Before the Gold Rush began in 1849, Mission Bay was a water body that carved into the coastline like a capital “C,” fed by Mission Creek from the west, surrounded by marshy tidelands. Oysters and shellfish in the shallows provided a steady food source to the Ramaytush Ohlone, and, after 1775, to the Spaniards who built Mission Dolores.
As more people arrived, the area became a center for shipbuilding and a railroad hub. What’s now Third Street was once occupied by tracks built on piers above the water.
By the late 1890s, increasing demand for land was met by filling the Bay with dirt and rubbish from other parts of the City. Mission Bay steadily shrunk from the north, until rubble from the 1906 earthquake and fire was used to bury what was left.
By the 1970s, while serving as habitat for birds and other species, and as a refuge for those without permanent homes, the roughly 300 acres were described by many as a wasteland. The railroads and other industries had largely abandoned the area, leaving behind broken tracks, empty warehouses, and trash-covered vacant lots overgrown with weeds.
Beginning in 1981, municipal officials started to plan ways to eliminate this “urban blight” in favor of economic gain. Proposals and partners came and went, until the University of California, San Francisco, took an interest, thanks largely to efforts by then-Mayor Willie Brown, who was determined to keep a second UCSF campus in the City. A key turning point came in 1997 when Catellus, the development company handling the property owned by the railroads, agreed to donate 30 acres to UCSF, a move valued at $170 million.
By 1998, a detailed plan, “the Mission Bay Project,” had been formulated, representing the largest urban project in San Francisco since Golden Gate Park was built in the late 1800s.
But as any smashburger aficionado can tell you, putting heavy weight on top of something soft is going to squeeze the middle out. In geological terms, the process is called subsidence. It’s been happening in Mission Bay for years. The results make themselves known in numerous ways. In a 2019 View article, photos showed how sidewalks in front of the Strata on Fourth Street had sunk six inches over the course of a decade.
Thankfully, the buildings aren’t subject to the same process. Because planners knew Mission Bay’s history, developers were required to sink pilings through the fill into bedrock. Sidewalks and streets don’t have this support system; subsidence continues to occur. In some areas, fire hydrants appear to be floating because the path has sunk away from their bases. Streetcorners, such as the one in front of Starbucks at 1375 Third Street, are like a jigsaw puzzle made of concrete. These uneven surfaces present a danger to passersby, especially those who rely on walkers and wheelchairs.
At the Radiance, a 99-unit condominium building, the sidewalks sank and separated so much that ramps had to be built to enable residents to access entrances on Mission Bay Boulevard and China Basin Street. Since the damage isn’t connected to work performed during construction of the buildings, taking action against the developers and contractors under Senate Bill 800—the “Right to Repair Act” enacted in 2003—isn’t an option. That law only covers defective work performed by a builder, providing them with an opportunity to make repairs before owners sue.
Unsure what to do to address infrastructure subsidence, Radiance residents turned to Daniel Rottinghaus, an attorney with Berding & Weil who specializes in commercial and residential real estate issues.
Since 2022, when the View first covered his involvement with the Radiance Owners Association, Rottinghaus has been engaged in what he calls a collaborative effort with the City Attorney to find a “win-win” solution to address the damage caused by subsidence. Instead of pursuing a financial payout only for Radiance residents, Rottinghaus is working with the association as class representatives, acting on behalf of everyone in Mission Bay in what’s called a “mandamus claim,” asserting that the government should take responsibility for the sinking sidewalks and not pass the burden onto building owners.
Deciding the best way to do that is complicated for at least two reasons.
First, repairing subsidence damage is expensive, costs that aren’t included in the municipal budget. Rather, the Lurie Administration is looking for ways to lower an estimated 2026 $876 million shortfall.
Second, because the sinking will continue—as much as 24 inches over the next five decades, according to one soil report—repairs must continue as well. Finding a solution that can adapt to changes over time isn’t easy.
Rottinghaus wants to take what he calls a “triage” approach, focusing on the 30 or so acres around the Radiance where the problems are most severe because the fill is deepest. He’s working with multiple consultants, mapping subsidence-related problems with a color-coding system. He exploring engaging a Netherlands-based company that uses satellite imaging to map changes in ground levels over time.
One hope is that the repairs could be funded either by refinancing the original development bonds at a lower rate or by lengthening their terms. Rottinghaus believes this could be accomplished without increases to property and Mello Roos taxes which service the bonds.
Rebekah Moan 
Jessica Zimmer