trouble luring people. During World War II, soldiers stationed at MacDill Airfield, at the tip of the Tampa peninsula, got a taste of the sun and the sand. After the war, many returned, and other Americans followed.
Tampa didn't have many large apartment complexes, so Kaul decided to build one. He spent $1 million on an empty tract on the western side of the Tampa peninsula, next to a trailer park.