Florida's public sleeping ban is in effect. Palm Beach County park rangers are on the front lines.

Yahoo

14-04-2025

Donnie Tatul won't say exactly where he sleeps at night, but it's in the 'right places.'
Admitting to where he rests his head as someone considered unsheltered could get him in trouble, particularly now that sleeping in public overnight has been outlawed by the state.
Since the implementation of HB 1365 on Jan. 1, which bans overnight sleeping in public places — such as beaches, bus stops, sidewalks and parks — and lets the public sue local governments if the rules aren't enforced, municipal officials have sought out solutions. And advocates argue it's become more challenging to be homeless, given the heightened prospect of penalties in the state. With the pressure mounting, Palm Beach County's park rangers are doing what they can to help.
The South Florida Sun Sentinel recently accompanied Mahboob Morshed, a county park ranger supervisor, on an evening shift patrolling some of the county parks and speaking with people experiencing homelessness who seek refuge there.
Morshed, who has worked as a ranger for more than a decade, said his job hasn't changed all that much since the implementation of HB 1365 — especially because the county already had ordinances prohibiting overnight sleeping in public — but it has made enforcement 'more official.'
'We can enforce it now even more,' he said.
The county's nearly 90 public parks close at sunset, so rangers such as Morshed have long been tasked with ensuring people leave the parks after dark, whether they are homeless or not.
Morshed begins his workdays at a ranger office located in Lake Worth Beach's John Prince Memorial Park along with the other rangers who work the 4 p.m. to midnight shift.
Deployment, which is when the rangers report to their respective parks, occurs at 5 p.m. Rangers visit anywhere from six to seven parks a night, and it's not unusual for them to clock in 100 miles on their county vehicles during their shifts. As a supervisor, Morshed doesn't get the luxury of filling the long car rides with music or podcasts; instead, he monitors the radio, where rangers communicate status updates or requests for help.
During a recent Monday night shift, Morshed began his workday at the ranger station at John Prince Park like always. The park holds more than 700 acres of trails, campgrounds, lakes, playgrounds and pavilions, so Morshed spends some time surveying it before the next stop. Darkness won't descend for another few hours, so Morshed just has to ensure everyone at the park is keeping the peace.
Shortly after 5 p.m., Morshed recognizes a man sitting at a bench under a pavilion. Marcus McCoy estimates he has been homeless between seven and eight years, and as of late, he spends a lot of time at John Prince Park. On this day, he hunches over an adult coloring book, filling in the outlines with colored pencils.
Like Donnie Tatul, McCoy isn't specific about the spots where he sleeps, but he said he's not likely to be disturbed if he keeps the areas he occupies as clean as how he found them.
'If it's not clean, then (people), they go to park rangers, and say, 'Hey, people be sleeping over here, and they be leaving trash,'' McCoy said. 'Now (the rangers) are keeping an eye on that area. … It's a beautiful park, and I wouldn't blame people for doing what they're doing. If they let you sleep, they let you sleep. It's just clean up behind yourself, No. 1 rule.'
Still, McCoy said it's hard to find places, either public or private, to sleep that are safe and won't result in someone making calls to law enforcement or other officials to complain.
'Sometimes people just need somewhere to lay down,' he said.
McCoy said he was recently living in a shelter until the maximum length of time he could stay was reached. He has stayed in other shelters before, too, saying some helped him and some did not.
'If you try to get yourself right and your life back on track, you're going to do what you need to do, no matter the time, state, or whatever, especially if you got a job and you're working. And they don't really give you that,' he said. 'It's like you get here or you don't get here. … They're going to tell you tomorrow to pack your stuff and go. They don't really have a leniency.'
McCoy said he's currently looking for a job, a pursuit he said recently grew more difficult when his electric bike was stolen while he was sleeping. He doesn't appear to have many belongings — next to his thick box of colored pencils, coloring book and pencil sharpener is a backpack and drawstring bag with a faded Miami Heat logo.
For McCoy, who said he used to stay in the downtown West Palm Beach area along Clematis Street and watch the continual construction of million-dollar high-rises, he feels confident about the source of motivation for HB 1365.
'It's just a money thing, if that's how they feel like that's how they're going to get rid of the homeless,' he said. 'It's not really get rid of, it's push them away, push them farther back this way or farther north, but they don't want you nowhere where the money at.'
When he signed the bill into law last year, Gov. Ron DeSantis said in a statement: 'Florida will not allow homeless encampments to intrude on its citizens or undermine their quality of life like we see in states like New York and California.'
Rather, the law 'upholds our commitment to law and order while also ensuring homeless individuals have the resources they need to get back on their feet,' DeSantis said.
Before leaving, Morshed gave McCoy a brochure with contact information for county resources, including health, hygiene, food, clothing, shelter, relocation, domestic abuse and legal help. McCoy has a phone, but not everyone who is unsheltered does, Morshed said. In those instances, Morshed may make a phone call for that person.
'Most of the time, they have no cellphone, or cellphone has no charge,' Morshed said.
After the interaction with McCoy, Morshed needs to check out two parks in Riviera Beach. By the time he arrives at Jim Barry Light Harbor Park, the sky is still clinging to sunlight, so Morshed won't have to ask anyone to leave just yet.
It's at Light Harbor park where Donnie Tatul and a few others are hanging out. Before driving into the park and saying hello to Tatul and his group, Morshed spots a woman he recognizes and rolls down his car window to speak with her.
'Where's your son?' he asks her, and they begin an affable exchange.
The woman, who only agrees to share her first name, Jenny, says she lives on a boat with her son, which they get to by a canoe from the Light Harbor Park boat ramp. She says she was preparing the canoe to get to her and her son's boat before the day got too dark.
Though she and her son have a rather stable place to sleep at night, Jenny says she interacts with many people who don't and has been working with church groups to put together more resources for the homeless population in Riviera Beach.
'These people are on survival level,' Jenny said. 'From the first night they're on the street, they're then in sleep deprivation, that's not being addressed. They're instantly worried about every sound, every smell, every flash of light. This is not where they need to be. It's not in their comfort zone, so they adapt the best they can.'
After ensuring the rest of the park appears relatively uneventful, Morshed drives to his third stop of the evening: Phil Foster Memorial Park, which is only a few minutes from Light Harbor. By then, it's 7:30 p.m., and a pink and orange sunset is unfurling across the skyline.
At Phil Foster, which is situated in the Intracoastal Waterway, Morshed notices a man sleeping by a set of water fountains.
Though Morshed reassures him that he has some more time before the park is closed, the man quickly leaves, towing his belongings behind him on a bike.
After a few more minutes scoping out the scene, Morshed decides it's time to head back to John Prince Memorial Park.
On the drive back to John Prince Park, Morshed pulls over twice on Lake Osborne Drive, which is right next to one of the park's main trails, to inform parkgoers — one person who is fishing and another group of people on a bench — it's time to leave. It's past 8 p.m. now, and there is no doubt about the presence of nightfall and the park's closure.
While the rangers are looking to ensure people aren't using the parks as a place to sleep once it's closed, that's just one of their goals.
'If I don't educate everyone and I only educate the unsheltered, it's a double standard. We don't want to do that. The ordinance is for everyone,' Morshed said.
After the drive through John Prince Park, Morshed endeavors onto his fifth stop of the night, Buttonwood Park, which also is in Lake Worth Beach. He notices a man under a pavilion and asks him to leave — but instead of responding, the man begins to wander away.
In situations such as these, Morshed said he usually waits before asking the same person to leave again. Ultimately, if they do not comply, Morshed or any other ranger has to get the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office involved.
Morshed said he has to call the Sheriff's Office between two to four times a month. Before the passage of HB 1365 though, he estimates he called up to 10 times a month. Morshed believes this is because people experiencing homelessness know about the law, so they are no longer as likely to push back.
At Buttonwood, Morshed walks to a darkened corner of the park and finds a man sleeping. Morshed tells the man about the park being closed and asks if he would like assistance, but the man says he is already on a waiting list for a shelter and leaves the park after that.
Morshed isn't naive: He knows many people trickle back into the parks for a place to sleep after the rangers have punched out for the night, knowing they will no longer see the blinding yellow lights from the tops of the ranger cars piercing through the darkness.
The county is currently working to fill this gap by hiring new rangers to work the graveyard shift from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. That initiative has been in the works for a few years, Morshed said.
His final stop of the night is where he ends all of his shifts: the all-too-familiar John Prince Park.
He'll spend the last hour of his shift writing a report of the night before heading home, planning to do the same thing the next day.
Regardless of what state officials implement, Morshed and the other county rangers are dedicated to keeping the parks safe and helping people who are unsheltered.
'We want to leave all patrons with a positive note,' he said.