PUNTA HERMOSA, Peru - It was high tide on a scorching Tuesday, and the choppy beaches around Lima, Peru, were crawling with surfers. There were teenagers in ratty flip-flops carrying short boards patched with duct tape, and bronzed women in wet suits paddling out into the shimmering blue waves. There was even a businessman in his 30s, who climbed out of a black-tinted SUV in nothing but shorts as a muscular chauffeur handed him a freshly waxed board, a bottle of water and a dab of sunscreen.

The only thing missing, it seemed, were tourists.

Despite monster swells on par with those that hit Hawaii's legendary northern shores, Peru isn't known as a surfing destination, except perhaps by a small band of jet-setting surfers for whom no wave is beyond reach, and by the 28 million inhabitants of Peru.

Surfing has hit South America's third-largest country (in area) in a pop cultural frenzy. On the wide boulevards of Lima, billboards are covered with fresh-faced Peruvian surfers endorsing cell phones, beer and soft drinks. Surfing contests are all the rage. And to the south, where the waves are even bigger, physical attributes -- pumped-up lungs, buff shoulders and sun-bleached hair -- seem bred into the local DNA.

And now, as Peru rides a tourism wave propelled by a strong economy and favorable exchange rates for bargain-minded Americans, it is poised to become the new "it" spot on the international surfing circuit.

The country has 1,500 miles of rugged coastline dotted with countless breakers, from pristine beaches tucked around Lima to unexplored pockets up north where some waves are said to last more than a mile. And unlike Malibu, Hawaii's northern shores and other well-known places, many of Peru's best surfing spots are often nearly empty. With so much to explore, surfing has muscled in on soccer and the culinary arts to become an unlikely symbol of national hope.

Much of the current craze can be traced back to Sofia Mulanovich, 24, a Peruvian who won the 2004 World Surfing Championship title in Hawaii -- a contest dominated by Australians and Americans. And if the ranks of teenagers who frolic their spare hours away in the swell have any say, surfing in Peru will only get bigger.

Break points

The epicenter of the neo-surf scene is undoubtedly in Punta Hermosa, a summer beach community about 30 miles south of Lima, where surfing is virtually a religion.

The hourlong drive provides a sobering look at an arid and impoverished landscape: brown hills devoid of vegetation and pocked with sad clusters of wooden shanties. And the town itself doesn't look like much. But the fuss is clear when you arrive at the beach, where curling waves fan like Neptune's block party.

Each break point presents a different challenge. There's Kon Tiki, which offers untamed waves so massive that it takes a strong arm even to paddle out to it; La Isla, where Mulanovich, Gabriel Villaran and other homegrown pros can often be found; and Pico Alto, a brawny break with swells that can range up to 25 feet high.

On a recent Saturday, the Copa Barena Professional Circuit competition was taking place in Punta Rocas, one of the area's most popular beaches. Barena, a Honduran beer being introduced in Peru, had erected giant inflatable bottles that were flapping like Michelin men in the wind. A stoner reggae band drowned out the announcers. And waiters in baseball hats wove through an obstacle course of sun chairs with plates of calamari and cans of Inca Kola, a yellow soda spiked with caffeine-laden guarana fruit.

Mulanovich, known as "la gringa" because of her fair skin and blond-streaked hair, sat with an entourage near the judge's perch as she watched her younger brother, Matias, whiz over the lip and down the face of a meaty charging barrel.

"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.