The Relentless Force Behind Rhode Island’s Shoreline Access Movement

OUTSIDE  THE NATIONAL HOTEL ON BLOCK ISLAND, a weather-beaten “No Parking” sign hosts a collage of stickers. One stands out: a bright red circle with bold white letters that read, “Conrad Ferla Sucks.” It’s a strange claim—especially considering the man it targets stands grinning beneath it, giving a thumbs-up to the camera. Wearing a black t-shirt, a trucker hat, black shades, and a backpack slung over his shoulders, Ferla looks more amused than insulted.

The photo was taken last summer and quickly made the rounds on social media—particularly in Saving RI Coastal Access/Rights of Way, a Facebook group Ferla started in 2020. Now, with more than 9,000 members, the group has become a hub for Rhode Islanders pushing back against shoreline privatization.

If the sticker was meant to shame him, it backfired.

“Keep up the good work, Conrad!” one follower cheered.

“Must be doing something right,” another wrote.

Hundreds responded with a similar sentiment. Many saw the sticker as a badge of progress in the fight for public shoreline access—a movement Ferla has come to embody as a lifelong surfer and outspoken advocate. With a deep personal connection to Rhode Island’s coastal waters, Ferla has made it his mission to challenge illegal encroachments and push for stronger protections. His confrontations with property owners and officials have made him both controversial and a champion for those demanding action.

Anyone who knows Ferla will likely hear him before they see him. A fixture in the local surf community, he’s just as vocal in the lineup as he is in a parking lot or town hall. Whether he’s talking about surf conditions, venting about access issues, or diving into local politics, one thing’s clear: he cares deeply about his community.

“Conrad is unapologetically himself,” wrote TJ Thran, a fellow surfer and owner of CVRRENT, a Rhode Island media company focused on surfing, in an op-ed for the Surf Exchange Company. “Few of us actually have the drive and wherewithal to take action … Conrad is one of these few, and I admire the hell out of him for it.”

A Rhode Island native, Ferla’s mission is simple: defend Rhode Islanders’ constitutional right to the shore—a right he sees slipping away.

“Shoreline access is inherently public, but there’s always an incentive to privatize,” he says. “If nobody tries to stop it, they’ll take everything.”

A  Swell of Public Pressure

Rhode Island may be the smallest state, but its nearly 400 miles of coastline hold enormous public importance. The state constitution guarantees the public’s right “to enjoy and freely exercise all the rights of fishery, and the privileges of the shore.” But where exactly those rights begin and end has long sparked fierce debate.

At the center of the confusion is the elusive mean high tide line, which historically marked the landward boundary of the public beach in Rhode Island. This definition came from a 1982 Rhode Island Supreme Court ruling (State v. Ibbison), which set the boundary at the average of high tides over an 18.6-year tidal cycle. In practice, this line is a mathematical abstraction, often submerged and virtually impossible to identify on the ground. For everyday Rhode Islanders who want to walk along the beach without breaking the law—or for property owners trying to protect what they believe is theirs—the ambiguity created a legal minefield.

In 2019, Charlestown resident Scott Keeley was arrested in South Kingstown for trespassing while collecting seaweed on the beach in front of private homes. He later sued the town and police, receiving a $25,000 settlement. His arrest—and similar incidents—sparked public backlash against shoreline privatization.

This backlash was amplified by Ferla’s relentless social media campaigns and on-the-ground organizing, which helped thrust the issue into the spotlight.

“Shoreline access became a major public policy topic—it was in the headlines almost daily for a while,” says Michael Woods, chair of the New England Chapter of Backcountry Hunters & Anglers, who credits Ferla with energizing the public. “When these debates happen in the open, it puts real pressure on elected officials to act. That’s something Conrad does incredibly well.”

State Representative Terri Cortvriend, a co-sponsor of the 2023 bill that clarifies the public’s right to walk laterally along the shore up to 10 feet landward of the “visible” high tide line—typically marked by the debris, or wrack line—also acknowledges Ferla’s role in raising public awareness.

“The commission that helped frame the bill got a lot of press thanks to people like Conrad,” she says.

“He stood up after they voted and pointed to each council member who voted yes and said, ‘You suck, and you suck, and you suck,’” he laughs, noting that he had connected with Ferla through the Facebook group after his arrest. “We need someone to stand up and call them what they are … Conrad is the thorn in your side, and you need that kind of activity.”

That meeting was the culmination of rising tensions among surfers, anglers, and beachgoers, who faced a surge of “No Parking” signs, blocked rights-of-way, and confrontations with homeowners claiming public land as private.

While homeowners cited property rights, advocates like Ferla organized to attend town council meetings and working sessions.

“The water and shore are natural resources that belong to everyone, and they should remain accessible to all through a lasting solution,” Ferla said during a 2019 work session held by the Narragansett Town Council to explore public rights-of-way and possible resolutions.

The breaking point came during the COVID-19 pandemic, when public beach access and parking around Point Judith were further restricted. With his outdoor and lifestyle brand business stalled by shutdowns and with a newborn at home, Ferla’s frustration boiled over.

“Surfing is my therapy and I lost my s*… I drove down State Road, on the public part, nailing those ‘No Parking’ signs with my truck,” he says with a laugh. “The only thing I ever damaged was my truck—I never hurt anyone.”

In his backyard, Ferla keeps a growing collection of signs—“Private Beach” and “No Parking”—that he says were illegally posted on town- or state-managed rights-of-way—what he calls evidence of ongoing efforts to quietly shut people out.

“I double-dog dare anyone to go after me for it.   I mapped everything and know exactly where the [boundaries] are,” he says.

Eventually, sustained public pressure—amplified in part by Ferla’s efforts to elevate the issue—helped lead to the reinstatement of parking in Point Judith.

“We fought long and hard [to get parking back],” he says, emphasizing that he is a small part of a much larger effort. “I’m just a catalyst. There are hundreds of people doing the work.”

From Surfing to the Frontlines

Ferla’s activism isn’t about politics—it’s personal. Raised along the Narrow River in South Kingstown by his late mother, Anne Parente—a Warwick Police detective—Ferla grew up with a strong bond to the water and an early sense of justice.

As a kid, he joined her on beach outings with  at-risk youth through the D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) program she organized with other officers.

“These kids lived in the Ocean State and had never been to the beach! Imagine that?” he says. “I remember it would just light them up.”

Shortly before her passing right before Christmas last year, Parente reflected on her path into law enforcement, why being by the water was important for her family and work with at-risk youth, and how she passed her grit and drive to her son.

“We are a highly motivated family,” she said. “I’ve always taught Conrad that knowledge is power and never to back down, but I think he learned that just by watching his mother.”

After developing a chemical allergy that forced her to sell her hair salon in Jamestown, she pivoted, earning a degree in criminal justice at Roger Williams University to support her young son. She then graduated at the top of her class at the police academy and trained at Quantico to become a forensic artist. Parente was one of the few women detectives in the Warwick Police Department, assigned to some of the toughest beats. She credited her ambition to her father, a WWII Army glider pilot and state aeronautics inspector, who taught her never to quit or settle.

At the time of this interview, Parente was battling complications from a brain tumor. Ferla fought back tears as he described how deeply she shaped him. “I’ve got a drive in me that’s unlike other people … I get it from my mother,” he said.

Parente said she took her son to the beach every chance she could and reflected on how bringing at-risk youth there was meaningful, not just for them, but for her and her son as well. “

“They had a blast riding the current on boogie boards at the mouth of the Narrow River,” she laughed. “But I had to keep an eye on them because a lot couldn’t swim. Conrad was always a water baby, so I think it was a real eye-opener being around kids like that.”

Despite the joy of those trips for the kids, their presence was often met with subtle hostility from beachgoers.

“I realized that I lived with a bunch of snobs,” she laughed at the memory. “They would move their blankets away from us, and it was quite noticeable, but the kids were oblivious.”

 

“I remember people giving [the kids] glares and talking under their breath. I remember thinking, ‘That’s wrong. The ocean is for everybody,” he recalls.

The experience stuck with Ferla. It hadn’t occurred to him before that something so central to his life—and so vital to his mental well-being—could be out of reach for others.

“Nothing calms me more than the moment I put my head underwater when the only thing I can hear is the sea,” he says.

He went on to teach surfing for more than two decades, connecting many to the ocean for the first time.

“For some, it changed them. That stoke is real. And as access to the shore becomes harder, it’s the people who need it most who lose it first,” he says.

Pushing Back

Ferla witnessed the limits of shoreline access as a kid—but he didn’t feel the impact personally until his twenties. While surfing at Green Hill in Matunuck, he was approached by a group of angry homeowners. “One guy even tried to take a swing at me,” he recalls. “He shouted, ‘This is my water.’”

Years later, he faced a similar situation—this time with his wife, young children, and friends. They were in South Kingstown, near the beach by Ocean Mist restaurant, when someone told them to leave, claiming the area was private.

“I stood my ground because it was public,” he says.

For Ferla, standing up for himself is second nature. “I’ve been bullied my entire life. I was always overweight, a little different, with a speech impediment and a lazy eye,” he laughs.

That experience prepared him for what came next. Running his own business representing surf and skate brands rooted in counterculture, Ferla leaned into his community when he encountered pushback to his shoreline advocacy work.

“When people started calling my clients to get me fired, I thought, ‘Go ahead—tell a pro skateboarder I’m a bad guy. See how that goes,’” he laughs. “But if I worked at a bank, ran a local business, or was tied to the university or real estate industry, I would’ve been out of a job.”

During the pandemic, Ferla tapped into the social-media following he’d built through his business and local surf contests to launch the Saving RI Coastal Access/Rights of Way Facebook group. His goal: to bring together people from seemingly different walks of life who shared a common interest in protecting shoreline access.

“Everybody’s on the beach. Whether you want to do yoga or shoot ducks, it doesn’t matter,” he says.

He started by joining “Our Town” Facebook groups to connect with residents concerned about access, then expanded into fishing, birding, hiking, and other coastal communities—bridging groups that often operated in silos but cared deeply about the same public spaces.

“I shared the message across all those spaces because they all overlapped,” he explains. “Surfers do surfer things. Fishermen do fisherman things. These groups weren’t connected, but now they are.”

According to Woods, bringing different groups together is one of the biggest contributions Ferla has made.

“Most of what I work on relates to hunting and fishing,” Woods says. “It’s a pretty small constituent group … It’s been cool fighting the same fight as some of the other people that appreciate the same resources that I do.”

The Facebook group members regularly share photos of fences and “No Trespassing” signs blocking shoreline access, along with maps, property records, and legislative updates to keep others informed. They’ve organized letter-writing campaigns to lawmakers in the lead-up to hearings on shoreline access bills—some of which are now state law. They monitor unmarked rights-of-way, report property owners overstepping boundaries, and track local meeting agendas for shoreline issues.

They’ve packed town meetings from Warwick to Westerly, handed out copies of the state constitution at rallies, and even chartered a plane to fly a banner over the coast after the new lateral access law passed, declaring:

“The Rhode Island shore is not private!”

Their grassroots efforts have led to real change. Towns like Jamestown, Westerly, and Narragansett have restored parking near rights-of-way, launched reviews of access records, and spurred investigations into disputed shoreline points. The group has also flagged misleading real estate listings claiming “private beaches,” successfully pressuring agents to revise language to reflect Rhode Island’s public access and disclosure laws.

“Saying a home has a private beach when the law says it doesn’t creates false expectations. That invites conflict—and it’s a failure to disclose,” says Keely, who credits group members for spotting those ads, whether for Airbnbs or home sales.

Now, under Rhode Island’s new disclosure law, shoreline property sellers must inform buyers of any public rights-of-way or shoreline access.

More Than Access

He sees the same pattern taking hold in Narragansett, Charlestown, and Westerly, with more second homes being sold to absentee owners and year-round residents slowly squeezed out.

A 2024 Urban Land Institute report, Surge: Coastal Resilience and Real Estate, highlights the growing overvaluation of coastal property due to unrecognized flood risk and delayed hazard disclosure. It warns that without policy interventions, coastal real estate is increasingly treated more like financial or investment assets than part of the lived, accessible fabric of coastal communities.

“I’m surfing in front of a house where I’ve never seen a single person—ever,” says Ferla, explaining how coastal property ownership has shifted from vacation homes to financial assets.

For the very wealthy, Ferla says, buying coastal land is just a way to park cash. When towns prioritize the coast as an asset class instead of a shared resource, they risk becoming economically exclusive, he says. This shift squeezes out working-class families and essential service providers who sustain local economies.

“It’s subtle,” says Ferla. “One day, you notice you can’t park where you used to. Eventually, it’s a whole different town.” He calls it a “perfect storm”—rising seas, coastal development, and political inaction.

Ferla’s observations echo the convergence of climate risk and economic displacement outlined in the ULI report. As the cost of shoreline hardening and emergency repairs grows—and insurance providers retreat from high-risk zones—many long-term residents are priced out or pushed aside. The report also notes that investor behavior increasingly treats coastal property as a speculative asset, compounding access barriers and deepening inequality. What Ferla sees on the ground—locked gates, no-parking signs, and homes owned but never occupied—mirrors a broader pattern: climate-driven instability colliding with unchecked speculation and weak governance.

“Why do I suck?” he says, referencing the infamous sticker. “I don’t. I just want the shoreline open to everyone and protected for future generations, too.”

“The rest,” he adds, “is just noise. If nobody stands up, nothing changes. I’m not going to stop.”