Robert William Powers Boyle

Robert William Powers Boyle died surrounded by family on January 6, 2026, in St. Petersburg, Florida, of natural causes. He was 80.

Born in Weymouth, Massachusetts, on February 26, 1945, Robert came to St. Petersburg as a toddler, and despite short stints in other parts of the country he never stopped calling it home. He was, in every sense, a Florida man-by geography, by temperament, and by legend. He once regaled an enraptured audience with how he tossed an ornery eight-foot alligator across a swamp by its tail as a child. Whether stories like these were fact, embellishment, or something in between depended on the day and the audience. Robert was a journalist by trade and a storyteller by nature, and he believed the truth could hold more than one version at a time.

He worked as a journalist for his entire career, including covering stock car racing for a local newspaper, a beat well-suited to his love of speed, machines, and a profound love affair with American grit. He wrote at least two novels that were never published, one a true-life Florida crime story, and another a children's book about his beloved dog, Dude. Writing, like fatherhood, was not just something he did, it was something he believed in.

Robert served a little over two years in the U.S. Army, stationed in South Korea during the Vietnam War. He returned home laden with stories, some he told freely and others he carried more quietly. In later years, he sought treatment for post-traumatic stress, an act of courage he rarely took credit for, but one that mattered deeply.

He was a devoted Democrat, a lifelong agnostic, and an enthusiastic contrarian. He enjoyed irreverence, profanity, and the freedom to question everything. When a VA chaplain came to pray with him near the end, Robert agreed, saying simply, "Nobody knows who's right, so why not?" That was Robert: skeptical, open, and deeply generous all at once.

He watched westerns and the news, and he loved Bob Dylan, The Eagles, and books like Slaughterhouse-Five. He loved the Tampa Bay Buccaneers so much he would have tattooed their flag on his body if his doctor had signed off on it. Instead, a Bucs blanket he received as a Christmas gift was laid across him at the end. He wore snarky T-shirts, loved the holidays, and was an extraordinarily generous gift-giver. His final Christmas was spent in the hospital, surrounded by adoring family, opening presents.

Robert had a soft spot for strays. He adopted cats and dogs, and deeply loved his African grey parrot Maya, who remains fond of saying "you're nuts" in Robert's rich, gravelly voice. He traveled the American West with Maya in a truck camper, motorcycle in tow, collecting stories the way others collect souvenirs.

He spent his life seeking a large family and was proud of being a husband and a father. He doted on his children and extended that devotion to those he claimed as his own, whether by blood or by bond. He believed in second chances-third and fourth ones, too-and often befriended people who needed someone to believe in them.

Robert was loud, half deaf, perpetually misplacing his hearing aids, and impossible to interrupt once he started on a subject he was passionate about. He loved giving directions and expected you to follow them to the letter. He made friends everywhere, and you could talk to him about anything. He had no censor, a sharp sense of humor, and an abiding belief that love and loyalty mattered more than polish or perfection.

Near the end of his life, Robert spoke often of regret-not for how he lived, but for waiting too long to travel to the places he had dreamed about his whole life. Even then, his mind wandered back to stories, memories, and the wild freedom of youth.

He knew when the end was near. He called family that morning and said he was ready to go home. After his death, the Department of Veterans Affairs draped an American flag over his body and played taps as he was escorted through the hospital halls, staff standing in salute.

Robert is survived by his wife, Honey Mae; two children; three siblings; and several nieces and nephews. He is also survived by a wide circle of friends who became family along the way.

He will be buried at Florida National Cemetery on January 13, 2026, in keeping with his wishes, returning to the earth simply and without pretense.

Robert Boyle lived hard, loved deeply, argued passionately, and told stories until the very end. He believed the world was flawed but wonderful, and that love was still worth the effort. He would want you to remember him laughing, swearing, telling one last story-and watching you, just to make sure you were doing it right.