Women lead the way in the world’s next great surf spot
Along Chile’s vast, rugged coastline, female surfers shine in competition and conservation.
I’m standing with my surfboard on the beach in Pichilemu, Chile. It’s January—the height of the Southern Hemisphere’s summer—the sun is out, and there’s a near-constant breeze rolling in off the Pacific Ocean. A series of black-sand coves frame the main attraction in these parts: Punta de Lobos, a left-hand point break that curls gracefully (in gentle conditions) around an outcropping of jagged rock.
This scene could be in Maui or Southern California—except the trees are pine, not palm; the water hovers around 60ºF; and there’s hardly anyone around. Sheathed in a 4/3mm Quiksilver wetsuit—appropriate for “winter-worthy warmth”—I haul myself onto my board and start paddling out with equal parts thrill and terror.
With roughly 2,500 miles of north-to-south coastline, Chile is truly one of the last frontiers for surfing. Visiting surfers will find mile after mile of unexplored and empty beaches and waves, backed by a smattering of welcoming fishing villages. The cold water, remote location, and lack of tourism infrastructure has meant that Chile has remained off the radar for most globetrotting surfers, who head instead to places like Ireland and China if they’re looking for adventure, Bali and Hawaii if they’re not.
(Learn about surfing’s surprising history.)
But the past 20 years have seen a notable increase of interest in the sport, and with the development of a surf culture that is uniquely Chilean, there’s also been a greater emphasis on community and sustainability. Homegrown surfers are some of the most audible voices lobbying to protect the raw gems they know they have, and in more recent years, those voices have become more and more female. In a country which, pre-pandemic, was in the midst of social change, women are riding a swell of community activism, at the forefront of both a developing political movement and the advancement of a sport.
Undiscovered waves
The unofficial surf capital of Chile, Pichilemu is a small, former fishing hamlet of 15,000 inhabitants located roughly 130 miles south of Santiago. Its resident wave—the left-hand Punta de Lobos, meaning “Wolves Point”—can produce waves upwards of 20 feet.
In 2017, after a successful joint effort of fundraising and campaigning by the non-profit Save the Waves Coalition, outdoor gear company Patagonia, and a locally established nonprofit called Fundación Punta de Lobos, the coast was dedicated as the seventh World Surf Reserve, protecting the break and surrounding area from future development.
And in 2020, the Chilean government approved the creation of Piedra del Viento Coastal Marine Sanctuary. The sanctuary protects 10,000 acres of coastline north of Pichilemu and is the first protected area in Chile to take wave protection and surfing into consideration, preserving six notable surf breaks.
Other small, developing surf towns, such as Matanzas, Reñaca, and Totoralillo—all north of Pichilemu and outside of the protected areas—are also growing in popularity alongside Pichilemu. And though the conservation projects are on a smaller scale as of now, so is the development. These places can easily be compared to California in the 1950s, when bobbing boards in the water were still a novelty and jerry-rigged thatched beach huts hawked rentals and lessons to the few that came seeking the laidback surf culture.
(Winter surfing is hot. Can it survive climate change?)
It’s all new here, but “there’s so much potential [for surfing] in Chile if we can manage to protect the source of it all,” says Ramón Navarro, the name most often associated with Chile surf, both as an athlete and as an advocate for its protection. He was the first Chilean to become known in the international competitive circuit, as well as the on-the-ground guy leading campaign efforts.
Mainstream surfing in Chile traces its roots to the 1970s, when youth started seeing Brazilian tourists bring boards over on holiday, searching for new waves outside of their country, where the sport was much more established. Before that, it had been considered the realm of rich kids, or just simply unattainable, as there was nowhere to buy a board.
Women lead the way in the world’s next great surf spot
Along Chile’s vast, rugged coastline, female surfers shine in competition and conservation.
I’m standing with my surfboard on the beach in Pichilemu, Chile. It’s January—the height of the Southern Hemisphere’s summer—the sun is out, and there’s a near-constant breeze rolling in off the Pacific Ocean. A series of black-sand coves frame the main attraction in these parts: Punta de Lobos, a left-hand point break that curls gracefully (in gentle conditions) around an outcropping of jagged rock.
This scene could be in Maui or Southern California—except the trees are pine, not palm; the water hovers around 60ºF; and there’s hardly anyone around. Sheathed in a 4/3mm Quiksilver wetsuit—appropriate for “winter-worthy warmth”—I haul myself onto my board and start paddling out with equal parts thrill and terror.
With roughly 2,500 miles of north-to-south coastline, Chile is truly one of the last frontiers for surfing. Visiting surfers will find mile after mile of unexplored and empty beaches and waves, backed by a smattering of welcoming fishing villages. The cold water, remote location, and lack of tourism infrastructure has meant that Chile has remained off the radar for most globetrotting surfers, who head instead to places like Ireland and China if they’re looking for adventure, Bali and Hawaii if they’re not.
(Learn about surfing’s surprising history.)
But the past 20 years have seen a notable increase of interest in the sport, and with the development of a surf culture that is uniquely Chilean, there’s also been a greater emphasis on community and sustainability. Homegrown surfers are some of the most audible voices lobbying to protect the raw gems they know they have, and in more recent years, those voices have become more and more female. In a country which, pre-pandemic, was in the midst of social change, women are riding a swell of community activism, at the forefront of both a developing political movement and the advancement of a sport.
Undiscovered waves
The unofficial surf capital of Chile, Pichilemu is a small, former fishing hamlet of 15,000 inhabitants located roughly 130 miles south of Santiago. Its resident wave—the left-hand Punta de Lobos, meaning “Wolves Point”—can produce waves upwards of 20 feet.
In 2017, after a successful joint effort of fundraising and campaigning by the non-profit Save the Waves Coalition, outdoor gear company Patagonia, and a locally established nonprofit called Fundación Punta de Lobos, the coast was dedicated as the seventh World Surf Reserve, protecting the break and surrounding area from future development.
And in 2020, the Chilean government approved the creation of Piedra del Viento Coastal Marine Sanctuary. The sanctuary protects 10,000 acres of coastline north of Pichilemu and is the first protected area in Chile to take wave protection and surfing into consideration, preserving six notable surf breaks.
Other small, developing surf towns, such as Matanzas, Reñaca, and Totoralillo—all north of Pichilemu and outside of the protected areas—are also growing in popularity alongside Pichilemu. And though the conservation projects are on a smaller scale as of now, so is the development. These places can easily be compared to California in the 1950s, when bobbing boards in the water were still a novelty and jerry-rigged thatched beach huts hawked rentals and lessons to the few that came seeking the laidback surf culture.
(Winter surfing is hot. Can it survive climate change?)
It’s all new here, but “there’s so much potential [for surfing] in Chile if we can manage to protect the source of it all,” says Ramón Navarro, the name most often associated with Chile surf, both as an athlete and as an advocate for its protection. He was the first Chilean to become known in the international competitive circuit, as well as the on-the-ground guy leading campaign efforts.
Mainstream surfing in Chile traces its roots to the 1970s, when youth started seeing Brazilian tourists bring boards over on holiday, searching for new waves outside of their country, where the sport was much more established. Before that, it had been considered the realm of rich kids, or just simply unattainable, as there was nowhere to buy a board.
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