He lived on his boat, his slice of paradise. Then came Hurricane Debby. - MASHAHER

GULFPORT — They stayed because their boats felt safest, because their boats are their homes. They stayed so they’d be there to respond if something went wrong. They stayed because, well, where else would they go?

As Debby rapidly strengthened into a hurricane Sunday night, a tight-knit community who live aboard their vessels in Boca Ciega Bay hunkered down in hulls, anchored near Gulfport in southern Pinellas County.

By Monday evening, many residents along Florida’s Gulf Coast let out a collective exhale; the region had, once again, been spared the worst of a major storm. But the Boca Ciega Bay live-aboards were hit with heartbreak.

Some boats were hurled onto the sand, tangled in mangroves and tossed akilter against the seawall. Others sank, livelihoods disappearing under churning waves.

Then Brian J. Clough, 48, was found dead on his partially submerged sailboat.

Debby barreled into the Big Bend region as a Category 1 on Monday, roughly 140 miles from the marine community that Captain Brian, as he was known, called home. Friends said his boat was his slice of Florida heaven.

He is remembered for his quick wit, entrepreneurial spirit and how much he loved his little white dog, Daisy. He took her everywhere. She was rescued from the boat, now safe with a new home.

“We lost 20 boats and one soul,” said Sean Buckmaster, a 56-year-old U.S. Army veteran dubbed the mayor of Boca Ciega Bay.

The live-aboards are young and old, hardened sailors and adventure seekers. Some call it a way of life, others a necessity, a waterfront haven amid an affordable-housing crisis. The community spans from the Sunshine Skyway to Madeira Beach. The number of boats ebbs like the tide. It’s unclear for how long Clough called it home.

“We don’t keep records. There are no memberships,” Buckmaster said. “But if you’re in our bay, you’re family.”

As Debby approached, boaters once more debated: Stay or go?

Eric Matos asked Clough to come ashore, he said, pleading with him on the phone. Matos is a “lander.” He lives on the shore, not the water.

They met last year at Hurricane Eddie’s, a Gulfport bar where Clough was a regular, Daisy always by his side. They became fast friends, huddling around an outdoor table and chatting for hours about future plans in the sea breeze and under the wide Florida sky. Clough wanted to start a fishing charter.

As the storm grew closer, he insisted on staying, Matos, 39, recalled.

Then came the lashing rain, the howling winds, the pounding waves. Boats were thrown around like popcorn, anchors failing, ropes snapping. Some tore across the waterway, smashing into others. Then came word that Clough was missing.

He anchored about 50 feet from Veterans Park, according to the Gulfport Police Department. Another boater saw his vessel partially sunk late Monday morning, according to police. The boater spotted Daisy but no sign of her owner.

Local police and fire departments, the U.S. Coast Guard and civilian divers launched a rescue effort.

Meanwhile, longtime land resident Kelly Wright handed out homemade beef stew to residents, passersby and those involved in the rescue from a nearby beach pavilion.

“That’s what we do in Gulfport,” she said. “We come together.”

Clough was found on his boat early Monday evening. The cause of death remains unclear, though a preliminary police investigation does not indicate foul play. Officers had yet to find any close, living relatives for Clough by Tuesday late morning; only a nephew and a smattering of distant family members in Arizona.

Gulfport police used to have an officer dedicated to the bay. They’d patrol the waters, handle vessel safety inspections and assist with storm preparation, Sgt. Thomas Woodman said. Then the money ran out.

“Storm after storm after storm, we see the same results,” he said. “Boats wash on shore, primarily because vessel owners are not properly preparing themselves.”

Debby has some boaters contemplating their futures, Buckmaster said. While most of them weathered the storm well, a few are grappling with the move to land. Still, there are those who rely on the waves to rock them to sleep, those who can’t imagine a life without sitting on the bow, watching for dolphins.

“I never experienced true freedom until I was on the water,” he said.

As the tropical storm continued its slow march into Georgia on Monday night, a graveyard of punctured hulls and shredded sails dotted Gulfport Beach. From one boat, a tattered American flag flapped in the wind.

Children ran along the sand, the bay lapping at their bare feet. The sky, cloudy for much of the day, erupted in pink and orange.

And on the gun-metal waters of Boca Ciega Bay, boats bobbed.

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