How Miami’s Bayshore Park exemplifies systemic climate adaptation through Indigenous hydrology and equitable urban design

Bayshore Park’s design mirrors Indigenous hydrological practices, such as the use of native vegetation to slow water runoff and restore aquifer recharge—principles employed by the Tequesta and Calusa peoples for millennia. However, the park’s implementation lacks formal collaboration with Indigenous knowledge holders, reducing its potential to a performative gesture rather than a living system. The omission of Indigenous land stewardship in the narrative reflects a broader erasure of pre-colonial ecological knowledge in urban planning.

Miami’s flood vulnerability is a direct legacy of 20th-century drainage projects that drained the Everglades to make way for development, disrupting the region’s natural water cycle. The Bayshore Park site itself was once part of a vast mangrove forest that buffered storms, a system dismantled by dredging and fill operations in the 1920s. Historical redlining maps show that flood-prone Black neighborhoods were systematically excluded from early flood control investments, a pattern that persists in today’s climate adaptation strategies.

Comparative urbanism reveals that cities like Jakarta and Lagos have adopted similar ‘sponge city’ models, but with mixed results due to lack of community ownership—echoing the risk of green gentrification in Miami. In Vietnam, the *vườn không nhà trống* (empty garden) concept integrates flood storage with communal spaces, offering a model for Miami’s park design that centers resident well-being. Afro-Caribbean communities in Miami have long used *yard gardening* and cisterns to manage water, yet these practices are rarely integrated into municipal infrastructure.

Peer-reviewed studies confirm that native vegetation in coastal parks can reduce storm surge by up to 30% while enhancing biodiversity, a principle validated by Bayshore Park’s design. However, the park’s reliance on imported soils and non-native species limits its long-term resilience compared to fully rewilded systems. Scientific consensus also warns that without addressing upstream development pressures, even the most advanced green infrastructure will be overwhelmed by sea-level rise.

The park’s design evokes the Haitian concept of *konesans* (embodied knowledge), where water is both a threat and a teacher, a duality reflected in its undulating landscapes. Local artists like Miami’s Afro-Caribbean muralists have begun using the park as a canvas to depict climate resilience, framing it as a site of cultural reclamation. Yet the absence of spiritual frameworks—such as the Yoruba *orisha* of storms, Changó—limits the park’s potential to serve as a communal healing space.

Scenario modeling by the Southeast Florida Regional Climate Compact projects that by 2040, Bayshore Park’s current design may be insufficient to handle 18-inch sea-level rise events, necessitating adaptive management. Future-proofing requires integrating dynamic shoreline buffers and modular infrastructure that can evolve with ecological and social needs. The park’s current model risks becoming a ‘green wall’ that displaces flood risk to adjacent low-income neighborhoods, a failure mode seen in other ‘climate-proofed’ cities like Rotterdam.

Black and Latino residents in Miami-Dade face the highest flood risk but are least represented in decisions about Bayshore Park’s design and access. Renters in Little Haiti and Liberty City, who lack political capital to influence zoning laws, are effectively excluded from the benefits of climate adaptation projects. The park’s location in a historically white, affluent neighborhood raises questions about who bears the costs of ‘resilience’—and who reaps the rewards.