Life is a continuing effort to overcome loneliness. To do it, you must first have the opportunity, then, second, the permission. A resort should he a place where you are given the opportunity and, hopefully, you will get the permission.
—Esteban Padilla, architect, Palmas del Mar, Nov. 8, 1973
Nothing at Palmas will he an architectural monument. Palmas is a place for human beings. People will count. Buildings will he there for the enjoyment of the people. I will consider it a failure if people go away remembering buildings.
—Esteban Padilla, a little later in the day
Palmas is not a resort. Palmas is a state of mind.
—Esteban Padilla, later still, after a Scotch-and-water before dinner
We had abandoned the car at dusk, its front wheels in the jaws of a slash in the dirt road that had not been there the day before. If it had, Padilla (left) would have known. If a bucket of sand were removed from the beach, I was told, Esteban—Steve, the Americans of Palmas call him—would know. He bent to look at his invalid machine, for which he has respect without love, and, in amiable benediction, declared it a perfect evening for a walk.
We were at a remote tip on the southern end of Palmas. Situated on the southeast coast of Puerto Rico, Palmas del Mar, or Sea Palms, is being built by the same folks who brought you Sea Pines Plantation on Hilton Head Island, S.C. When finished 10 years hence, it will be one of the largest resorts in the world, with 20,000 bedrooms in its inn, villas, town houses and private homes.
Padilla and I were near an overlook where the granite pushes up a butte. Coulees and cliffs give it a sculptured quality, and at the base seawater springs from a blowhole. In the master plan, Padilla said, there would be a natural pool here, and people could swim in it with the tropical fish. An "amenity," he called it.
As he stood up, I remembered thinking how, for so slight a man, Esteban Padilla cast such a long shadow. More a comet's tail, one that others, including his employers, had grabbed hold of and now rode. (A modest man, Padilla objects to this image, just as he squirms at being reminded that he matriculated at Harvard at age 14.)
Once, years ago, he had come to what is now Palmas in an oxcart to swim and picnic. When he became one of Puerto Rico's best-known architects and was determined to plant his dreams here, he had walked through the coconut groves at the north end and along the six miles of coastline to the first granite rise where, now, the Palmas Inn's saffron facing glowed in the last light. Scrambling over the rocks to the harbor, "the key to Palmas," he went back around and up the slope to where we now stood.
Against the deepening dusk we could still see Candelero Point, and due east the offshore island of Vieques, which Columbus sailed past in 1493 en route to the west coast of Puerto Rico. From our vantage point, even in that light, the Atlantic's graded depths were as clearly defined as the strips on a cartogram. These are the colors that lure game fishermen. This is nearly virgin water in that respect, relatively untapped, and it is possible—likely—that it teems with white and blue marlin, sailfish and blackfin tuna, if that is a man's pleasure. What excited me for future reference were reports of light-tackle possibilities: tarpon and snook in the canals and off the beaches; telapia—Nile perch—in the small lakes and lagoons; snapper and grouper in the coves; permit and African pompano in the surf.
Seeing the stitches in the ocean off Candelero made the cuts on my hands and knees sting. A reef lurks there and the stitches mark where the surf surges over it. I had sailed a Sunfish off the beach that afternoon, launching it at a thatched-roof replenishment center called the Sun Fun Hut. (In its nomenclature Palmas strives to steer clear of stiff sounds like Beach Club. Sometimes it steers too far. The lounge at the inn will be called The Happy Jungle. Giddiness, evidently, will prevail. A Palmas man who had heard the name Sun Fun Hut once too often at sales meetings said that after a while it began to sound like a Chinese quarterback calling signals.)
The Sunfish capsized and I raked my hands and knees on the reef trying to right it. "One thing about being shipwrecked," I told Padilla. "It cleared my head cold."
"Pioneers should be more careful," he said. "You are a pioneer here, you know. It is good, nevertheless, to try things. My father is 94 years old and he is always trying things. Recently he has grown a beard. His grandchildren think of him as a kind of swinging Santa Claus. "Why do you grow a beard?' I ask. 'Everybody's doing it,' he says. Actually, he is my stepfather."
Padilla led me to the opposite edge of the cliff, to a point where the view was more extensive. One day soon, low-silhouette town houses will rise here. Padilla himself has a prime lot. He glided ahead of me in his crepe-soled shoes. In dress he is a confirmed utilitarian; I have yet to see him in anything but an open shirt, and he says he rarely wears ties. In fact, he campaigns against the spread of neckwear. At 50 he is a reconfirmed bachelor, having tried marriage once. His father, he said, had married "three or four times. It would be a mistake, I suppose, for me to draw the line."
Palmas, with its wondrous contours and configurations, was fast disappearing, but its facsimile, in black and white, was in Padilla's hands. The resort comprises 2,750 acres—in length, roughly four miles; at its widest point, 2.3 miles. Of its six miles of sea front, 3.5 are beaches. Palmas will have four distinct focal points, or villages, each containing its own commercial and recreational facilities and architectural personality.
Cala de Palmas, the harbor village, not yet completed, is the most ambitious. It will offer a series of plazas connected by waterways to a small-boat harbor and to a larger harbor for the biggest oceangoing yachts. Sidewalk cafes, discotheques, boutiques, an outdoor theater and a fisherman's restaurant are in the works, and over the shops condominium apartments. Some town houses will have private boat slips along the quayside and on two islands within the harbor. Plans call for 1,200 villas and 800 slips.
Monte Sol, the tennis village, curls around a hill on which most of its 500 villas are being built. The Palmas Racquet Club will feature an amphitheater seating 2,500 for tournaments, a pro shop, lockers, a health club, a pool, a children's play area, a tennis library, a European restaurant, specialty shops and, at least part of the year, pros Charles Pasarell, Stan Smith, Marty Riessen, Arthur Ashe, Bob Lutz, Dennis Ralston and Donald Dell.
The Candelero Beach Village is to be a more subdued residential area, bordered on the west by the first of Palmas' three 18-hole golf courses. Its 1,800 villas will mostly face the beaches of Candelero or the fairways. The Buena Vista Hill Village is marked for later development on the hilly northern border of the property. Its 800 units are to be surrounded by fairways. Beyond these four centers, in the outlying acreage, 2,200 single-family residential sites are being sold.
All of this—with the exception of the tennis pros and some of the amenities—Esteban Padilla had before us on his master plan. Spreading it out between us, he tried to couple for my education the reality with the replica, but his efforts were lost on me, partly because of the failing light and partly because of my failings as a map reader. A map is little more than an example of man's Euclidian attempt to pin down nature's beguiling variables. There is no map made that can recall the bright pungent stretch of beach at Candelero Point and the somber explosions of its waters. The sunburn on my neck did that better than the "Master Plan, Palmas del Mar," in Padilla's hands. I had planned to stay on the beach for an experimental hour or so, but I lingered there as though drugged. I think the uniqueness of it was this: that here, in the middle of this clanging organism of a resort in the making, I did not feel the weight of the resort. There were no shadows on me. That was the thing. There were no buildings tall enough to cast them.
"And there won't be," Padilla said. "We will shoot to kill anyone who tries to violate the building code. The sea-grape trees are a natural barrier, and they stay. Nothing built at Palmas will dominate the landscape or spoil it."
"I have to tell you, Steve," I said, "I hate resort areas." At best, I went on, they are a compromise, at worst an abomination. Miami Beach is the worst. Waikiki is nearly as bad. Freeport is ghastly. I have a long, picturesque list of the inhumane practices of resort personnel in Las Vegas. I have seen places on the Riviera that look like gopher holes, with the trash ringed around.
In Tahiti, I told him, I had experienced the ultimate disillusionment: a traffic jam at one o'clock in the morning in the center of Papeete. Every resort trumpets that it is the finest of all, but mostly they express themselves in volumes of ticky-tacky and artificial stimulants. In nearly all cases the natural beauty is sucked out of them by development.
"I have seen your—Puerto Rico's—El Conquistador. It is lavish. It has flashy shops and $7.50 luncheon buffets and a cable car to the beach, and out front there is always a jam of cars. I didn't like it."
"At Palmas, we will not have that," Padilla said. "Every area is controlled, and each will have to live up to the highest standards."
The lot buyers and vacationers, he said, would be equally protected from undesirable land use. A gas station will not rise in a residential area; neon will not flash on Candelero Point. But more than that, deed restrictions and protective covenants demand low-silhouette, homogeneous buildings and the maintenance of "permanent open spaces."
The beaches of Puerto Rico are public domain, so developers cannot divide them up and seal them off as they did along Collins Avenue. Where Palmas will shine, Padilla said, was in the guaranteeing of views, and in the maintenance of natural beauties such as the 60-acre tropical forest on the northeast side of the property. Palmas does not build homes, he said, but it is selective on what constitutes a responsible builder. The restrictions do not seem to have hurt sales. (Marketing began in September 1972; by September of '73, 166 villas were under contract, 100 under binder, and there were 475 property owners, mostly from Puerto Rico and the Eastern Seaboard of the U.S.)
"We do not think of this as a 'development,' " he went on. "We are trying to get away from words like 'development' and into words like 'experiences.' A sequence of experiences. The secret with the automobile is to control the traffic outside, so that pedestrians can mingle unimpeded inside."
He found a place on the map with his index finger, a distant parking area that he said would hold 1,200 cars. "Here," he said, pointing to Cala de Palmas, the harbor village. "No cars allowed. Here [the villa area around the inn]. No cars. For these you will have to walk or, to travel around, an electric cart will be available. Or a bicycle."
He looked back at his own stricken vehicle.
"The automobile, of course, is the villain. I wish that we could leave all the roads natural, but this is a large area and there have to be accesses and movement and, as you can see, the weather can be rough on dirt roads. We will have to spread some tarmac around. But we are committed to the terrain. A minimum of earth movement. A slope remains a slope. Roads wind. Trees stay."
He was being proud, and accurate. Evidence of enlightened development had been easy to find at Palmas, even in the rackety welter of construction. No building was over three stories. Even in the special areas, such as the tennis village, which will have clusters of hillside villas and 40 courts, the density will be strictly controlled. The first 70 units of the tennis village have already been sold—one-, two-, three-bedroom condominiums, with 25 distinct floor plans, priced from $38,500 to $118,000. Some of the units have separate rentable bedrooms for $40.
Tennis World magazine, with foresight greater than I could muster, has already called Monte Sol "the greatest place to play tennis in the world." Nine of the courts—four clay, five all-weather—are in operation. The amphitheater was being carved out of the hillside and will be finished in plenty of time for the CBS Tennis Classic scheduled to be held there next January. The hillside villas will be open for rental in 1975. The courts and pro shop will make up the largest tennis facility in the Caribbean.
The Palmas Inn reception building has only two stories and is therefore no threat to the landscape. From the sea it appears to have been there a very long time. Its beauty is in its subtleties. Its lobby, though splendidly appointed, is alfresco. The trade winds stream through, burly enough to restyle the most heavily sprayed hairdo. The lobby has a 30-foot ceiling, is decked out with hanging plants and flowers, and its rear opens onto that long view down Candelero. Not only is Vieques perched there on the right, but the mountains of El Yunque, a rain forest, are 45 minutes away by car, the only real tourist attraction nearby.
Reservations are now being accepted for the inn and its villas. The inn has 23 luxury suites, each drawing light from three sides, and all having views of the beach. A man will be able to rise to the sound of bells from the inn's 60-foot tower and the smell of hot croissants and coffee from the pass-through at each door. (Rooms start at $80 a day in season, $55 a day off-season, European plan; the villas begin at $60 for one bedroom, $75 for two and $90 for three. Getting to Palmas takes 18 minutes and costs $16 by Palmas Air, the company-owned line, which flies regularly enough from San Juan. The alternative is an hour's drive from the San Juan airport by car or limousine—$8.)
The main restaurant is linked by breezeway to the inn. Its windows offer the same view, and slide to offer the same breeze. In the building a giant tibi-dibi tree bends into the terrace. It cost Sea Pines thousands of dollars to build around the tree. The road to the beach at Candelero passes between coconut palms and is so narrow that only one car can get through at a time. The Sea Pines Company inserts a penalty clause in construction contracts—up to $1,000 for every tree removed without authority. The clause has so far been exercised only once at Palmas. "It had a profound effect," says Padilla.
The light had gone, and we began to retrace our steps to the main road leading to the villas. The night would be starless; dark clouds plump with rain were sliding in from the sea, which soughed at our backs.
"I like to think that when we are done Palmas will be the great throwaway," Padilla said in the dark. "I like to think that when it is finished we will be proud of it for about three days, and then we will be able to be unselfish about it, to act as if we had nothing to do with it, as if it were there all along. At this point we are feeling very paternal. At some time soon we must let it go, like you would a child that has come to adulthood, let it go to generate from within."
Far down the road we came upon a sudden, massive silhouette—a large, limby mango tree. The road split and curled around either side of its trunk.
"It is easier to split a tree," Padilla said, "but it is better to split a road."
The coming together of Charles Fraser and Esteban Padilla, if not a heavenly transaction, was at the very least, providential. Stars crossing. The dreamer with a pet dream, the iconoclast with a portfolio of dreams come true. Charles Fraser, the founder of Sea Pines, is a known force, and a powerful and ingenious one. First impressions are deceiving. A youthful 44, he has the smooth face and slack, somewhat pudgy figure you would recognize immediately as belonging to the fellow who does your income tax for $15. There is, however, no law that says one must look like a youthful Johnny Weissmuller to swing with nature or to wage war on man's peculiar lust for fouling it.
Fraser's abilities as a gut fighter in land development are well cataloged. From a dime's worth of credit and the 4,000 acres of Hilton Head Island he bought from his soldier-lumberman father in 1957, he turned Sea Pines (the company) into a $135 million shrine, mainly on the premise that enlightened resortmaking is not only a building and selling matter but a management matter as well—management complete with good taste and built-in covenants to thwart the march of gaucherie. There are no shadows on the beach at Sea Pines, either, and the houses, golf courses and yacht basins blend into the landscape.
Fraser himself is no sportsman. His principal concession to outdoorsiness is a Sunday sail on his 44-foot ketch, invitations to which are said to be golden. In the matter of pure athletics, he would rank as a fair-to-good spectator. The values are not lost on him, however. Jack Nicklaus and Pete Dye designed his fine golf course at Hilton Head where the Heritage is played, and Gary Player's firm did the first one at Palmas. Stan Smith is the touring tennis pro at Sea Pines and, as mentioned, Charles Pasarell et al. will play out of Palmas. They have condominiums there.
Fraser's true passion, the one that lights his eyes, is business. Surrounded by legions of MBAs from Harvard and Wharton, Fraser's force has increased tenfold since 1968 and is at work on 10 different projects, including a national parklike center in the North Carolina mountains, a sports "garden" of facilities near Atlanta and a resort of comparable scope to Palmas at Amelia Island off Jacksonville. Fraser does not say that Palmas del Mar is the pendant, for that would injure feelings. He concedes, however, that it represents the biggest expenditure—ultimately, $750 million, much of which will come from outside investors. And he would also admit that Palmas, though usually out of his sight, is never out of his mind.
Sitting recently in the living room of his home at Sea Pines, Fraser assembled for the record the Palmas evolution. He spoke in clear, well-modulated tones, measured and perfectly punctuated, as if it had all been said before and edited. He had his feet on a mahogany coffee table, upon which a copy of Olympia: Gods, Artists and Athletes was heavily settled. He wore a sports jacket that contrasted with his accessories. He was wearing a tie.
"My learning process, the Adult Education of Charles Fraser, is a continuing one," he said. "In fact, it has speeded up with age. I read upward of 50 or 60 magazines a week. I have exhausted the Yale Library [he is '53, law school]. I travel extensively, looking for ideas.
"I have concluded that good resort areas, recreation areas, are products of hundreds of people's ideas. But good ideas do not spring from research. The selection process is often a singular thing, and that is really the role I play.
"I don't have a rigid mind on any detail. I do have a rigid mind on the purpose of a resort. I am an advocate of the mixture of man and nature. I get angry at people who would destroy one or exclude the other. The idea that 'this is a beautiful place, let's not let anybody else come here,' is repulsive to me. I have made enemies in the Sierra Club.
"I am a great advocate of national parks, and we will have one, but I am not for the expansion of wilderness. There are areas you can do nothing with, like Manhattan Island. Or places you cannot get to to do anything with, like the Okefenokee Swamp. Those cannot be changed.
"Much of what we have done has been new. My function is to provide the leadership for these things, for the economic, esthetic and philosophical detail. But. But. The best way to achieve those things is to have a champion in a given area. Nothing happens without a champion.
"When we bought Palmas del Mar, Steve Padilla was part of the package. He knew every rock, every cove. He had an understanding of the culture that was invaluable. He since has taught a whole generation of Sea Pines executives what Puerto Rico is all about. Palmas del Mar would have looked good and would have been appropriate without him, but Steve added an aura of distinction to the design, the philosophy. It will look better, and be better because of him."
In the spring of 1969 Fraser began to search for a way to utilize the Sea Pines force year round, to balance out a 12-month corporate activity. Sea Pines, essentially, is a summer resort. He wanted something for the winter, but something more encompassing than, say, a ski resort. He and the executive vice-president for Sea Pines, Jim Light, scoured the Caribbean in search of a property. They were unimpressed with what was available or discouraged by the prices. The search was lifted bodily and moved to Hawaii where, on a rainy April day, the two men sat in the Honolulu offices of C. Brewer and Company, a landholding and sugar-producing firm. A picture on the office wall—palms, a beach, a granite rise—attracted Fraser's eye.
"Is that for sale?"
"Why haven't we seen it? Can we see it today?"
"No. It's in Puerto Rico."
In Puerto Rico with Esteban Padilla.
To get to that point required a considerably less direct metamorphosis for Steve Padilla. Born of well-to-do parents in Arecibo, on the northwest coast; Harvard, 1938-40; Duke, B.S. '41, Padilla had medical school in mind. Instead, he went to war, or at least into the U.S. Army, which tried to make him an electrical engineer. "I got only to DC, I never got the AC," he says.
As a signal corpsman, he recognized his limitations and those of his associate soldiers. "I think, really, I should have paid the U.S. Government for my service time," he says. "I kept arrving in combat zones immediately after the last shot was fired." He also arrived, at the end of the war, on the Riviera, and for three months studied at the Cannes branch of the University of Aix-en-Provence. To beat the prices, he shed his uniform and swam to Eden Roc, where he came ashore to mix with the elite. "I was very sophisticated. I spilled ashes on a lady by the pool. She was very understanding. The lady was a Whitney. She invited me to lunch."
Padilla received his degree in architecture from Nebraska in 1949. "On the East Coast, I had met many Midwesterners who I thought were exceptional people," he says. "I wanted to find out why. I think I found out why they left the Midwest." Turned forever from med school, he studied further at the Sorbonne and at the Universities of Florence and Grenoble. When he returned to Puerto Rico he served in urban renewal projects and later became a special assistant to Luis Munoz Marin, Puerto Rico's first popularly elected governor. Munoz' Operation Bootstrap had lifted the Puerto Rican economy out of the ruck. Next he was sent to Europe by the Economic Development Administration to attract investors. He had accumulated eight years on the Mediterranean when he returned in 1964, and the sights of San Juan brought tears to his eyes.
"The Condado area had become Coney Island. It was extraordinary. Solid walls of hotels and tawdry streets. It was obvious that a new pattern of development had to be found." When a project he was working on collapsed, Padilla was hired by Brewer to come up with a plan for the development of the Palmas area. He was now back to his childhood playground, with new purpose.
Steve Padilla's first master plan was approved by the Puerto Rican government, but not followed up on by Brewer because Brewer was pinched and in a selling mood. Eraser bought. "And there I was, with all my ideas, when Charles Fraser came along," says Padilla. "I was hiding in the sea-grape trees, yelling, 'I got a master plan!'
"I didn't have to sell Fraser anything. It was just a fortuitous meeting of two people with the same thought. Fraser came down with some of his Sea Pines executives. We toured the property. He was supposed to return home the next afternoon and I was to take Jim Light to Dorado. When I called that morning, Jim said, 'There's been a slight change. Charles wants you to have breakfast with him." Breakfast became lunch. I was there all day. A day of questioning by Charles Fraser can be overwhelming. I have never met a man who gets so quickly to the point. History. Construction. Economics. Weather. He wanted it all."
It is perhaps the mark of Fraser's success that, for all his ability to impose his will on others, he did not hesitate to sublimate his tastes to those of Padilla. (Sublimate in the philosophical sense; Fraser runs the show financially.) The logic was clear: Padilla knew the ins and outs of Puerto Rican bureaucracy. He also presented a building theme that would be compatible with the Latin taste.
In turn, Padilla had no trouble working within the framework of the Sea Pines influence, with its high standards of ecology and design. It helped Padilla to know, too, that Fraser was not dogmatic on the issue of what is or is not "natural." The Mediterranean motif called for greater use of colors "in order to get more gregariousness." Fraser went along. More important, he expressed the desire to "relate to the country. To the country's economy. And to make something that Puerto Ricans, as well as Americans, would enjoy." And invest in.
Then Padilla went back to the Mediterranean to gather examples on film to show Fraser. "I took pictures of every major seacoast town and hillside resort. I took hundreds of pictures of everything I liked. I had them developed. They were an abomination. First, because it rained the whole time. Second, because I am a lousy photographer. But Charles is an extraordinary man. He could see through my photography."
In the summer of 1971, with Steve Padilla as their guide, the Frasers and the Lights took in the objects of Padilla's affections firsthand. They began in Lisbon and worked cast, acting like tourists for a month. On the first night, at the Ritz Hotel in Lisbon, Fraser wore a tie. After that, he did not.
Steve Padilla has what Charles Fraser calls his "pasta speech." It is actually the choreography of his dream, which (he makes no bones about it) is the distillation of all the good that he found in those eight years of examining Mediterranean hill villages and seaside resorts. An instant Riviera, without dregs. When he begins, which is whenever two or three are gathered, his audience instinctively leans forward. Mike Ainslie, executive vice-president for Palmas, says you can practically feel the surge of spaghetti sauce.
"This will be the heart of all of Palmas," Padilla said one night as we sat with our coffee in a villa below the inn, the master plan laid out beneath the saucers. He had brought a spoon from the dinner table; the operational end of it was on the area marked Cala de Palmas.
"It will bean operating harbor, capable of providing sustenance for 800 boats, and a center of water sports. Everything is on schedule. Eons ago it was a kind of bay that silted up gradually. Some idle tongues have held there were mangroves in there, but like the existence of the phoenix, that has never been proved. What it was was a dying swamp that had lost its ecological value. And, of course, during Prohibition it was also a haven for whiskey smugglers."
He bent to his map and carried us, by spoon, into the inner harbor. "This will be the center of gregariousness at Palmas," he said. "And, of course, the home of certain hard-drinking boating types. People who want extreme privacy can get it by putting in with their boats at one of the island moorings in the inner harbor, or they can go other places"—the spoon dragged us back to the low-density condominiums and the beach, golf and tennis villages—"but you must come here at night to see the wicked on display. At seven o'clock every night it will be your moral obligation to be out in the plaza to see who has arrived and who is trying to, uh, meet whom.
"What we want to create is a setting for people to act out their greatest fantasies. We are providing the opportunity and the elements and the amenities to do it." He smiled, showing his teeth. "This may or may not be dangerous."
I leaned forward in my chair.
"It will not be important to worry about some rotten tomatoes and lettuce leaves lying around. This is how Palmas will differ from other projects. We are counting on the rotten tomatoes. I may have to throw some around myself."
" 'The joy of human commerce,' " I said.
"Something I read once. How do you categorize amenities?"
"Amenities are not separate things. They are an interplay of things. Buildings. Spaces. People. They are inseparable. They may include the lady in red—a red bikini—walking across the plaza. She becomes part of an interplay that generates an excitement of its own. An overall thing. Like—here, come with me."
We went outside into the darkened alleyways between the villas.
"What we want basically is a series of visual delights," he said as we picked our way along, "a vocabulary of sights and sounds. Things that will encourage people to walk. Changes in the texture of the pavement. A different quality of light caused by a trellis overhead with a vine. An unexpected trickle of water. The plazas will be carefully oriented to the long view. You might start here in this alley and suddenly come upon a plaza, an explosion of sound and color seducing you into walking further. Here the hard edges will be cut by a green wall or an archway. Here a waterfall that can be natural because of the changing elevations or"—he smiled again—"made to seem that way by a strategically placed pump. We will have six entrances to this plaza, like the one on Capri. When you are in it, you must walk between the tables. If you are at a table you will be turning your head to see the people.
"Even if you are so shy you can't speak up, you will be able to experience your fantasies vicariously. You will also get the opportunity and the permission to break through that barrier of loneliness, to be a part."
PALMAS DEL MAR
PALMAS DEL MAR
Tropical Garden and Nursery
Golf Course 3
CALA de PALMAS
Blow Hole Point
Golf Course 2
Golf Course 1
Sun Fun Hut 1