George Kasimos: The Super Activist That Sandy Made

George Kasimos at a March 4 town hall meeting held by Gov. Chris Christie. Peter Foley for The Wall Street Journal

JOSH DAWSEY

March 23, 2014

TOMS RIVER, N.J.—With coils dangling overhead and tools scattered at his side, George Kasimos spent a recent evening chain-smoking cigarettes in his garage, watching the U.S. House of Representatives vote to limit flood-insurance rate increases for coastal homeowners and businesses.

His grass-roots campaign, called "Stop FEMA Now," had scored a crucial win after more than a year of work.

"This stuff drives me crazy," he said, lighting another cigarette in what he calls his makeshift office.

Before superstorm Sandy, Mr. Kasimos, 47, a tall, hulking man with a close-trimmed mustache and goatee, was, by his own account, a college dropout who dabbled in real estate and barely followed politics—or even voted. He didn't post on Facebook or Twitter.  He liked to sit on his lagoon-facing deck in this Jersey shore town, he said, drink beer and play poker, hanging with his yipping dog, Rudy.

That simpler life washed away with Sandy, which brought a foot and a half of water into his home.

Less than a year later, after facing the choice of elevating his modest two-story waterfront house or pay skyrocketing flood insurance premiums, Mr. Kasimos launched something of a grass-roots political juggernaut. He became a constant thorn to lawmakers—staging protests, grilling public officials at meetings, flooding congressional offices with calls and venturing to Washington, D.C. to bring his message in person.

His goal: to roll back the Biggert-Waters Act of 2012, which, in its effort to make the struggling National Flood Insurance Program more financially viable, threatened to raise premiums so steeply for policyholders that many in more modest coastal communities would see serious financial hardship.

"People were going to be out of their homes by the thousands," said Palmer Doyle, a Rockaways resident inspired to campaign by Mr. Kasimos. "This was going to make people go under."

Ultimately, Congress did pass legislation this month tempering Biggert-Waters's most severe homeowner rate increases and limiting how quickly rates can rise. President Obama signed it into law last Friday.

There were larger interests fighting for the new bill, including the National Association of Realtors. But congressional aides said the fierce level of grass-roots activism was unique on Capitol Hill. They just "came out of nowhere, out of thin air," said Jason Tuber, an aide to New Jersey Sen. Robert Menendez, who co-sponsored the Senate bill.

"The issue came to us from George and his folks," said Mr. Tuber. "There are other groups—bankers, homeowners, Realtors—that pushed for this. But we heard about it from the thousands of letters we got…Everyone was hearing from George."

Biggert-Waters wasn't meant to be so onerous, say lawmakers who originally passed the bill. The thinking was that cutting longtime subsidies to policyholders in flood-prone areas would fairly reflect the cost of building and living there, reduce the program's debt and serve a caution against development in an era of sea-level rise.

The bill passed by large margins in both bodies of Congress, praised by environmentalists and fiscal hawks alike.

But superstorm Sandy soon slammed into the coast, fueling a rising anger from Mr. Kasimos and others like him over the law—and how it has been implemented by the Federal Emergency Management Agency.

Now, some say the legislative relief isn't enough. Flood rates are still likely to soar for some, going up by as much as 18% a year. Businesses and second-home owners could see a jump of 25% a year.

Critics say that taxpayers have for too long been subsidizing insurance for those who choose to live in flood plains. The program owes about $24 billion to the U.S. Treasury, according to a 2013 federal study.

"Increasing costs on your constituents is never popular, and these people made a ruckus," said Steve Ellis, vice president for Taxpayers for Common Sense, a conservative group. "But something has to be done, or this program will go under."

George Kasimos works outside his home in Toms River, N.J. He built platforms to elevate the his home's air-conditioning units after Sandy. Emile Wamsteker for The Wall Street Journal

Mr. Kasimos often skips work as a real-estate broker to fret over flood insurance and sometimes checks Facebook 50 times a day, he said, responding to scores of messages from homeowners across the country. He screens organizers in other states and urges them to mount rallies. One Saturday last year, he said, he helped organize rallies in 10 states on the same day—with more than 1,000 people gathering in the Rockaways alone.

"I've worked on this six hours a day or more," said Mr. Doyle. "But no one has the stamina of George. I don't know how he keeps up with it all every day."

His efforts have come at a personal cost. He said he has sold far fewer houses because he doesn't work as much from his Newark office, and has spent "maybe $7,000" of his family's money buying signs and traveling to rallies. He spends less time relaxing with his wife and grandchildren, he said, and friends can get bored with his long-winded flood-insurance lectures.

"This isn't what I wanted to grow up and be," Mr. Kasimos said. "I can't do this forever. I know that."

Some of it comes naturally. Mr. Kasimos said he had always liked to talk—primarily about poker or football or real estate. "I'm probably the loudest guy in our poker group," he said. "Poker is about getting into people's head. It's about psychology."

But speaking on a public stage has been different. He said he learned by talking to local officials, closely reading the law, asking questions and studying the art of the sound bite; he has been quoted more than 100 times.

He originally wore jeans to smaller rallies. "I started wearing a jacket and a dress shirt because it got more attention and a professional image," he said. "We were on TV. We didn't want to be a crazy rah-rah group. We're not about screaming."

Still, there were limits, he said. "I'm not big on ties."