Amid the glare of the afternoon sun, a white van draws up to the beach and out bounces Maryam el Gardoum, who begins expertly unstrapping a pile of surfboards stacked tautly on the roof. At 25 years old, the five-time Moroccan surf champion is a familiar fixture at Devil’s Rock, a beach where she was raised near the sleepy fishing village of Tamraght, on Morocco’s weather-beaten Atlantic coast. She waves at the beach vendors drifting past, who pour sugared mint tea from steaming silver pots; unfurl woven Berber rugs for wavering prices; or tug along sand-colored camels that sag slightly under the weight of tourists.
Every business owner on the beach today is a man, apart from el Gardoum, who runs one of—if not the only—woman-led surf schools in Morocco.
El Gardoum founded Dihya Surf School at the tail end of 2022 after an injury forced her to take a break from competitive surfing. Inspired by Dihya, a dauntless warrior-queen who fought off Arab invaders in the 7th century, she sees surfing as a type of armor. “Being on a wave makes you feel alive. You’re 100 per cent by yourself,” says el Gardoum. Her students are almost entirely female—a mix of tourists and local women, many of whom are eroding cultural taboos, which have long dissuaded them from heading into the water in hijabs.
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On the afternoon I join el Gardoum for a class, the conditions are prime for learners, as taros—the Berber term for a soft coastal breeze—sweeps in from the south, conjuring a clean, consistent wave. El Gardoum’s four students wax their boards, zip up their wetsuits, and bound into the blue.
The scene is a world away from when el Gardoum learned to surf fifteen years ago, on the very same beach, lacking formal equipment or instruction. She began, unconventionally, on a bodyboard, testing her balance by trying to stand up. “The moment I caught my first wave everything changed. I was eleven, and I wanted to do it again and again,” she says. From then on, she would beg local surfers for turns on their surfboards, even though gear was sparse in the 2000s, and most were guarded with their possessions.
Nowadays, Morocco’s Atlantic coastline is a consecrated surfer's playground, its capital Taghazout. Here, the call to prayer floats through sinuous streets spilling with surf paraphernalia, touting the latest boards, wetsuits, wax, and super-strength sunscreen. From dawn onwards, surfers from all over the world cluster the many surf breaks, until copper and saffron sunsets draw each session to a close.
“If I'd had all the surf equipment, I wouldn't be the surfer I am now," says el Gardoum. “I had to fight for it because I loved it.” Catching waves became slightly simpler when a surf association was forged in Tamraght. El Gardoum would wake at daybreak, and sprint a mile or so past dust-caked roads to arrive first. After reaching the cobalt-blue building sweating, almost keeling over in the heat, she would have her pick of the best board. “Sometimes I would surf for eight hours,” she says. ”I didn't want to take my wetsuit off and leave the board in case someone else took it."
But being the only girl among a pack of boys demanded mettle. She recalls surfing at her home spot when an older man grabbed her surfboard’s leash, hauling her off a wave. “He told me, ‘Look, this isn’t in your place. It's in the house, helping your mom.’”
That antagonism extended beyond the beach, too. “I grew up in a Muslim family, and if they had listened to what people were saying they would’ve stopped me surfing,” she says. “People said it was a bad habit, not a sport. That surfing was for hippies and would lead to smoking and drinking.”
But when she won her first national title aged 14—a women’s open for all ages, not just juniors—perceptions started to shift. Since then, el Gardoum has taken home five women’s championship titles and has competed abroad, in France and Portugal.
It’s bittersweet that this month, as a world surf competition takes place in Taghazout, el Gardoum, who is currently in recovery from an injury, won't be competing. For the first time the World Surf League has added a women’s division in Morocco—and in a show of parity announced an equal prize purse for male and female competitors. El Gardoum points to a new generation of Moroccan women, such as 19-year-old Lilias Tebbai, who are leading the charge. “I really respect them and I'm proud to see more women surfing at this level.”
However, sexism in the sport hasn’t washed away overnight. “We surf in the same conditions as men and compete in the same contests. Women are ripping too, but we don’t always get treated equally,” she says. When it comes to sponsorship there are still gaping double standards. “Companies focus a lot on what your body looks like, how sexy you are, and how many followers you have on Instagram,” she says. “Come on, we’re athletes, not models.”
At Dihya Surf School at least, el Gardoum has the chance to carve her own path. Her client list is growing, as many women say they find a female surf instructor more motivating. “It was a conscious decision,” says one of today’s students, Sarah Hartmann, from Germany. “I wanted to support a female business, but I also really like her teaching style, she has a really good eye.”
El Gardoum’s coaching may be thoughtful, but it’s by no means an easy ride. After instilling the virtues of good surf etiquette she drills her students on the beach, testing their sprints, pop-ups, and stretches. In the water, she ushers her students onto waves, the water reflecting their grins and cheers as they paddle back to her, eager to go again.
For Tilila Idbalkassm, whose parents hail from the region, surfing is seeding a new legacy. “I love Maryam’s story of fighting to become a surfer in the man's world. Lots of the local women in this part of Morocco are inside cooking or baking bread, you rarely see women breaking through in sport,” she says. “Maryam’s a big part of us getting the surfing bug. We're hooked now.”
