They started showing up a year ago, after the hurricanes.
By day, they park in the lot near the bathhouse on Gulfport’s battered beach.
At night, they move a few feet, onto Shore Boulevard, where it’s legal to leave your car all night.
Calls and complaints started coming in the spring, from waterfront residents upset people were drying laundry on the picnic tables and grandparents who worried about bringing toddlers to the beach playground.
By this fall, as the debate spilled into the City Council, neighbors stood divided: business owners arguing. Residents, old and new, at odds. The NIMBYs vs. the folks who said: If not here in Gulfport, where?
All wielded different visions of who this freewheeling little town is for.
It was true that on most days, fewer than a third of the 101 parking spots in the beach lot were full. And that the waterfront wasn’t much to look at. The Casino was closed, destroyed by the storm. A sinkhole had swallowed the volleyball courts. Caution tape roped off a long stretch of sand.
Still, people ranted: Why was the town letting people live in their cars on the street? How could anyone feel safe using the public bathroom when transients were shaving in the sinks?
What was the City Council going to do about those people living the “van life”?
Residents called the cops. Sent angry emails. Someone even posted a death threat.
Do “land pirates” belong in today’s Gulfport?
Most nights, six to 20 vehicles line the residential street, many with bikes and folding chairs propped beside them. All with a single person inside.
Mike Audette, 70, sleeps in his Toyota Corolla. Mark Mayhew, 63, in his ancient Mercury Sable. Robert Moyle, 62, built a bed in the back of his Ford Escape.
Aramis Baynard, 58, and his pit bull, Duchess, have been living in their Lincoln Navigator since May.
“There’s a steady breeze here, off the beach. A public bathroom. Even an outdoor shower where I can rinse my dog,” Baynard said. “I like it here. There’s a feeling of freedom, like I can escape.”
The drivers have a waterfront view through their windshields. They watch dolphins dive, rainbows rise, stars shimmering above Boca Ciega Bay. In the distance, the Don Cesar resort looks like a castle.
“We even had electricity out here in Pavilion 6, so we could charge our phones,” Baynard said.
“But they shut that off when people started complaining.”
Gulfport hugs the northern shore of Boca Ciega Bay, a community of about 12,000 that has long been known as a funky, accepting place. Here, residents fly pride flags, host art walks and fairy fests, stage dog parades, and proudly sport T-shirts emblazoned: Keep Gulfport Weird.
But in the last few years — especially since the hurricanes — the town has started changing. Bungalows are being bulldozed, replaced by two-story homes. Monied people from up north are discovering the bedroom community of St. Petersburg, paying higher prices, demanding different aesthetics.
“We’ve had a great renaissance. The community is evolving. But expectations are changing,” said James O’Reilly, Gulfport’s city manager of 20 years. Back then, he said, you could buy a 900-square-foot home for $40,000. Now, that house costs 10 times as much.
As rents rise, some of the city’s most vulnerable residents are living in their cars, clinging to the beach — the last free horizon.
“Our success, location and beautiful downtown attract all types of individuals. But what was acceptable in the past may not be acceptable today,” the city manager said. “Big city issues are starting to come here.”
Dozens of “boat people” have lived off Gulfport Beach for years, anchoring in the town’s mooring fields for $337 a month, or further offshore for free. They row dinghies to the wooden docks, walk to restaurants and shops. They use the library, shower at the bathhouse.
Those same amenities, the city manager said, are attracting car campers. If folks can live for free on their boats, they say, they should be able to boondock in their vehicles. They call themselves “land pirates.”
Though Florida prohibits people from sleeping in public places, that doesn’t extend to cars, the city manager said. As long as their car runs and their license and registration are up to date, they’re good to go. Counselors from Directions for Living reach out to them, he said, offer them services and shelters. But they can’t make anyone accept help.
“We’re not doing anything except taking up a parking spot,” said Moyle, who has been in his Ford for five months. “Everyone out here, this is our beach too, so we clean up our messes and respect this space. This is the one place we can stay and feel safe enough to leave our windows open all night. The cops come by and check on us every hour or so.”
Since January, police have gotten a dozen complaints about problems at the beach, Chief Mary Farrand said. Three resulted in reports: Two guys wrestling near the playground. Someone stumbling around drunk. Damage to an outlet cover. “None were related to the van people,” the chief said.
People staying in their cars say the cops are kind, calling out as they make their evening rounds, “Good night, Mike! Good night, Robert!”
For some, living in their cars is a choice, a way to escape paying rent, to be nomadic. For Moyle and many of Gulfport’s “land pirates,” they say it’s their only option besides being homeless.
Moyle gets $1,200 a month in disability from breaking his back, plus $48 a month in food stamps. He had been staying with family, but when his brother’s daughter moved home, he had to move out. “There’s nowhere around here I can even get a room for under $1,000 a month,” Moyle said. Even camping at Fort DeSoto costs $45 a night.
“I don’t know where else I could go.”
A debate over paid parking
Residents ramped up demands in August, about 10 people calling the mayor, writing elected officials, showing up at the city manager’s office. If the cops wouldn’t arrest those folks camping in their cars, some said, the town should change the law.
It already was illegal to park overnight at the library, senior center and beach lot. Why not widen that rule to include public streets?
Gulfport has tried timed and paid parking before — five times in the last 20 years, the city clerk said. Meters briefly lined Beach Boulevard. But during the last decade, the subject has seldom come up.
In September, the city attorney drafted an ordinance to ban “Van Life.”
The council rejected the proposal 3-2.
Vice Mayor April Thanos was opposed. “I don’t want to criminalize people for being poor,” she said, and urged compassion.
Council member Marlene Shaw disagreed. She had posted 30 photos of people living in their cars by the beach, which scrolled on a screen behind the dais.
“These show you their habitations, their solar panels, their grills,” she said. “They’re clustering, often ignoring their impact on others. This is not just about compassion. It’s about fairness, safety and protecting the character of our community. … Doing nothing is not an option.”
After residents weighed in, the council rejected the proposal.
In October, when the mayor called for a public debate, someone posted on Facebook that she should be killed for even having a conversation about paid parking. She reported the threat to police and held the workshop anyway.
TV crews set up outside city hall. More than 80 people packed the council room. For two hours, a line of speakers snaked out the door.
“Whether we like it or not, there are going to be changes in Gulfport,” Mayor Karen Love told the crowd. “But there are no proposals on the table tonight. This is just a conversation.”
Some say this is all about money, she said. “It isn’t.” The city doesn’t need income from parking, she said, and enforcement might even cost more than it brings in.
“I’ve heard a lot about what you don’t want,” the mayor said. “But not one person has offered a solution.”
Will Gulfport become “another John’s Pass”?
What if parking was limited to four hours? suggested the owner of Siri’s Pizza. Or 15 minutes for carry-out pick-ups?
How about building a parking garage by the library?
Four hours is too much — give them two free hours, said a longtime resident. “We all know people abuse the process.”
The next speaker, who lives in the Town Shores complex, didn’t think parking should be regulated at all. “This is what keeps Gulfport weird,” she said. Charging for parking would “change the very fabric of our town.”
When cheers erupted, the mayor leaned into her microphone. “No! No! No!” she admonished. “No clapping. No booing tonight.”
Baynard was the only car camper at the meeting. He left his pit bull in the Lincoln with air conditioning and waited for his three minutes to speak.
“When I put up an umbrella by my car to get some shade, three police cars came,” he said. “We are your peers. We’re 60, 70 years old. Any one of you could be in our position.”
The owner of O’Maddy’s Bar & Grille worried that paid parking would lead people to clog up side streets. The owner of Stella’s agreed that free parking was a draw.
“The last thing I want is to be another John’s Pass and charge $20 for parking. Locals won’t go there anymore,” said the owner of Tommy’s Hideaway. “We’re a small town. We’ve got something special here.”
What about more bike racks? someone suggested. Bicycle cabs? Free trolley rides?
More parking for golf carts. More handicapped spots. Off-site lots for employees. What about charging for long-term, even overnight parking?
In the end, the mayor said, the consensus was clear. “I don’t feel folks are ready for paid parking now,” she said. “And that’s OK.”
The council might revisit the issue in a few months, she said. But for now, nothing would change.
Later, the land pirates said they were relieved. But if the city decides to charge for overnight parking, some said, that would be alright.
In his driver’s seat, Moyle smiled and said, “I’d pay a small price to stay here in paradise.”