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Hitting the surf in Nicaragua.

In Nicaragua for a surfing course, my fellow travellers quickly became my new best friends – but a significant age delta separated us

I was on my favourite kind of vacation. A sweaty, challenging adventure that makes me nervous and includes an element much bigger than me; some of my usual criteria when researching a new expedition. Over my years of adventure seeking, I've amassed an impressive collection of training schedules, travel itineraries and memories that have stayed with me long after the records have faded in old journals.

As a competitive athlete, it's never been hard to find something to satisfy my taste for a thrill. On some occasions, opportunities dropped into my lap because I'd been invited to be part of a team. That's how I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro and raced across the Sahara Desert. On others, I've created my own adventure.

But two years had passed without a trip and I was getting itchy to do something outside my comfort zone. My research started with an online adventure magazine that cited options ranging from adrenalin hot spots to meditation retreats. But my eyes widened reading about a learn-to-surf course offered on the coast of Nicaragua. And that's how I found myself in a bohemian villa in Central America, ready to try something new.

I was at a surfing school, or rather a camp, with 10 other seasoned travellers and aspiring beach bums. They immediately became my new best friends; they were just like me. Except, for one thing: a significant age delta separated us.

I've always been the youngest in the crowd, but when I booked this trip I suspected that not many in my age group were still interested in engaging in this type of activity. (Somehow, I've never advanced to the hotel-and-fluffy-towel stage.)

Riding a wave at surfing camp.

But that first morning, I realized over coffee that I was the eldest and had at least three decades on most of them. This I did not expect, and I wondered how I would fit in. The youthful demographic spread to the staff as well.

A professional Argentine surfer was our program director. He delivered impressive theory sessions complete with expertly designed PowerPoints. He was also a professional photographer and captured our triumphs and near drownings with his telephoto lens. He was only 24. Our instructors, all professional surfers, exuded a carefree and innocent vibe usually reserved for those under 25. That's because they all were. On one particular day, one of the instructors took the day off because he was completing a high-school course. He was 18.

Each day, we loaded up in the back of a beat-up 4x4, surfboards strapped onto makeshift scaffolding above our heads and headed to the beach. We drove along a dusty route, navigating wandering cows, potholes, and motorcycles transporting old men and small children. Exactly the way I like my travel: rustic and real.

For the first lesson, we were divided into groups according to our surfing experience. I was assigned the novice category mainly because I'd never been on a board. Jose, a sweet and patient instructor, politely asked me to "paddle, please," when my wave approached. After some spectacular wipeouts and too many mouthfuls of salty water, I proudly popped into a confident stance and rode the churning green wave into shore. While my style lacked elegance, I made up for it with rookie enthusiasm. My small athletic feat made me feel more connected to my young tribe as we shared our accounts of the day.

Back at the villa, our group occupied the whole second floor. We slept on bunk beds, shared a bathroom, and stepped over soggy towels on the way to the shower. I felt as if I were back at camp. Quickly, age became irrelevant. Together we moved in a cohesive group, following a routine that revolved around napping in string hammocks, going to the beach to surf, and into town to eat.

We were there for the surfing lessons and for the uplifting feeling that comes from visiting a country where rules are open to interpretation. It felt strangely liberating to carry a cocktail outside the confines of a licensed patio, knowing that no one would stop me. Or to climb into the back of a truck already occupied by eight passengers without thinking about the number of seat belts required. There were no seat belts.

Sandy Johnson Clark.

As the week went on, I pushed myself to be braver. I committed to jumping onto my surfboard whenever the right wave came along, paddling hard and accepting the inevitable plunges that followed. I learned to turtle dive, pulling the board on top of me while heading directly into the oncoming breakers. More importantly, I joined the group on a catamaran cruise that I'd initially decided to skip because I didn't think I'd fit in. It turned out to be one of the best days of the week. I also reluctantly agreed to an invitation to play beer pong. Why not? Everyone else was. Again, it was the right decision and I was delighted when my partner and I claimed victory in two rounds, earning new respect for my hidden talent. After we were finally defeated, we took our loss like troopers and obediently jumped into the pool fully clothed, as had all the losers before us. It became suddenly clear to me that my fear of not fitting in with this free-spirited group was in my head. And only in mine.

A common interest in adventure can be an amazing equalizer. As it turns out, so can beer pong. For now, I still think I fit in.

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