By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
Against the Tide
A veteran Olympic swimmer aims to beat the skeptics.
By Brantley Hargrove
Dara Torres is an imposing sight, with the striated deltoids common to champion swimmers and a back whose muscles stretch like bas relief on a sculpture. It's the kind of physique a woman needs to win an Olympic medal. It's also the kind of physique that, in this cynical sporting age, invites speculation about whether it's pure or enhanced. Every prospective Olympian toils under this suspicion, but Torres might encounter more than her share, if only for the fact that she is 41 years old.
On July 3, at the Olympic Swimming Trials in Omaha, Nebraska, she will compete against swimmers young enough to be her daughters. If she succeeds, she'll be the oldest female American swimmer to compete in the Olympic Games, with the most Olympic berths of any American swimmer in history.
But for all of that, her legacy depends just as much on the results of her next lab test.
"There are people in this world who are dirty and want, for whatever reasons, money, fame, and they'll do whatever it takes to win a gold medal," says Torres's coach, Michael Lohberg. Dara, he says, "doesn't need all those things."
Torres began breaking records at age 14, in 1979. She competed in her first Olympics in 1984, in Los Angeles, where she won a gold medal in the 100-meter freestyle relay. At the University of Florida, Torres racked up 28 NCAA All-America swimming awards — the maximum one athlete can win.
More Olympic medals followed: Seoul '88 (a bronze and a silver), Barcelona '92 (gold). After a seven-year retirement, the 33-year-old Torres made the 2000 team and collected five medals in Sydney.
Like every other aspiring Olympian, Torres is subject to at least one unannounced drug test per month. Eager to quash speculation, however, she invited the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency, the official dope detectors for U.S. Olympic athletes, to draw her blood and collect her urine as often as they like.
If Torres has a secret, it's not drugs, her coach says, but training that stresses impeccable technique and incorporates the most modern concepts in sports medicine and biomechanics. At her age, there's no margin for error. (On advice of her coach, Torres declined to be interviewed for this article.)
In 1992, when he was also 41, Mark Spitz, arguably the best swimmer in Olympic history, attempted a comeback 20 years after retiring. Though his times matched or bettered the times that earned him medals a few decades before, he failed to even qualify.
Torres hasn't been away from the sport as long as Spitz was, however. And recent studies — such as the one by Dr. Phil Whitten, executive director of the College Swim Coaches Association of America — suggest that consistency in training can almost make time stand still. "If that person doesn't suffer an injury and continues to train," Whitten says, "they should be as good at 41 or 42 as they were at 25."
Out of Bounds
Barreto Wants to poke a big hole in the western wilderness.
By Francisco Alvarado
Why would the guy trusted with championing Florida's wildlife protection want to excavate two massive man-made lakes on some of the last bits of precious farmland in Miami-Dade County? Why do you think?
For the past three years, Coral Gables-based lobbyist and real estate developer Rodney Barreto has served as chairman of the Florida Wildlife Conservation Commission, making preservation-minded decisions such as maintaining the manatee as an endangered species. But that hasn't stopped Barreto from speculating on unsustainable, unnecessary development. Consider his investment in Krome Gold Ranches, a consortium that includes his business pals megabuilder Sergio Pino and the Herran family (which owns the Sedano's Supermarkets chain).
The group has asked Miami-Dade County officials for permission to build 58 multimillion-dollar luxury homes and a 173-acre fish-stocked lake on 466 acres outside the Urban Development Boundary, an imaginary line that acts as a buffer against sprawl. The land is zoned for agriculture use only. Residents in the area fear the proposed project will open the door for more suburban housing developments in an area lacking infrastructure such as roads. "We're talking about slashing a major artery right in the heart of the agricultural district," resident Michael Hassel said during a recent public hearing on the project.
On July 8, the West Kendall Community Council will consider whether to approve Krome Gold's request. If the council rejects it, the proposal moves on to the Miami-Dade County Commission.
The Redland Community Council recently rejected a separate application from Barreto and his partners to build 19 houses and a 48-acre lake on 120 acres west of SW 147th Avenue between 192nd and 200th streets.
So why would a group of astute real estate developers suddenly push to build ranch-style estates when the market has tanked?
Could it be desperation? Krome Gold bought the land for $58.5 million in 2005 and 2006, at the peak of the boom. Given plunging land values, Riptide and others can't help but wonder whether the investors might be hoping they can make up some of that lost equity by digging lucrative rock fill out of their proposed lake and supplying it to other major developments planned for the area.
In a phone interview, Barreto acknowledged Krome Gold would sell some of the excavated fill, but he defended his desire to build million-dollar homes on farmland. "I think it's great," he said. "We're going to have lakes stocked with bass and horse trails. Who doesn't like that?"
Barreto insisted there is no conflict between his wildlife commission duties and real estate development plans, noting the current zoning allows him to build up to 93 houses (without the lake) on the 466-acre site. "We're building less units," he said. "In my opinion, we're downzoning."
Considering the political clout of Barreto and company, you can expect them to claw their way past the community council to the county commission, where contributions trump conservation any day of the week.
Fruits of the Bloom
In more ways than one, this miracle berry is freakin' sweet.
By Michael J. Mooney
Curtis Mozie, a 64-year-old retired postal worker, doesn't look like an exotic horticulturalist. Strolling around outside his West Fort Lauderdale house in shorts and black socks pulled high on his thin legs, however, he guides you through a gallery of hard-to-find fruit growing on trees and bushes on the property. There are Scotch bonnets, ice-cream beans, and dragon fruit. "But that one there," he says of an inconspicuous bush about five feet tall, "that's the miracle fruit."
Miracle fruit — Synsepalum dulcificum — is a small berry from West Africa. The "miracle" is the startling effect of the fruit on human tongues. After you eat one of these tart fruits, which look like elongated cherries, everything that should taste sour tastes sweet. Mozie is the biggest commercial grower of miracle fruit in North America.
A brisk, energetic man, Mozie is happy to demonstrate. He reaches under some of the firm leaves on his plant and carefully clips off a bright red sample. Protruding from one end of the oval fruit is a stem; sprouting from the other is what looks like a fine hair. "That's the tail," Mozie says. He washes the berry with a garden hose and plucks off the stem and hair.
"Bite into it," he says. "You should feel the skin slide right off. Careful not to eat the pit." The fruit is tart, like a mild grape. "Rub it all over your tongue."
Then Mozie pulls out a jug of water and a lime. He pours the water into a cup and slices the lime.
"Squeeze the lime into the water," he says. "Now have a taste."
It tastes like Country Time lemonade with a pound of sugar added. The lime itself tastes sweeter than a peach.
Mozie pulls a beer from his refrigerator. It's as if it were made from mangoes and pears. He pours a shot of pure white vinegar into a cup. Vinegar! No puckering up here. The stuff tastes like warm soda.
This fruit, whose sweetening effects last about two hours, could change the way Americans consume everything, Mozie says. For diabetics, it could be turned into a sugar-free additive. For cancer patients, it could eliminate the postchemo metallic taste in their mouths.
Mozie first encountered the miracle fruit 12 years ago, at an exotic fruit market in Davie. He was stunned. "I didn't believe what was going on in my mouth," he says. "I knew there was money to made on these things."
He immediately began buying plants. Now he has 10 acres of miracle fruit bushes growing on a farm in Davie. And it's still not enough to keep up with demand, he says. He sells the berries for $3 each, with a minimum order of $100. In one week earlier this year, he grossed $135,000.
His customers are generally the cosmopolitan type, the kind wealthy enough to afford $3 berries. Miracle fruit is popular at what Mozie calls "flavor-tripping parties," where the host provides plenty of sour foods and drinks and then implores guests to trick their tongues with the effect of the berries.
Mozie, who has bags of Miracle-Gro in stacks along the walls outside his house, points out a few more of his exotic plants in the back yard. They come from all over the world. There's lemongrass. Allspice. Bay rum. Passion fruit. Papaya. Sugar apple.
Is there anything Mozie can't grow?
"A beard," he says with a smile.