Obituary
In Loving Memory of David (Dave) Patrick Murphy
Born August 16, 1955. Slipped away quietly on July 24, 2025
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David Murphy didn’t live life by the book—he made up his own melody as he went, usually with a guitar in hand, a smirk on his face, and an idea of how to make something better. He was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan, grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, and spent most of his adult life in Fort Lauderdale before eventually making a home in Ocala. He didn’t care much for routines or expectations. He followed the weather, the water, and whatever felt right. He was kind and humble, sharp as a tack, generous to a fault, and absolutely one-of-a-kind. He could fix anything—cars, boats, people—and sometimes he did it with grace, sometimes with a few well-placed curses, but he always got there. He worked as a diesel mechanic and fuel injection specialist at RPM Diesel in Fort Lauderdale for most of his career, but truth be told, his real trade was figuring things out. He played the guitar like he was born with one in his hands. Never took a lesson—just listened, felt it, and made it sing. Southern rock and blues were his go-tos: The Allman Brothers Band, Stevie Ray Vaughan, The Moody Blues. He could hear a song once and have it memorized in minutes. Music wasn’t a hobby for him. It was a lifeline. He was the guy who’d stop to help a stranger on the side of the road, give away a prized possession if someone needed it more, or spend his Christmas refurbishing computers for women in crisis centers instead of buying gifts. He didn’t care much about money or appearances. He cared about people—and animals, too. Dogs and cats loved him. They knew a good soul when they saw one. His most loyal companions over the years included Emmitt and Jax (his cats), and dogs Onyx, George, and Ethel. He was known for his corny jokes and silly sayings—ask any of his kids, they’ll tell you. When you asked what he was up to, he’d grin and say, “About 5’10”. His laugh was contagious. His wisdom came quietly, tucked between stories, guitar licks, and late-night talks. He wasn’t perfect. He could be stubborn, moody, and wildly particular about the way things should be done. But he loved fiercely and showed up when it counted. He loved boats, motorcycles, and history—especially American history and the Civil War. He was a night owl, drawn more to stars than sunlight. He had a soft spot for weird, offbeat comedy (Married with Children and The Drew Carey Show were staples), and he never stopped dreaming about the next project, the next ride, the next big idea. David was preceded in death by his parents, John Murphy and Donna Och, his brothers Steven and Vaughn, and his wife, Torri. He leaves behind his sister Joan, his five daughters—Jennifer, Heather, Rita, Heather Lee, and Elizabeth—and twelve grandchildren who each carry a piece of his spark, spirit, and stubborn charm. If Dave could leave you with anything, it wouldn’t be a list of accomplishments. He’d remind you to be kind, stay curious, respect the weird in others, and laugh at yourself often. He’d want you to listen to music that moves you, take the long way home, ditch the stuff that doesn’t matter, and chase what does. He’d want you to love deeply and let people in, even when it’s hard. And he’d want you to know he found peace in the end. The kind of peace you find when the work is done, the water’s calm, and the music’s still playing—just softer now.
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