The federal government eventually bought up most of the land on Elliott Key and Islandia became a national monument, affording it some protection from development. Later the entire chain would become Biscayne National Park.

Today, what remains of Brooks’ failed boulevard venture on Elliott Key is an eight-foot-wide nature trail covered by tree canopy referred to as “Spite Highway,” a mocking reference to Brooks’ unsuccessful attempt to pave a small piece of paradise.

And the island has blossomed. Banana spiders build giant webs, native cactus is abundant, eagles nest, hawks swoop, fish flash around Elliott Key’s main dock, and elementary school kids camp over night.

Still, Islandia’s lore is hard to forget.

The late Mayor Brooks – who can be seen lobbying for development in a brief video playing in the park’s visitor’s center in Homestead — is believed to have brought in his own furniture to set up Islandia City Hall at 4150 NW Seventh Ave. in Allapattah, where he lived. It’s said he could be seen ranting during council meetings — although he was the only one in the room.

There’s the story of Islandia’s only elected mayor, Jack Pyms, who built a two-level clubhouse on a barge only to see it sink off Soldier Key a year before he moved to Colorado and won the lottery. Or the tale of the village’s only police chief — self-appointed at that — who patched together a very unofficial uniform, stuck a sidearm on his hip, then went to the mainland for a visit with park rangers. They were so shocked at the corny attire and the man creating his own law enforcement post that they contacted the state attorney, and an investigation began, leading to the long and winding downfall of Islandia as a city.

By 1990, after decades of not filing papers or following proper municipal procedures, the state had had it with Islandia, and ruled all its elections illegal. The reason: Only land owners — as opposed to all residents — on Islandia had been permitted to vote, violating voting-rights laws.

The state called for the dismantling of Islandia. Every census year since then, calls have gone out to put an end to its independence.

In February, it’s finally likely to happen — although most people, it seems, won’t pay it any mind.

Fred Francis, Elliott Key’s only habitant, is a parks employee in charge of keeping records. In September, he moved into a two-bedroom cement building built on cement pillars, just south of the visitor’s center. He gets to watch his Denver Broncos on Sundays thanks to DirecTV’s Sunday Ticket — and a big generator.

When Francis arrived the mosquitoes were so thick he barely ventured outside. Then the weather cooled, and the mosquitoes left.

“It’s so quiet, so relaxing,” said Francis, a renter oblivious to the pending county commission action that could strip Islandia from the state’s tax roll. “The sounds kind of echo off the marina. The birds, and all. Everything. I actually got to see osprey building their nests. That’s why I chose to live out here.”