In conversation with glasser Ismail Bouhali on surfing as a storied tradition in Morocco.
To understand Moroccan surf culture today and why it is so unique, we must trace its origins—bringing us to a very early narrative that recent research suggests may point to deeper roots in the Kingdom than previously known. While popular histories often credit Polynesians with developing surfing, evidence suggests that Africans have been riding waves for centuries. The Californian historian Kevin Dawson, author of “Undercurrents of Power: Aquatic Culture in the African Diaspora”, explains how surfing in Africa originated not as a sport or leisure activity but as a way to understand the ocean and live with it. As Africa's coastline lacked natural ports and was dominated by strong waves, specialized surf canoes were needed to navigate waves and land on beaches. Surfing was used as an oceanic tool to understand the tides, the environment, and how to utilize it. This practice likely extended to a country nestled between Africa, Europe, and the Middle East, where for centuries, local fishermen harvested the oceans’ resources.
More well known is the story of French expatriates who brought surfing to Morocco’s reefs, rocks, and beaches about sixty years ago. Moroccans are born storytellers: older surfers often recall how surfing began during and right after World War II when the country was still occupied by France. American military personnel stationed at the US base in Kenitra, in northern Morocco, discovered the Moroccan coast, becoming a right-handed paradise from October to March, and introduced surfboards to the region. Following these early pioneers, surfers from around the world flocked to Morocco in the 60s, seeking their endless summers on foreign grounds. Surfing had already taken off in Western destinations, and many young surfers were eager for new, less crowded surf spots. Disillusioned by the commercialization of their lifestyle, American and Australian surfers sought perfect, empty waves in foreign lands.
In the years to come, Morocco's geographical blessings, deep sense of hospitality, warm winter temperatures, and 95 surf spots laid the foundation for it to become a renowned home for surfing as we know it today. Strategically located just 14 kilometers from Europe and close to popular surf routes like Lanzarote, Morocco quickly became an affordable surf haven. It marked the southern end of the famed European surf trail: France in September, Spain in October, Portugal in November, then across the Strait of Gibraltar to Tangier, and finally to Taghazout for the winter Atlantic low-pressure season. This development was accompanied by an influx of countercultural travelers from the 1950s to the 1970s. Thousands of flower children, as part of a global counterculture movement rebelling against societal developments at the time, took spiritual pilgrimages through Northwest Africa, with Morocco being a key part of this trail. This influx stood in sharp contrast to the authentic traditions and values of the local inhabitants, yet it significantly boosted the country’s popularity as a low-cost, bohemian surf destination.
The narrative of foreigners bringing surfing to Moroccan shores is frequently mentioned in surf history. Yet, it is crucial to mention that surfing eventually wove itself into the daily lives of the country’s coastal inhabitants. Morocco's 3,450-kilometer coastline, sculpted by the relentless Atlantic swells for ages, gradually became home to practicing surfing as a local tradition. Though, compared to more liberal destinations, the act of surfing as a local carried an added layer of rebellion. While globally, the sport was synonymous with hippie and youth subcultures, in Morocco, an Islamic country, these cultural currents clashed more visibly with traditional values. This juxtaposition made the act of grabbing a board and hitting the waves not just a leisure activity but a subtle form of defiance. In a society where expectations were tightly knit into the fabric of daily life, Moroccan surfers—predominantly young men at the time—embodied a break from the norm. The sight of them spending entire days in the ocean stirred concerns among parents, who feared their sons were straying from conventional paths of employment, responsibility, and behavior. Surfing was more than a sport: it was a statement, a test of cultural elasticity, and a negotiation between old and new ways of living. This backdrop made the Moroccan surf scene uniquely poignant, marking it as a space where waves were ridden not just for thrill but as waves of change.
A culture doesn’t just survive on passion alone—it thrives when it finds practicality and relevance. Iconic photos from the 1970s reveal empty breaks along Morocco’s rugged coasts, such as deserted line-ups at Banana Point. Nowadays, this has rightfully changed—the country draws surfers from across the globe, offering a slice of the surf lifestyle’s allure. That is why the evolution of the sport in Morocco owes much to the sharp entrepreneurial spirit of Moroccans—a trait that has historically defined them—seeing locals seizing opportunities from the surfing boom to establish the first surf camps in the early 90s. Over the years, locals have tapped into the economic opportunities that came with this new world, shifting their economies from traditional fishing and agriculture to tourism. They channeled the raw spirit of 1960s surf expeditions into refined holiday packages, particularly in the southern parts of the country, featuring the renowned areas of Taghazout, Tamraght, and Imsouane Bay. What once was a Spartan adventure for the adventurous few has become an accessible, well-organized experience—of course, also thanks to advancements in logistics and connectivity.
There is more to a storied tradition than the practice of surfing itself. It goes without saying that a surf culture cannot thrive without the necessary materials. This brings us to Casablancan glasser Ismail. Because, while surfing has developed into a rooted and local tradition, where to find materials to sustain the growth? Where was all this sourced throughout its development? “During the development of surf culture in Morocco, the country had limited access to materials and gear. Up until today, Morocco has not known big, corporate surf brands and lacked the resources to build such an industry, as the country has focused on developing more fundamental aspects of its culture since gaining independence in 1956. Boards, wax, wetsuits, and leashes were initially scarce, with Morocco relying heavily on expensive imports from Europe. Even today, most surf houses use boards made overseas, with the industry centered in places like California, Bali, and Australia,” says Ismail.
Entrepreneurs establishing surf camps and cultivating an entire economy laid the groundwork for creatives to take up the shaping of materials. An often overlooked aspect of the Moroccan surf industry, yet not surprising, as the country has a long-standing tradition of craftsmanship that naturally seeped into the surf culture. “Artisans like Almoda in Casablanca and Fahd or Tarik in Tamraght further south, created surfboards in backyards, garages, and tool sheds, mastering the techniques of shaping, glassing, and sanding.” Ismail wants to celebrate the development of the surf industry from a maker's perspective, highlighting the actual culture, which he fears might slip away amidst the surge of tourism, brands, and surfboards. "There is a thriving scene of locally produced surf equipment in Morocco and a community tied to it who embodies the surf culture itself way more than what we know as surfing today”, Ismail shares.
Ismail is not the only one to advocate for the celebration of local craftsmanship in surfing, of course. Many surfers around the world have long resisted the idea that a surfboard is merely a product, sparking a debate over manufactured versus custom-shaped boards. But when it comes to Morocco’s maker industry, as with many others in countries in the Global South, there is an extra element worth praising. Many surfers in isolated fisherman towns did not have access to mainstream knowledge on how to shape boards or the common resources to shape them in the first place. Informed by their own knowledge of the sea, tides, and shape of the water: these artisans breathe life into foam and fiberglass through their own understanding of surf conditions, such as beach steepness and wave characteristics, rather than following methods from Western surf destinations like California—places where knowledge, fame, products, and economic structures are already established and more easily accessible.
Surfing is challenging—not everyone can do it well, and it takes years to develop skill. Most people who take surf holidays in Morocco live too far from the beach to embrace the idealized surfer lifestyle. Though today more people participate in the sport than ever before, commodifying what was once a passion for the few into a worldwide subculture. Ismail hopes that, despite the global commercialization of surfing, there will still be appreciation for the creative side of the surf industry in Morocco. He emphasizes that this creative community is on the rise and undoubtedly present, as he himself takes part in it. “It’s not just the act of surfing that sustains Morocco’s surf culture; it’s also the makers of the products used for the sport. Using or purchasing a surfboard or any surf gear not only contributes to the industry's history but can also alter its future. Surfing in Morocco has followed a unique trajectory through two or three generations now, fostering a distinctive and enduring community. I hope more people are going to think that way and feel the value of products crafted with hands familiar with our waves.”
What Ismail explains to us has actually more to do with a general attitude towards consumption than the fear of losing a tradition. We often forget how we generate and put something in motion with every purchase—which is either a machine getting to work in a factory far away or a person who will be able to pour all his or her knowledge into a piece of foam—knowledge that is sourced by years of surfing himself. “My hope is that the next chapter in the history of Moroccan surf will see the establishment of local surf brands and the production of locally made gear and craftsmanship. I envision more people celebrating the crafted products from our country. It is a given to me that you’ll live our surf culture more closely, and most of all, by your purchase, you will allow one of surfing’s proud traditions to stay alive and well—which makes you inherently part of the culture instead of merely consuming a subculture.”
Being part of the culture and surf history that we laid down, let's end with some words on the art that Ismail practices himself, his role in this culture, so to speak. Glassing is a specific and increasingly recognized craft in the world of surfboard making. Surfboards can be mass-produced in factories within minutes or handcrafted by a shaper over hours or even days, but they all start as a big chunk of white polyurethane foam, known as a blank, created by pressing liquid polyurethane into a roughly surfboard-shaped mold. The pressing process triggers a chemical reaction that forms a dense but lightweight foam. This is where the shaper steps in. He shapes, carves, and sands the rails (the surfboard's side edges), nose, and tail to the desired form, much like a sculptor. Once the shape is perfected, the board is handed over to the glasser, who then coats the foam with a mixture of fiberglass and resin. At this stage, a glasser can do its magic with different colors of sprays, pours, and paint, creating several layers of resin to seal the foam core from moisture and provide the rigidity that allows surfers to stand and carve through waves. After a final sanding, the result is a finished piece of art.
Ismail enlightens on the process of choosing a glasser and a shaper. “Personally knowing the glass shapers of the board you surf makes you part of the process and the culture. We like to do things the old way. You sit down, have tea, and create together—design, form, shape. Glasser and shaper always work in tandem. You surf with some of them, share tea with others, and engage in the intricate details of the work,” he shares. "My journey into glassing began with Almoda, one of the old surfers in Dar Bouazza. Despite having a master’s degree in law, I started glassing at a young age, and it quickly became a form of art that resonated deeply with me. Almoda introduced me to classic surfboards like longboards, single fins, twin fins, and even finless boards. He had a different and more classical approach to surfing.”
Ismail reminds us to honor a storied tradition and culture. While our roles can take many forms, his way of doing that will undoubtedly be the glassing of locally shaped boards. “To me, it’s all about bringing joy to others—that knowledge that my craftsmanship is contributing to someone else's experience every time a wave is ridden. When you realize what goes into the process of creating that perfect board, your experience of surfing becomes deeper," Ismail concludes. This reflects the establishment of a culture as well. Understanding what it takes for a culture to arise and become established makes you realize that we are all contributing to the ongoing chapter of surfing history that is being written: whether you're a shaper, sander, glasser, surf camp manager, photographer, surfer, or just the reader of this article. Let's make our contributions to this storied tradition meaningful.
Text written by Jocelyn Kotvis, historian and founder of House Of Narrative in collaboration with Ismail Bouhali, glasser of Casablanca, Morocco in spring and summer 2024. Knowledge sourced by local inquiries, special thanks to El Yazid Kanane, Fahmi Rachid, Fahd El Mania, Mohamed Elghazy. Used written sources: Afro Surf , Undercurrents of Power: Aquatic Culture in the African Diaspora”. Visuals by Laura Obexer and Lara Waves.
A commissioned article on how what many consider the oldest concert hall in the world connects with new audiences.
On the content production featuring regenerative architectural practices in Rotterdam, a collaboration between Sabine van der Vooren, the International Architecture Biennale Rotterdam and House of Narrative.
House Of Narrative and Alastair Parvin reflecting on the 11th IABR edition closing.
