Surfing in 1000 BC

Viva Caballito!

Out of the Blue

A Surfboard for Everybody

Lono Wept

The New God Doesn't Surf

A Sport in Decline

In the view of most Peruvian wave riders, including 1965 world champion Felipe Pomar, surf history's revised prologue begins in the coastal salt marshes west of Trujillo, among the tall chlorophyll-green stalks of 

—California bulrush to English-speakers, 

 reed boat was probably invented around 3000 bc, as tiny coastal enclaves of northern Peru coalesced into larger, more complex villages and communities. Traders used the 

 to move goods short distances along the coast, while fisherman used it as a roving nearshore platform. Peru’s coastline is essentially barren, but the chilly eastern edge of the Humbolt Current—a massive nutrient-rich gyre moving counterclockwise through the South Pacific—is more or less a solid wriggling mass of anchovy and sardines. Fishing was, and remains, a Peruvian necessity.

 is organic and decomposes quickly, so there are no examples from even fifty years ago, much less any from antiquity. Used daily, a 

 remains seaworthy for about six weeks, at which point the reeds turn mushy. The outer layers are then replaced, or the entire craft is thrown away. The modern 

 is thought to be built along much the same lines, using the same techniques, as those made thousands of years ago. Fresh-cut 

 bunches are spread out to dry for three or four weeks, during which time the reeds stiffen and change color from green to brown-speckled beige. Hundreds of reed pieces are lashed together into component parts, which form the long front-tapered “mother” pieces, two of which are then placed side-by-side and bound together. As the final set of girdling ropes are installed, the prow is given its familiar dagger-like lift, which allows the 

 to navigate through the surf without nosing under. A rectangular storage area for nets, floats, and the catch itself is hollowed out near the back. The paddle is made from a single thick piece of horizontally-cut bamboo. An average 

 is 12 feet long by 2 feet wide and weighs 90 pounds, and it has the same awkward portability of a full-sized canoe. The ancient Egyptian papyrus raft, which predates the 

 by a thousand years, was a surprisingly similar craft, with its multi-bundle reed construction and raised prow.

 closely resembles those of antiquity, the mechanics of its use are likely the same, too. In Huanchaco, a Conquistador-founded town north of Trujillo and Chan Chan, the 

 remains the fisherman’s craft of choice. Along with the rest of Peru’s west-facing coast, the beach at Huanchaco is almost always blanketed in a light salt-tinged haze, the result of the cool Humbolt Current surface water evaporating and condensing as it glides past a warm shoreline. A concrete boardwalk fronts the beach, and local fishermen now paddle out wearing polyester soccer jerseys and surf trunks, but the scene is often shrouded in a kind of grayish prehistoric gloom.

 will flex slightly as its owner heaves it into the crook between head and shoulder and then grunts his way down the beach to water’s edge. Huanchaco has no harbor or breakwater, but the waves at the base of a long point in the middle of town are always smaller and gentler than the beaches to either side. This is where the fishermen put in. Kneeling or straddling the 

, he grips the bamboo paddle and uses a kayak-style stroke to push through the incoming surf and out to the fishing groups just offshore. On the return trip, some paddle to the beach during lulls. Those who ride waves do so carefully and directly, dipping the paddle into the water to maintain balance as necessary. The flipped-up bow prevents the 

’s nose from pearling under while being pushed to shore, and the motion is simple, smooth, and unvaried. Wipeouts are rare. Only in recent decades, as the 

 became a beachside attraction, have the Huanchaqueros put a bit of showmanship into the routine, raising the paddle overhead, or trimming at an angle across the wave, and occasionally even standing up.

 is a work tool designed for the serious, tedious business of feeding the community. At some point, though, in all likelihood sooner rather than later—perhaps even just after the first 

 were launched, some five thousand years ago— the fluttery thrill of riding a wave became its own reward. This easily repeatable and wholly nonproductive act was then removed from the daily work routine and pursued for its own sake. A form of surfing began. The 

That’s how Felipe Pomar and the rest of the surf-world 

 view it, anyway. Others aren’t so sure. None of the evidence proves that wave-riding in ancient Peru developed into an established, widespread form of recreation. Weather alone argues against it—for most of the year, beachfront air and water temperatures in Peru are prohibitively cold. This doesn’t mean that two hundred generations of pre-Columbian Huanchaco fishermen didn’t enjoy their daily free ride toward shore. Mid-Holocene man was wired just like us, and swift, semicontrolled motion always pays off with a boilermaker of adrenaline and dopamine.

In fact, it’s easy to imagine that wave-riding in one form or another likely took root on antediluvian beaches from Brazil to Senegal, Lebanon to Borneo. For any society living on a temperate coastline, riding waves would likely be a natural, if not intuitive act. Dolphins and pelicans and other animals seem to do it purely out of enjoyment, after all. When did the very first human wade into the shorebreak and try to imitate a dolphin? Or put another way—when did bodysurfing start? That probably goes back millions of years, not thousands.

Felipe Pomar of Peru wasn’t content to just make the point that his ancestors were happily riding waves back in the nebulous depths of prehistory. In his 1987 

 article, he brought up Thor Heyerdahl and the 

 adventure—and this shifted Pomar’s alternative surf-narrative from an easily generalized proposal to something more pointed.

In 1947, Norwegian anthropologist Thor Heyerdahl sailed a balsa-log raft, which he named the 

, from Peru to the Tuamotu Islands in the South Pacific. The journey lasted 101 days, covered over four thousand miles, and was the greatest adventure sensation since Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic. Heyerdahl’s book on the expedition sold more than 20 million copies, and the 1951 movie 

 won an Academy Award for Best Documentary. Audiences thrilled to all the brave tales of sharks and lashing storms, but behind the heroics was Heyerdahl’s contrarian “diffusionist” idea of transpacific migration. Heyerdahl claimed that his 

 journey showed that Polynesia was actually populated east to west, the result of pre-Inca sailors venturing out from the coast of Peru. If Heyerdahl was right, Felipe Pomar and other 

 surf-scholars argued, then Peruvian wave-riding didn’t just predate Hawaiian surfing, it actually 

Mainstream anthropologists regarded Heyerdahl as more stuntman than scientist and thought his ideas on Pacific migration were nonsense. The standing theory was that Polynesia had been colonized with voyagers originating from Southeast Asia. More recent DNA studies have confirmed this hypothesis. That being the case, wave-riding in ancient Peru remains a self-contained prelude to surf history, not the starting point

The main story—the history of modern surfing—is directly and organically connected to ancient Polynesia. A simple lack of interest in obscure historical debate doesn’t fully explain the booming silence that greeted Pomar’s 1988 

 article. It was defensiveness, too. Surfers love the idea that their chosen activity was born in translucent blue water, next to palm-fringed beaches, and practiced by royalty on beautiful wooden surfboards. It’s the “Sports of Kings,” and even if the phrase was created by some early version of the Waikiki tourist board, most surfers nonetheless wear the designation with quiet pride. Good luck trying to sell the idea that reed-boat-straddling Peruvians trolling for anchovy off the grim brown coast of Peru were the 

 first wave-riders. “Ours has always been a culture of storytellers, not historians,” a surf journalist wrote in 2005. In other words, surfers themselves prefer to shape, design, and choose their collective past. And when it comes down to Hawaii or Peru, the tropics or the desert, the Sport of Kings or the Sport of Fishermen—well, that’s hardly a choice at all.

 remains the fisherman's craft of choice. The locals at Huanchaco now paddle out wearing bright polyester soccer jerseys and surf trunks, but the scene is often shrouded in a kind of grayish prehistoric gloom.

Chapter: 1

Out of the Blue

Viva Caballito!

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Encyclopedia of Surfing

History of Surfing

The Sunday Joint

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Encyclopedia of Surfing

History of Surfing

The Sunday Joint