"I will be the Oskar Schindler of California surfers..."

Last night California’s Governor, Gavin Newsom, extended the Bay Area’s draconian “shelter in place” law to the entirety of the state. I was in bed watching the new season of Westworld when I read the news and do you like? I found season one entirely enjoyable but fell off during season two once the cowboy motif transitioned into industrial sci-fi which surprised me. I enjoy westerns from time to time, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid being one of my favorite movies ever, but don’t necessarily consider myself an aficionado and will generally prefer a dystopian tale to a cowboy one. Well, the show lost its oomph once the cowboys went away, I felt, but I was willing to give it another go and so there I was watching the new season when I read Gavin Newsom’s “shelter in place” edict.

“Shelter in place?” I wondered. “What does that actually mean?”

According to Time magazine:

People should stay in their homes unless they need to leave for “essential” activities and work. The mandate went into effect on March 17 and will continue until at least April 7. The order details that violating the mandate is a misdemeanor punishable by fine, imprisonment or both.

“Hmmmm.” I thought while feeling selfishly gleeful. From my reading it essentially outlaws surfing unless it can be categorized as “work.” Being a surf journalist, the act is, of course, fundamental to my profession and I pictured being out there alone, catching any wave I wanted, shouting a friendly hello to the surfboard shaper the next peak over as I imagine he can count surfing as fundamental to his profession too.

R & D etc.

But then something miraculous happened in my imagination.

I missed you.

I missed silently criticizing the way you wax your board all OCD-like. Missed being jealous of your turns. Missed glaring at you when I paddled back out after my own personal wave of the winter. Missed the annoyed sigh we share when a SUP strokes into our midst.

Then I had an idea. A wonderful idea that will bring you back to the lineup. You can be a surf journalist too. You can “write” for BeachGrit.

So here’s the deal*. If you’re out for a California surf and a police officer tries to fine you or imprison you for being outside your shelter, tell him or her that you are a surf journalist who writes for BeachGrit and in the middle of researching an important story. I will vouch for you in any court of law.

A great, warm sensation of benevolence washed over me once my inspiration crystalized. “I will be the Oskar Schindler of California surfers…” I thought.

“…A legend in the annals of altruism.”

More as the story develops.

*Deal does not extend to SUPs, longboards or midlengths. No foils or Wavestorms either.

It's not funny anymore, is it?

“The United States of America has a history of locking otherwise blameless people, Americans even, up simply because they’re originally from a country deemed dangerous or hostile. War-like. Aggressive.” I tell my daughter as we squat in what’s being called the “exercise yard” of a notorious North County, San Diego Internment Camp.

“It’s an open secret but ugly still. California locked up wonderful Japanese folk for being Japanese during World War II.” I continue. “I don’t think they locked up wonderful Germans for being German during World War I but the powers that be changed the name of ‘hamburgers’ to ‘liberty sandwiches’ which is just as bad.”

“What country are we locked up for being from?” My young daughter asks while digging for worms that I told her we would fry for dinner, until she catches a Chihuahua, assuming we’ll be allowed to use the kitchen.

“France.” I say. “And we’re not even French.”

Europe is now the epicenter of the ongoing Coronavirus pandemic, more casualties in Italy than the disease’s proud papa China. Germany headed toward full lockdown. France’s Cannes Film Festival postponed.

Hell everywhere.

Hell that hath cometh.

Two weeks ago, when the non-China world was still normal-ish and I was only an enterprising surfer-father seeing fantastic deals to Europe popping up on my computer screen while writing about Gabriel Medina while glancing over at my young daughter who looked like she needed an adventure and who cares about Gabriel Medina?

It was then I proposed, to her, that we rip, last second, to France then Germany so we could shred the Coronavirus Apocalypse. Empty museums etc. Free Hermès Birkins and whatnot. Hamburgers that couldn’t even imagine liberty but even better steak frites.

The good life made fun.

The great life made pink.

She was game, as she always is.

So we did it, flying to Paris, flying to Berlin, and living a dream, an absolute dream. We laughed through an empty Versailles, an empty Berlin Zoo, an empty-ish Champs Élysées, an empty-ish Checkpoint Charlie, Berlin Wall, Louvre, Eiffel, Brandenburg… the Olde World made fresh though circumstances. Though it all went, theoretically, pear shaped whilst we were shredding.

Travel bans etc. Bar closures etc.

American frowns.

Terror and paranoia.

We made it home but were immediately tagged as Enemies of the State and suggested into self-internment what with the China Virus beginning to rage across greater America minus Florida.

Beginning to destroy a once unstoppable people (read: economy).

The notorious camp we’ve been “locked” into has limited cell phone reception in the living room because I insist on continuing an abusive relationship with T-Mobile, a broken washing machine that should be fixed this coming Tuesday, tiles making up a patio in the front yard that I was supposed to get sealed but haven’t scheduled the tile seal man yet, which was a total gaff, dying nectarine tree that I’m supposed to cut down, garage that is, seriously, out-of-control messy with tools everywhere but un-find-able, grout that needs re-touching in the kitchen, a few burnt out lightbulbs all my fault and a corroding zinc countertop, which I also insisted on.

Deserved?

According to public opinion, yes and let us read but one of many barbs sent over my Internment Camp’s needed-to-be-painted fence.

What are your plans for your daughter now that you have wantonly exposed her to Covid-19 by bringing her to the heart of the pandemic? Will you allow playdates knowing she is most likely infected? Or not give a shit because she isn’t showing symptoms and you never really cared about her health or anyone else’s? Dad of the fucking year. You should be arrested.

“Playdates!” I suddenly remember.

Are they allowed in this ruthless Internment Camp?

Can they leave once they come?

Would I be able to sort one of them into sealing the front patio tile?

My young daughter’s best friend in the whole wide world is, no lie, Japanese.

More as the story develops.