Three Hundred and Sixty Nine Days...
I just wanted to point that out. That's how many actual days I surfed. 369 consecutive days. I could of surfed a few more if I wanted to, hell, I could still be surfing for that matter. So many people asked me what I was going to do the day after my year was up. As I briefly mentioned last week, there was good surf the next day. I went surfing. That was a no brainer. I am after all a surfer. I'm not quitting surfing. I'm like everyone else now. I will surf when it's good. Or when I want to.

But to be completely honest and truthful with you all. The Last Day was the hardest.

It was Friday July 29th, 2011. I had been checking the surf all day. And honestly? It just didn't look that good. I had surfed the two days prior. But only because there was still surf. I knew this day was coming. Yet I kept checking it all day. Secretly hoping that there might be something. I could feel that inner magnetic pull and it was intensifying all day. I was working and looking at the wave cams every other minute.

"Stop torturing yourself!" my wife said to me at lunch. "I'm not...I'm fine..." I replied.

But I was not. In fact, I was anything but. I was a mess. I was unraveling as each minute ticked off the clock. I kept checking the cams all afternoon. It just didn't look good enough to surf. Or rather it didn't look good enough to justify me heading down there to get wet and surf. After all, the Fund Raiser was officially over. I pledged to surf a year and I did. I should of been satisfied and be on with my life.

But let me tell you all something. If you did anything for a year, and then decided that you would stop the next day? Guess what? It's not that easy. If you played soccer for a year and then stopped, I guarantee you will go looking for that ball the next day to kick around. If you tended a garden for one year straight and then decided that you would stop after one year? Guess again. The next day you are going to the garden.

And surfing? Those of us who surf, knows exactly what kind of pull the ocean has.

Imagine what it must of been like for me? I felt like I had gills. Like I needed to get back to the ocean or something terrible would happen. I know it's all silly sounding to some of you, but it was real for me. Finally at around 6PM with overcast skies I ran upstairs and asked my wife if she wanted to go with me to just drive down to the ocean to look at it. She had that sorry look on her face that telegraphed to me that I was being obsessive. And I admit I was. I was freaking dying. Or at least that's what it felt like to me. How could I possibly explain this to my wife. She has been around surfing since 1983 but she does not surf.

I excused myself and drove down to the ocean. With sans board and suit.

I drove past 18th street. The tide was wrong, I was heading for 10th Street. My home. My sanctuary for so many years. I have surfed that jetty and stretch of sand since 1966. I started surfing in 1964 but did not surf North Beach until 1966. Still, that's a long freaking time. My spot. "Ralph's Rights" at 10th Street named by my late best friend Joe Somogyi. He named it that mostly because I refused to surf the other spots at North Beach.

I pulled up in that fading light and looked over the Wall. There was surf.

Keep in mind, for the last year I would look at the surf and determine whether or not I could surf that spot or not. So many days were spent trying to figure out when and where I would surf each day. So here I was looking at the surf and realizing that "Yes" I could surf this. Hell, I would of killed for days like this in this past year. It was small but clearly surf-able. I walked down to the ocean. There was no one around. Just a few gulls mulling around. There was one guy on a shortboard down by 8th street. He was groveling in the weak conditions.

I watched him struggling to catch these weak waves. He got a few.

I looked back up at the Wall where three days earlier, all my friends and family had gathered to be part of that last day. The Rowlees being the focal point of that magical night. I could still hear and feel that magic 3 days later. But it was empty this night. Not a soul. I looked back at the sea. I felt as if I had gills. I could imagine them opening and closing. Like a fish out of water. I stepped out of my sandals and waded out to about knee deep water. I felt better. The mere touch of the ocean was enough to give me some comfort.

I honestly thought that I was having some kind of a physical withdrawal.

I looked back and saw the cool graphic that Mike Sidebottom had made and stenciled on the stairs at 10th Street. That day came flashing back to me. So many incredible days I had endured and taken in. But this pull...this magnetic pull is real. Surfers are a special breed. We are this global tribe who all share in this wonderful gift . But when that gift becomes, something more than just the act of riding a wave it is almost spiritual. Like there is some other connection.

I had it day after day out there. The seals, the gulls, the fish and crustaceans.

And the simple and beautiful mechanics of the waves themselves.

Each wave is different. Each and every single wave. Trust me, I know this. I would watch them and study them. From the small, crumbling, onshore days, to the big, gaping, blustery, offshore days. They are all different. I was with them all year.

And so was it the ocean itself that I longed for? Or was it something deeper?

I recently described the parallel of being deployed overseas in a war zone and doing what I just did. In the war zone you want nothing but to go home and be with your family and friends again. But when it was time to go home, you found yourself longing to be with the friends you would be leaving behind, and the actual mission itself. It had become a part of who you were for the last year. Surfing everyday at times had it's difficult days, especially in the cold winter months. There were times when I wanted it to end.

But it was summer again. The winter months were behind me. Then it happened.

In a moment of weakness and sorrow, I broke down. I was sorry for feeling this way. I wished again, like I had so many days prior, that the people, whose names appear on my board were still with us. My mother Eva, my friend Joe, Linda, Winnie, Bud, Wendy, and the endless mental list that is embedded in my memory banks. And of course Molly...I wish for her more than any of the others, that she was still with us. I said this before, and I'll say it again, I'd surf a 1,000 days of the coldest meanest New England winters to have the Rowlees have her back again.

Even for one day. I swear to God I would.

I felt the water rush up my legs. I looked around and smiled. I was OK. I looked back out to sea one last time and I saluted. I got into my vehicle and made one last stop. 18th street. I walked down to Molly's name and said hello...and then I thanked her again for all the Love and support that she brought to this sleepy little seacoast town. I put my hand on her name...said a few more words. I asked her to help my kid sister Evamarie who is battling cancer. I felt comforted just being there.

Then with the last fading light, on this Day 369... I walked away.

"Surfing Heals All Wounds..."