Many have likely flown over bodies being thrown into pits on their way to a fine and fun surf vacation.

I am a flippant bastard, true, and horrible. Fallen, callous, an asshole to the nth degree and deserve all the scorn I’ve been dished plus so, so much more.

Unforgivable.

Empty.

A surf journalist.

But this Coronavirus Apocalypse, this End of Times, will either be the hill we traipse over or the hill I die upon.

Many furious emails, messages, DMs regarding my flippant bastard position even though I myself am isolated.

Not surfing. Shut away in protection of others.

But I’m banking on the former.

That this will be a hill we traipse over then some of us will, should be embarrassed.

Now, let’s look.

Let’s think.

Worldwide death toll from China’s Great Gift is currently at 20k though climbing. Each a tragedy.

Each a travesty but would you like to know how many people died in Yemen during the last few years?

The vast majority equally innocent and from deaths much more traumatic?

Children by the wheelbarrow full?

Very near 200,000 in “directly target attacks” many more including starvation, lack of medicine, lack of care and lack of care.

A tragedy/travesty beyond scope yet so very few agitated people who screams about “self-isolation” and toeing that line knows or cares.

Many have likely flown over bodies being thrown into pits on their way to a fine and fun surf vacation.

So what?

Does death only matter when it potentially touches someone we know?

Does it matter only when our western hospitals are theoretically being overrun?

Tell me, please.

I’d love to know.

Is there any sight sadder than a surfer walking home from the beach with a freshly waxed, dry surfboard?

This is the first time anyone I know can remember when the Holy Day of Nyepi here in Bali was extended an additional 24 hours.

With an addendum that all beaches will be closed until further notice.

I woke up to the news this morning, March 26, expecting at least to be able to dash out to the local bottlo to replace my slab of beer.

No dice.

On an island that has the only international airport on earth that completely shuts down for a religious holiday, Nyepi is taken as seriously as you take yours. The Pecalang are out in force, the saronged neighborhood enforcers, making sure everybody continues to observe this New Year’s celebration and the brand new beach ban.

Among other things, Nyepi is also meant to bore the evil spirits of the island.

Bore them so badly that they will leave and find better human mischief elsewhere (Buckle up Sydney).

By the way, it’s only 1942 here in Bali. The Balinese calendar making us all much younger than we thought. The ultimate de-aging treatment.

It feels pretty good having a negative number as my age. A chance to begin again. And wrong all the rights I have committed in this world gone mad.

And speaking of mad, a friend of mine just told me a story.

Over the phone, of course.

To him, with the beach closures here feeling like a worse sentence than the predicted zombie apocalypse, he went for surf.

Or tried to.

The surf was one-to-two-foot today, sunny and straight offshore at Kuta Beach. A rarity during the monsoon.

My mate figures that if this is what global warming is gonna look like then “Greta can stand down”.

He also boasted about his all board quiver.

“I have everything from a hand board to a Hypto to a gun to a longboard. That way when it comes to waves, size never matters!”Echoing the thoughts of my Brother Sam who once said “There is never any bad surf, only bad boards”.

The Pecalang nabbed my mate anyway.

He tried to reason with them in the name of all surfers. In broken Indonesian no less.

It went something like this: His point was that it’s ok to close the beaches to “beach enthusiasts” and “surf bathers”.

He is nothing of the kind. He is only interested in the waves beyond the shorebreak.

And with an empty line-up being the safest place to be these days, he was only looking after his health.

You see? Yes, the Pecalang reasoned, in broken English no less, that made sense.

But didn’t he have to cross the closed beach to get to the waves?

This stumped my mate until he offered to paddle down a river into the surf, would that work?

Sure, they said, but have you ever tried paddling up a river to get home?

That was the end of it.

A small fine and a surfer walking home from the beach with a freshly waxed, dry surfboard.

Is their any sight sadder?

My mate says he is still thinking about how to get to the surf without crossing the beach.

He’s made it up to joining the military to become paratrooper or building a giant yo-yo or becoming a commercial fisherman.

But his river concept stuck with me. As a metaphor for the desire to go surfing. The surfona virus.

When it’s on, all we can think of is a one way ticket to ride.

But until we fill our quota, how often do we think about how to get home?

Now turn that around.

Our real home is the beach.

Now just how the hell are we gonna get back there?