The fire that claimed the Fishes's old house was visible from the mainland, and made the national news. It left a partially drained swimming pool, spalled concrete platforms, cracked outdoor tiles, scorched loblolly pines around the perimeter, and stainless steel melted into surreal forms. Kicking around the charred property, Krueck and Sexton enthusiastically pace off rooms and speculate about how they will incorporate the remains of the pool into their design. They're deep into the never-ending refinement process, which Sexton compares to composing a symphony. Other engineering issues, however, remain stubbornly intractable.
Nothing can mitigate the proximity of tide and gale.
It is staggering to see how close the water actually is, how perilous the physical situation appears, how outrageous the design suddenly seems. Even on a calm, sunny day it's easy to picture galloping, wind-driven waves lashing the glass sheath with the ferocity of any firestorm. We're not building it for the moment, we're building it for the future. Another structure built for the future stands several miles from the Fish site. On the other side of the island is a federal park, entered via a near-virgin stretch of dunes and scrubland rich with birdsong.