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The work stress had piled up - long nights, endless meetings. Finally in May, I took off for Bali, arriving at 10pm. The journey to my accommodation was viewless as darkness had already filled the landscape. Without unpacking I hit the pillow in the spartan but comfortable room that I was escorted to.

At 5am an energetic knocking at my room woke me up. Soon, all eight of the camp's guests, all dressed in surfing gear, had grouped around the minivans. Some were experts, most beginners, just like me, although at 40, I was by far the oldest.

During the short trip that followed I took in the views of the curvy bay. The morning air was still very crisp. Once parked, we all walked down the narrow, ancient steps alongside the old Balinese temple, the surfboards barely fitting the narrow passages. After a hundred steps and a  sharp turn, there it was.

I had dreamed about it for months: Padang-Padang beach, nestled between two hills. To the left, the 'Impossibles' - one of the toughest surfing spots in the world. To the right, the open ocean with some less challenging waves. The tide was perfect, and the sun had just begun rising behind us. We all stood for a few minutes taking it in before hopping on our boards and taking off on the waves.

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