Protecting Peru’s Waves
A new law was supposed to shield beaches from development and oil spills. It’s not being enforced.
SEPTEMBER 23, 2025
Henry Espinoza wades through pools of oil that lay heavy and sticky over the beach near Lobitos, a small fishing town on the north coast of Peru. He moves slowly, his eyes searching the ground. Carefully, he picks up a small sea turtle, hardly bigger than the palm of his hand. It twitches weakly, then stops moving. A seahorse lies nearby, also dead. Both animals poisoned by the oil.
The authorities have not yet intervened. So, Espinoza does what he can: He takes photographs, films and documents the scene before the Pacific Ocean, wave by wave, spreads the oil further, to other beaches.
What Espinoza sees will be gone in a few days. But the damage — to the water, the soil, the livelihoods of the people who live here — will last.
A few days before Christmas, in December 2024, oil leaked out of a tanker while it was being loaded. The state-run oil company Petroperú called the incident unfortunate but insisted it was under control, striking a reassuring tone. The government, meanwhile, declared a state of emergency, banning surfing, swimming or fishing in the area for 90 days.
More than a decade ago, Peru became the first country to legally protect consistent, surfable waves — and the marine life below the water’s surface.
For Espinoza, a surfing teacher and activist, the spill has put work on hold. He is not the only one. In Lobitos, nearly everyone depends on the sea to make a living, either in fishing or in the tourism industry. “I grew up with the impacts of the oil industry, but I have never experienced anything like this,” the 31-year-old tells me when we meet in Lobitos a week after the spill, his dark hair poking out from under a wide-brimmed hat.
The timing could not be worse. December is the start of the high season for tourism to Peru’s coasts, and people depend on the income they make during these months. But there is more to it than that: The waters off Lobitos have a special protected status.
More than a decade ago, Peru became the first country to legally protect consistent, surfable waves — and the marine life below the water’s surface. In Lobitos, there are five such protected surfing spots. With the right wind and water conditions, the area produces so-called barrels: waves that roll into themselves, creating tunnels through which surfers glide for a few precious seconds.
Surfers and politicians in several other Latin American countries are looking to follow Peru’s example. In Chile, Ecuador and Panama, there is draft legislation on the table that would take wave protection further than in Peru. Panama is working on legislation that would designate areas that are protected not only because of their environmental role, but also because of the quality of their waves and their cultural significance.
Local surfers, activists and lawyers monitor the 3,000-kilometer coast and sound the alarm when a pier is quietly extended, or construction debris is tipped into the ocean.
But in the wake of yet another disaster during my visit to Peru, I am left asking: What use are these laws if no one enforces them? If such catastrophes can still occur?
✺
Since 2013, places where surfable waves form and break consistently are considered part of the country’s natural heritage — and thereby also indirectly the sandy soil, reefs and rocks below the water’s surface, as well as the sea creatures that live there. By now, almost 50 surfing spots across Peru have been designated as protected areas. Once an area is designated as protected, the construction of any new ports, piers or pipelines — anything that would disrupt the natural course of the waves — is prohibited.
But the law has gaps. It protects only the immediate strip of coast where the waves roll in and break and run out. The country’s navy, which is responsible for the protection of these surfing areas, hardly patrols. Its environmental agencies are overstretched and underfinanced, its activities often hampered by politics.
Local surfers, activists and lawyers monitor the 3,000-kilometer coast and sound the alarm when a pier is quietly extended, or construction debris is tipped into the ocean. Collectively, they have stopped several building projects that would encroach on protected areas. The law, ultimately, is only effective because there are people who believe in it and intervene before it is too late.
Caroline Butrich balances barefoot on her surfboard and looks to the horizon. Each time she dips her paddle in the water, as if she wanted to stretch the stroke for as long as possible. “It feels like our beach,” she says. We’re surrounded by empty sand dunes, and the fog is lifting. A green sea turtle comes up for air, then dips back into the water.
There is no sign or path to lead the way to this remote bay north of Lima, Peru’s capital. On this particular January day, we set out at 4 a.m., first by car, then by motorboat.
Butrich became Peru’s windsurfing champion for the first time when she was 19 and went on to represent her country in competitions in Brazil, Hawaii and South Africa. Today, she is 36, a mother of two, and leads a nationwide citizens’ initiative called “Hazla por tu ola” (“Do it for your wave”) at an environmental organization. She still windsurfs, just not professionally. Instead, she spends her time in front of screens, in meetings, at conferences. She defends the wave protection law, connects surfers, coordinates campaigns.
But protecting a surfing spot can be risky. A protected area draws more visitors, which means more infrastructure, more waste, more pressure on the local environment.
The goal of the citizens’ initiative is to put 100 surfing spots under natural protection by 2030. This figure motivates Butrich but also overwhelms her. Obtaining protection for a wave involves lengthy administrative procedures. The first step is a technical study that includes measuring the sea floor — and costs around $5,000, she says. The local surfing scene mainly finances the cost through crowdfunding campaigns. Butrich accompanies them along each step of the process, until the navy officially includes the wave in its protection registry.
When we meet, she is working on surfing spot number 48 — also known as Pasamayo, the bay we’re paddling through. Two cameras document what’s at stake. Pasamayo is home to consistent, crystal-clear waves that break on the reef all year long. The place looks almost untouched — there is no visible infrastructure, no pipelines or concrete. Only a few kilometers away, a new mega port — a joint project with China — has just been inaugurated. It is politically symbolic, and economically significant.
Overdevelopment is threatening beaches across the world, while rising sea levels and extreme weather are shrinking them, eroding them or making them disappear entirely. A study in the peer-reviewed journal Nature Climate Change estimated that by the end of the century, nearly one in two beaches could be lost.
But protecting a surfing spot can be risky. A protected area draws more visitors, which means more infrastructure, more waste, more pressure on the local environment.
Butrich knows that nowhere can stay untouched forever and sees an opportunity in surfing tourism — especially for remote areas that have plenty of good waves. When a spot becomes popular, it leads to surfing schools, accommodation for guests, restaurants. That brings jobs, income and opportunities for people who have few alternatives.
“Then the local economy will pick up,” she says. “We should encourage that.”
In the first days of January 2025, Lobitos is operating as though under lockdown. Accommodations that are usually fully booked now stand empty. No one is standing in line at the snack bars for ceviche or smoothie bowls. At the beach, a red flag flutters in the wind: “No saludable” — not healthy. A couple tourists wander by, confused. Surfing teachers are sitting idly in the sand, while fishermen in protective suits wade through the water and pick up trash. The effort is organized by Petroperú, a PR campaign to shore up its reputation. The company pays the fishermen, who aren’t allowed to fish, a couple Peruvian sol. Several fishermen lost their boats a few days after the oil spill to unusually powerful waves.
The oil slick has spread out over 10,000 square meters on the ocean’s surface, and several beaches are closed. For Espinoza, who lives according to the tides, it’s a hard blow. As a kid, he helped his family catch crabs in tidal pools. He stood on a surfboard for the first time at 12, before he had even learned to swim. Today he teaches tourists and local kids to surf, partly through his NGO Waves Lobitos that promotes sustainable tourism.
Espinoza has been waiting to catch his first wave of the year for several weeks now — it’s the longest time anything has kept him out of the water.
A surf hostel in town has become a temporary crisis center. Locals and tourists gather with their laptops. They collect photos and evidence and wait for news.
Espinoza’s cell phone rings. Officials from the environmental agency OEFA are in town and are taking water samples, the caller tells him, but only at one beach.
“We have to make sure that they check thoroughly everywhere,” Espinoza says.
According to a 2019 survey, surfing tourism flushes around $3.6 million into the local economy of Lobitos every year. A considerable sum for a town of 1,300 inhabitants.
Espinoza jumps on his rickety motorbike. His colleague, a newly qualified environmental engineer, clambers up onto the backseat. They drive to La Punta, the most popular beach in Lobitos, where they had discovered black streaks in the sand and on the rocks — probably the last visible traces of the spill. The officials on site decline to take more samples. This beach is not yet part of their official investigation plan, they say. Someone has to report the pollution online before they can take samples.
Espinoza shakes his head, pulls out his phone and takes pictures of the evidence himself.
The mayor of Lobitos, Ricardo Bancayan Eche insists that protecting the waves is an issue close to his heart but says he is frustrated by national politics. “Our congress makes crazy laws. It decides on nature conservation but doesn’t care about the implementation.” There are also no regulations for construction, which typically leads to conflicts when new houses or huts pop up along the beaches. But Eche now has more pressing problems: the impact of the oil spill on his community. “To not be able to work for 90 days, what does that do to our economy? It has an impact on all of us,” he says.
The catastrophe has shown just how dependent Lobitos is on good waves.
According to a 2019 survey, surfing tourism flushes around $3.6 million into the local economy of Lobitos every year. A considerable sum for a town of 1,300 inhabitants. But the survey also shows that few surfing tourists return to Lobitos. One of the reasons is hard to miss: the ongoing oil extraction.
While the old oil platforms off the coast may make for a curious backdrop, on land, right next to the surfing spots, oil pumps rattle away day and night. There are hundreds of them in the region; the crude oil is then transported along kilometer-long pipelines to the refineries.
The oil industry once brought wealth to Lobitos: British engineers lived in wooden villas with a view on the ocean and watched movies in Latin America’s first cinema. In 1968, a military coup changed everything: The flourishing industrial town became a restricted area, and later a sleepy fishing town again. Even after the oil industry was nationalized, social inequalities remained. Poverty, existential fears, alcoholism were part of the daily life of many families in Lobitos who tried to subsist on fishing or farming.
When the first surfers came in the early 2000s, they brought new opportunity to Lobitos. Espinoza wants to see all locals benefit from this new wave of tourism and encourages people to get hospitality training, so that they can work in the restaurant or hotel business. A few have already gotten their diplomas.
For Espinoza, Lobitos is proof that a town can develop sustainably, with respect for locals and the environment. “Peru’s wave protection law is better than nothing,” he says. It is a signal, at least — a reason to hope.
Still, according to the investigative media outlet Mongabay, Petroperú has accumulated nearly $100 million in penalties for environmental damage across the country — sums the highly indebted state-company is not likely to be able to pay in the foreseeable future. On July 7, there is another oil leak in Lobitos, this time from a pipe along a road near the town.
This is an edited version of a story originally published in the Swiss online magazine Republik.
✺ Published in The Dial
