Shortly after moving into their home in St. Petersburg, Fla., Meghan Martin and her husband noticed a drawback to their new neighborhood. The quiet streets of Shore Acres, a leafy community bisected by canals, occasionally flooded. On some days it was easiest for Dr. Martin, a pediatric E.R. doctor, to reach the hospital by paddle board — a feat she once demonstrated in a widely viewed TikTok.
The Martins settled into their one-story “fixer-upper,” painting the exterior cornflower blue and revamping the 1950s kitchen with new appliances and a herringbone backsplash behind the countertop. But they stopped short of a more radical renovation: the house lift. A handful of water-wary neighbors had pushed their living quarters eight to 10 feet in the air, adding space for a garage or storage underneath. The couple balked when they learned the cost could exceed the value of their home, which they bought in 2016 for $265,000. Besides, to their knowledge, the house had never severely flooded.
Two floods — and two rounds of ripping out drywall and throwing away sodden carpets and toys — later, the Martins reconsidered. This year, they put down a deposit on the cheapest option for raising their home — $375,000.
Buildings have long been lifted out of nature’s path, especially in the historic quarters of flood-prone cities like New Orleans or Charleston, S.C. A century goes by and a beach erodes or a river bend changes course; then the floodwaters arrive. But as climate change intensifies rainfall and strengthens tropical storms, a newer generation of homes is facing the threat of repeat flood disasters. Whether in Florida, New Jersey or Texas, homeowners are deciding whether to shell out hundreds of thousands of dollars to build up.
In St. Petersburg, a city accustomed to narrow misses from major storms, house lifts were until recently an oddity. Comparisons to shoe boxes remain common, and the revised proportions would not probably fly in an architect’s atelier. But now they’re the norm.
The Martins were awaiting permits to lift their home when Hurricane Helene arrived in September. The water rose four feet, reaching the beloved kitchen backsplash that had taken weeks to install by hand. “We cried when they tore it out,” Dr. Martin said recently from a cramped rental where the couple is staying with their four children, aged 7 to 15. The family set a new deadline: lift before the next hurricane season. But Dr. Martin had set the same goal last year. “I’m nervous because everyone is trying to do the same thing,” she said.
House lifting may bring to mind the balloon-hoisted house of the movie “Up,” but the work starts underground. Hydraulic lifts, set in trenches dug under the foundation, push the house upward, a process so smooth that lifters are known to leave a vase standing in a window for dramatic effect. A new foundation is installed, along with elongated staircases and reworked wires and plumbing.
On a recent weekend, Albert Jasuwan, owner of JAS Builders, one of a few house-raising specialists in the Tampa Bay area, had three houses “in the air” and 22 more awaiting permits. “Mother Nature is giving us more than the ground can take,” Mr. Jasuwan said. Prices can range from $75 to $200 per square foot, depending on the home’s design. A typical Florida home built on a concrete slab may cost $400,000 to raise, though larger houses can exceed $1 million.
Families like the Martins who have already experienced calamity are often eligible for federal assistance, including low-interest disaster loans. The Federal Emergency Management Agency has also raised nearly 22,000 homes nationwide since 1999 through grant programs that cover 75 to 100 percent of lifting costs. But funds are limited, and approval can take years.
Hannah Rebholz, a floodplain manager with the city of St. Petersburg, said she was glad to see so much interest in lifting homes out of danger. “But I find it best to not give people false hope,” she added. “The process takes a mental toll.” She expects to help about 20 homeowners apply this year for federal assistance, a fraction of those paying their own way.
In time, Shore Acres in Florida may soon resemble places like the bayou-hugging Meyerland community in Houston. Hundreds of the neighborhood’s low-slung 1950s homes — many gems of the state’s midcentury modern style — were inundated by Hurricane Harvey in 2017, the third major flood in three years. The area is now an eclectic mix of quaint older homes thrust into the air and towering contemporary mansions, with staircases snaking 10 feet up to the front door. On some streets, the houses that remain on the ground are the oddities.
It was a storm in 2016 that made the choice clear for Drew and Pam Shefman. They loved their neighborhood, and their house, which they had recently “made perfect,” using a flood insurance payout. But raising would be costly: $420,000. “The hardest part to get into your head is that you’re going to lose money,” Mr. Shefman said. “I had a lot of trouble accepting that.”
But Ms. Shefman had started worrying about leaving her husband alone on rainy days in case he’d try lifting heavy furniture out of the way of rising water. “We weren’t comfortable waiting for FEMA,” Mr. Shefman said. “For my own sanity, this needed to happen quickly.” A crew arrived in the summer of 2017.
With Harvey in the forecast that August, the crew raced to lift the Shefmans’ home. It was nearly halfway to its 10-foot goal when the storm hit Houston, and perched three inches above the floodwaters. If any lower, the home would have floated away.
Today, the new space includes a three-car garage and a family area, designed by an architect who took care to keep the look consistent with the 1960s original. That meant extending the house’s columns an extra story using off-white period bricks given to them by a neighbor who was tearing down and selling his flooded lot.
The Shefmans now mostly value peace of mind. “Our lives have been normal,” Mr. Shefman said. “We were able to miss Harvey and keep some level of sanity.” Their annual flood insurance premium also fell to $800 from more than $5,000, and their hopes of recouping some of the cost has risen, with nearby homes now selling for more than $1 million.
Across the street, Joel Sederstrom took a stack of bricks from the same departing neighbor, but his are unused. He also hoped to lift his home, but the expense — $300,000 — was impossible on top of a recent $500,000 mortgage. “That would be a ‘no,’” Mr. Sederstrom said. Instead, in 2016, he applied for a FEMA grant and waited.
Mr. Sederstrom and his wife, plus a cat and an aging Rottweiler with bone cancer, rode out Harvey in a neighbor’s elevated house. (Three other cats stayed dry in the attic at home.)
He has continued applying for FEMA aid without success. He feels lucky to have avoided further calamity, he said, and appreciates the city’s efforts to improve drainage by widening nearby bayous. But mostly, he worries. “It’s total, constant anxiety, actually,” he said. “We still get a lot of rain.” In the meantime, his flood insurance premium has increased roughly 40 percent.
Others are not able to wait from home. When storm damage exceeds half the value of the house, FEMA rules typically require homeowners to either lift or rebuild out of the flood zone before they can receive repair permits.
As a result, many of Dr. Martin’s neighbors in St. Petersburg are selling, unwilling or unable to raise or rebuild. The community is still desirable, close (if perhaps too close) to the water, with good schools, a local playground within easy walking distance and a cozy neighborliness. She suspects wealthier newcomers will replace the older ruined homes with larger structures. “The vibe is going to change,” she said.
But Dr. Martin’s only regret is not acting sooner. “We don’t want to leave,” she said.
The only place they plan to go is up.
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