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"Peru is the best preparation for a pro surfer because there are so many different varieties of breaks and conditions," said Mulanovich, who grew up in Punta Hermosa and recently bought a rock-star grade condo nearby. "It's much less crowded than in Hawaii and California, and even on the smallest day of the year it's never flat."

Despite the surf fever, Punta Hermosa remains off the radar for most tourists, probably because there's little reason to come unless you're really into surfing. There are no surf shops -- boards and gear must be rented or bought in Lima -- and only a handful of hotels.

Dining options are limited, too. Sidewalks are lined with cheerful stands that serve seviche and seafood carpaccios that look amazing but are far from stomach friendly. Mulanovich's boyfriend, a surfer named Scott from Los Angeles, had been holed up in her condo for weeks after getting salmonella poisoning from bad mayonnaise.

The enterprising and friendly locals, however, make up for the lack of infrastructure. The surf museum, for example, is actually the private home of an old-school surfer, Jose A. Schiaffino. I stumbled upon the 1950s surf shack one afternoon while walking back from the beach. Schiaffino wasn't home, which was too bad because I had heard he mixes a mean pisco sour.

'Una paradiso!'

After spending a day playing sand bunny in Punta Hermosa, I was itching for my own adrenaline rush. The next morning, I hired a taxi and set out on an hourlong journey to Cerro Azul, a mellow break immortalized in a line from the Beach Boys' 1962 anthem, "Surfin' Safari."

After maneuvering through four police checkpoints (shakedowns are common along the Pan-American Highway), we pulled up on a dirt road. Cerro Azul felt abandoned except for a few shiny condos and lazy salsa sounds lulling through the hot dusty air.

The shoreline, however, buzzed with anticipation. True to its reputation, the break had a mellow but perky wave that rippled around a jagged point as if made in a water-park wave pool. I paddled out, staked my spot among the teens, moms and old-timers, and caught a few rides before moving on to the next break down the coast.

As much as I liked paddling along southern Peru, the word on the shore was that any surf safari must also include a visit to Mancora, a fishing village in northern Peru near Ecuador. It enjoys an almost mythic reputation for its balmy water, endless sunshine and crowd-free breaks. "Una paradiso!" my new friends would say between sets.

Mancora has been transformed in recent years from a sleepy fishing village into an international backpacker hub. After dark, the town's sole street turns into a total party, with flotillas of surfers, weekenders from Ecuador and girls in slinky tank tops getting tipsy at bars like Iguanas and Chill Out. Several amazing restaurants in town serve the nouvelle Asian-Peruvian fusion known as novoandia.

In the morning, the action moved to the beach, especially at the main surf break in front of the Hotel del Wawa, a small hotel and restaurant owned by the hunky surf pro Fernando Paraud, who is known simply as Wawa.

"Every day is like a weekend," said Wawa, who was holding court at his usual table. "Except weekends are more crowded."

Chasing better waves

After bumming around Wawa for a couple of days, I hired a local surf guide nicknamed Pulpo to show me around. He drove me 10 miles in his teal-blue van to Los Organos, an abandoned oil town with a couple of new beachside hostels.

There were no more than a dozen other riders on the surf. I took my board into the water and waited for my wave. It didn't take long before I caught one that was head-high with a peak that tapered off to the right into a long shoulder -- perfect for cutting and carving long arcs.

Pulpo seemed impressed because he took me 45 minutes farther south to Lobitos, a hard-to-find break tucked at the end of a ragged dirt road. There were oil pumps, rusty pipelines and crumbling military barracks, some of which had been taken over by squatters and turned into surfing hostels.

We parked alongside the deserted beach. I pulled out my chunky 7-foot-6-inch rental board with trepidation. The beach looked like a swatch of an industrial wasteland: a couple of oil barrels with flames flickering on top and a few giant rigs on the horizon. But the waves had a perky, fun shape. And the water was a seductive clear blue.

Pulpo smiled. He had promised me a crowd-free break that was off the grid, and here it was.

I rode the swells for several hours, forgetting about the ominous oil barrels and, apparently, the time. Pulpo called me in. There was another spot up the road that was even better.

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