Foul play suggested.

The world has now come all the way off the rails. Over 1/3 of these United States of America officially shut down. Bondi Beach put under lock and key. Europe abandoned. Lonely days and dark, for many, filled with anxieties and dread. The present unrecognizable. The future unclear.

Making matters worse, for surfers everywhere, is the greatest to ever do it, our hero and north star Kelly Slater, has gone entirely missing during The Great Coronavirus Kerfuffle of ’20.

Vanished as if into thin air.

The 11 x World Champion was last seen three days ago in New Zealand, there in preparation of the Piha Pro and let’s go there, to Auckland’s 1 News for possible clues as to his whereabouts.

Imagine heading down to your break and getting a front row seat to the greatest ever surfer carving it up on your waves.

Well that’s just what happened for some Northland surfers with Kelly Slater.

Slater was supposed to be competing at the Piha Pro this week before it was cancelled.

In a settlement of fewer than a 1000 people, word was always going to spread quickly about Slater around Pataua, east of Whangārei.

“Some people told us, ‘Are you going to go and see Kelly?’ and I didn’t know what they were talking about,” one local said.

“I looked really close, and I kind of had a bit of a shock,” another told 1 NEWS.

“Got off the bus, came over and Slater was in the water,” a disbelieving local said.

Wonderful and happy. The sort of joy our Number 1 brings with him everywhere he goes but then… silence.

Nothing.

His usually robust Instagram account has been dark since Feb. 21, the last image very cryptic.

Ahoy?

What does that mean?

Back to New Zealand, though, were the small-town locals so thrilled, too thrilled, and in a Deliverance moment, or maybe Misery-like, did they lock the champion up, refusing to let him leave?

Is he there, right now, dancing for Patauans and Whangāreians?

Somewhere else?

Why isn’t he singing us songs to make us feel better like other celebrities who cherish The People™ and imagine life with no heaven or hell on our behalf?

Very worried.

Extremely worried.

Kelly? If you need help we are here.

Benevolence personified.

If there is one thing all medical professionals, healthcare workers, doctors and scientists agree upon it is that the best way to curb the spread of the insidious Chinese Virus (i.e. Coronavirus, Covid-19) is to give other human beings wide berth.

No social gatherings.

No friendly chats in parking lots.

No hugs, handshakes, fist bumps, high fives, low fives.

And the best way to keep other people far, far away?

Via a BeachGrit t-shirt, sticker, air freshener, tail pad of course.

Our motto, you well know, is “anti-depressive.”

You also know well that people who enjoy BeachGrit, even people who know people who enjoy BeachGrit, are toxically feminine.

Whatever the opposite of “woke” is.

Hated, more or less.

Nobody even likes us and the natural inclination is to cut wide right whilst we march in a straight line and, thus, we are provided with a unique opportunity to save lives.

To keep people virus free.

Every item in the BeachGrit store is currently running at 50% off. Buy a t-shirt for your best friend and save his life. Buy an air-freshener for your boyfriend and save his life. Mostly buy the Covid-19 Survival Pack, gift it to your aging parents and help them see another year.

Benevolence personified.

Highly anti-depressive.

A fine idea.

(Surf film is currently experiencing a golden age and since you are stuck indoors, alone, depressed, scared it will be a fine time to watch some. The following piece appears in the latest Surfer’s Journal. Subscribe here.)

At the last surf film screening I attended, I expected to be horrified and perhaps sickened by what I had been told would happen to the directors. Everything I’d read online about modern surf film insisted that it was a stupid, brutal, outdated business. Most surf journalists who wrote of surf film condemned the genre as utterly dead and worthless.

Even those who wrote well of it, as a historically significant exercise, deplored actually screening new films and were apologetic about the whole thing. The public shaming of the directors, in what were certain to be empty theaters—nobody there because nobody watches surf films anymore—was considered inevitable.I suppose that from a modern point of view, an Instagram point of view, the whole surf film charade is silly.

Who has time for anything more than a minute long? The best clips aren’t held for some archaic, long-form nonsense. They are instantly run up the flagpole, gathering likes and starry-eyed emojis by the megabyte, bringing a euphoric sense of self that psychologists at Cosmopolitan refer to as the “reward cycle.”Likes and starry-eyed emojis trigger the same dopamine receptors as winning money or eating chocolate, Cosmopolitan’s psychologists say. Likes and starry-eyed emojis, or sometimes heart-eyed emojis, that come straight from the user to the surfer himself or herself.

There is no need to wait months or years for clapping hands, loud whistles and “yew” shouts. No need for anything to be filtered through a director.I should not try to defend surf film or the surf film director, but I must tell honestly the things I have found to be true. I went to the Florida Surf Film Festival to see surf films and write about the various films for myself.

I thought they would be simple, boring, outdated, stupid, and that I would not like them very much. But I still had to go and learn and know what modern surf film truly felt like. I had to keep my eyes open, longer than a minute, and force my attention span to track along. I couldn’t allow myself to turn away when the directors went on stage to introduce their various surf films, gazing out at an audience of four who all also happen to be surf film directors.

Also, I went because I accidentally directed a surf film that would be playing at the festival, the second accidental surf film that I accidentally directed, and being on stage and gazing out at an audience of three who all happen to be sound engineers or possibly producers, letting the shame wash over me, would be a valuable exercise no matter how horrifying and sickening.

(Finish here!)

And subscribe to The Surf Network then binge ’til your eyes fall out!