“Kamp Kamikaze, Karate Heaven”
by Bob Barde
I wrote this in Toronto in 1983, having spent a week the
previous summer at Masami Tsuruoka’s karate camp. Twenty
years later, I have forgotten neither the challenges nor the rewards.—REB,
April 2003
It is a big
tree. One of those two-foot-across poplars that take
your house down when they fall.
I
kick it.
I
fact, my feet have been in brutal communion with that poplar off and on for
about forty minutes. Jab/reverse-punch/kick. Jab/reverse-punch/kick—and on every tenth one, a yell/scream
(or kiai!) to express my spirit as a karate-ka and, coincidentally,
mask the monumental numbness in the feeling-free zone where my legs used to
be.
Kamp
Kamikaze is for people who take their karate seriously. It is karate heaven, or perhaps just hell-in-the-woods, a cross
between Scout Camps and World War II, except that the Japanese win this one.
Kamp Kamikaze is lots of fun.
Sensei
Masami Tsuruoka conjured up Kamp Kamikaze nineteen years ago, a diabolical
way for members of his Canadian karate schools to spend $180 and a week’s
vacation. Six days of intense training where the godfather
of Canadian karate will help you “get your game in shape.” People make the pilgrimage from Frobisher Bay and the Yukon
to subject themselves to the regimen of kicking and punching, sweat and mosquitoes,
tucked into a woodsy, moose-and-beaver section of Ontario lake country.
This is my first time, my “once before I die” time.
There will be moments during that week when I will wish that time had
come. And there will be all-too-short flashed of knowing,
tantalizing whiffs of perfection that more than justify the expense and the
effort.
Before
you get the wrong impression: Kamp Kamikaze is not
for fierce white-clad crazies whose idea of a good time breaking a stack of
bricks or looking for a kung-fu army to pick on. Our
brand of karate is somewhat more disciplined, more pacific.
It is a blend of several traditional Japanese styles, taught by Masami
Tsuruoka (our sensei, or teacher), in a way that can be practiced by the average
mortal. In my case, a 36-year-old, desk-bound type
of less than heroic stamina and toughness. I would not enjoy having my hands broken or my knees kicked
in, and after five years of practicing (and being practiced on) I’ve learned
that such things needn’t happen. Do it right and you
don’t get hurt….much.
What,
then, goes on at karate camp? Ah, you wish to know
the ancient secrets of the inscrutable East? Well, then, the wisdom of the ancestors states that Kamp Kamikaze,
like the Universe, is composed of equal parts of the four sacred elements:
sweat, dust, 6-12 insect repellant, and Coppertone.
Actually,
Kamp Kamikaze consists of high daily doses of the Japanese success formula:
practice, practice, practice. I have seen films
in which karate-ka sit in ice-cold mountain streams and meditate, but
fortunately there are no mountains and no ice-fields in Ontario in July. In
our version of real life, Kamp Kamikaze concentrates on the basics:
conditioning (plenty of conditioning); drills, drills, and more drills;
very controlled sparring; and kata, choreographed series of techniques applied
against imaginary opponents. That’s it.
No secret Zen sessions, no levitation lessons; we don’t even
learn how to use a wok. The magic is not in the ingredients,
it’s in the mixing.
The
routine at Kamp Kamikaze is, ah, strenuous. First workout runs from 6 to 8 a.m., followed by breakfast. Second workout is from 10 a.m. to noon, washed down by lunch.
Last outing starts at 3:00 p.m. (when it’s nice and hot) and runs until
5:30. After that, if you have enough strength to lift
a fork, comes dinner.
Rule Number
1: If you’re not eating or working out, you had better
be sleeping.
The early morning
workouts have their moments. After Day One there is the exhilaration of knowing that you
actually have the will power to get up at 5:30, put on the pants and long-sleeved
shirt of your gi (uniform) and running shoes and do some roadwork.
We begin with an hour on the back-country road, jogging or whatever, while
the sun pops up above the pines and cedars: always
a luscious red, fiery like the backs of my calves. Only
at the beginning of the day can I see straight enough to appreciate the wonders
of nature.
The first morning
finds us doing basics—blocks and punches—while standing in place on the lakeshore.
We can all see fish jumping, put there by the Great Karate-ka
to torment Sensei, who is 0-for-19 years in the fishing department.
I think he is taking that frustration out on us, because each scaly
splash only makes him drive us harder. After each command
Sensei waits for our forty kiai’s to die away before resuming the count.
In that flat lake country, the echoes carry forever, and God knows
how many cottagers we wake up with a thousand punches before breakfast.
But we receive only one complaint, and that from a lady so upset that
she cranks up her car and drives out on the road where we are grunting and
shouting. She may lack a sense of humor, but she does
have nerve, telling forty sweaty, grouchy, pre-breakfast mean karate-ka that
they have no business being out on the road at 6 a.m. doing what we’re doing.
Between gulps of air, I tell myself that she speaks for us all.
Road work is
not my idea of a vacation, but it has some redeeming features.
During the first ¾ mile run out we run right behind the women in the
group—not for any aesthetic or erotic reasons (I really am “too tired”!)—but
to keep the group together. Thank God most women run more slowly than most
men…it is all I can do to keep up with them.
Once we reach
our ¾ mile point it is time for the usual stretching and bending and head
clearing. Then back to camp, and every day there is
some new and wonderful way to cover that stretch of potholed asphalt.
On Wednesday we form two parallel lines—we always run in double file—but
this time the lines are staggered. The idea is that
the person at the rear zigzags his way to the front: facing
the man in the left-hand line, you step in and punch him in the middle.
(A word on the etiquette of punching: If it’s
a women or someone you don’t know or someone you don’t want to know better,
you make sure that you punch just touches his uniform. Solid,
blow-‘em-away punches are reserved for your friends. You
know that their tightened abdominal muscles can take the punishment and they
won’t take offense. Sometimes I doubted the value of
such friendships, especially when I was the punchee.) A
quick look to the right, a turn and a low block as if fending off a kick,
and then step in and punch that culprit. In this fashion
you work your way to the front of the line—block, step/punch; block, step/punch—there
to become a culprit/target for forty other karate-ka as the whole group leapfrogs
its way back to camp, there to croak.
Sensei has designed
this form of windsprints with some malicious intent probably related to toughening
us up. It also gives him a good opportunity to correct
our most basic techniques of punching, blocking, and walking.
One Orange Belt in particular is having a rather rough go of it.
Sensei keeps correcting him, mocking him and his technique, then exhorting
him to do better and showing how it is done. What at
first seems like Sensei picking on him is in effect highly personalized instruction
under fire. Orange Belt, however, is getting frustrated.
Then, for just
a moment, Sensei forgets about him and walks ahead, checking out someone else.
He is standing right in line with us, and if you’re sweating torrentially
and don’t have your glasses on and can’t see too terribly straight you might
just mistake him for another white-suited karate-ka.
Which is what is happening: Orange Belt has
worked his way up the line, and I see Sensei’s eyes widen as he takes in what’s
coming down the road: Orange Belt has drawn a bead
on him, and the next move is to step in with a punch and blow Sensei away. Sensei skips nonchalantly aside just as it dawns on Orange
Belt that he was about to punch out our unsuspecting Grandfather/God-in-a-gi.
My favorite
part of each karate class is the end. And not, as Sensei tells me, because the workout is over and
I can stop huffing and puffing. The end, like the beginning,
has a ritual quality that is reassuring: I can count
on every class starting and ending exactly the same way. Perhaps it is that same sense of tradition that attracts people
to orthodox religions. In karate there is a great deal
of protocol: plenty of bowing, but no scraping; much
show of respect, but no obsequiousness. Karate tries
to build an indomitable spirit, and this is perhaps why karate classes start
and end with something of a religious feeling.
There is a certain
amount of lining up, preparing for the recessional. Everyone
faces front: Sensei, followed by the black belts, backed by the lower belts
in order of seniority/grade. Everything is done ensemble:
lining up, coming to attention, kneeling, meditating, bowing. We bow to Sensei, and to the black belts, but first there is
the one bow that differentiates this from military rank-saluting: everyone bows to “karate,” inclining our bodies to no one in
particular, just to the spirit of what we are doing. Everyone. Even Sensei.
Se we’ve done
our bows, each accompanied by a loud “Osu!” and it’s over.
At last. No one moves until Sensei has left
the area. I’m told it’s another sign of respect, part
of tradition, but my suspicion is that we are giving Sensei a head start:
he decorously darts around the corner and lights up. Surely it would
be bad form for us to watch. Well, that’s his form of R-E-L-E-I-F. Mine
is to take my aching, fatigued carcass and sweaty gi and put the whole
panting bundle in the lake.
*********************************
“We gonna have
fun.!”
Right there,
I know that Mr. Tabata is bad news. Very bad news. Anyone who thinks Kamp Kamikaze is fun should be locked up
as a public menace.
Sensei has brought
Tabata up from Boston, where he is Professor Emeritus of Kicks and Punches
at half-a-dozen colleges, as a special treat for our two last days.
(Our “last days” indeed!) Tabata destroys every stereotype of the light, wiry Japanese: at about 5’11”, he is built like a linebacker. Watching him move is to see a speeding train stop instantaneously,
leaving only the shudder of shock waves as his punch focuses on some imaginary
body. He was world kumite (fighting) champion
several times (so the grapevine said); he rated large amounts of instant respect.
Tabata demonstrates
that karate can be taught in almost any language, almost without language.
Even though his English can actually be quite good, with us he uses
a purposefully stunted vocabulary: “Faster!”
“Lower!” And, endlessly, “Continue!” He walks
around the group, sometimes with a big stick you are almost sure he won’t
use, and just we you are ready to drop, “Continue!” Fun,
is it?
We are led to
believe that Tabata will deploy his tough, quick-fix, instant-karate brand
of training on us. And we are certainly not to be disappointed.
But what I enjoy—“enjoy”? How soon events pass into myth!—is the mental
aspect. Not this Zen business, nothing one could put in a book. No, it is an emphasis that differs from our Sensei’s: it seems that our normal drills give us too much time to consider
what we are doing, time to get ready to do a technique properly. We try to look good, with good form and feeling; Tabata
just wants it fast. Not once, but fast-Fast-FAST in
rapid fire succession, as it might be in a fight. Karate
is, after all, a martial art.
Remember our
zigzag/leapfrog roadwork drill—low block, then step in and punch?
Tabata has a cute variation on that. First,
we do it one-on-one—a standard, even with us: the defender
sweeps the kick away with a low block and counterattacks with a punch to the
midsection. Just when we are about to get bored or winded, Tabata ups the
ante: two-on-one. Now
the defender is between two attackers. As soon as he
finishes with the first, Turn! And confront the second. Now!
Faster! Turn—block/punch. Turn—block/punch. Kiai! with
every punch! Faster! FASTER! Continue!
Tired?
It must be time for three-on-one. And after that, four-on-one, five-on-one. You are encircled by bad hombres, only these guys wear white
and threaten to kick in your lunch. Block/punch/turn! Faster! Around the circle I go, facing each attacker in turn,
Tabata there screaming not to give the defender (me!) any respite. Faster! There is no time to think about
technique, just do it! It must become automatic.
And so it does…until I run out of wind and it becomes the turn of some
other dervish to step into the vortex. Turn! Faster! Continue!
Which brings
us back to jab/reverse-punch/kick at my kicking tree. There
are three of us (with room for more) spread around the unshakeable base of
Ol’ Poplar, trying our best to make it quiver (it doesn’t).
Tabata has been kind and allowed us to keep our running shoes on—all
that North American fast food must be softening him. The
shoes protect the balls of our feet and the trunk of the tree, although the
latter needs protection somewhat less than the former. I
knock off a good-sized piece of bark. Have I scored?
No, say my tree-mates, it was already dead and shouldn’t count. The score (and the tree) still stands: Tree 3, Kickers 0.
Try this routine
on a wall, preferable a solid wall in your basement: take
a comfortable stance, like a boxer. Your feet should
be about two to three feet apart, leading with your left fist if your left
foot is forward, your right fist on your hip. Using
your left, jab to the face of an imaginary opponent. Then
use your right for a solid punch to his solar plexus. Follow
that with a right-foot kick to his midsection, making contact with the wall/opponent,
returning the leg to its original position. There you
have it: jab/reverse-punch/kick. It is a common enough karate drill, allowing you to work on
four things at once: jabs, reverse punches, kicks….and
endurance. After a few dozen of these you’ll get the
notion.
Meanwhile, back
at the tree, Tabata seems to have lost track of time. Forty-five
minutes of this stuff is a very long time, about 1,500 kicks long by my (dead)
reckoning. Jab/reverse-punch/kick. Kiai! But something marvelous is happening, something new and unexpected.
The scenery, the exhaustion, the noise all disappear, or rather merge
into….kicking. All thoughts of “I’m tired” or “Now
I punch, now I kick” just fade out. The actions just happen. Inertia? “Bodies that are kicking tend to keep kicking?” Perhaps. But I think it is more an elimination
of sense of self, a submission of ego to something else; here, the discipline
of karate. Nothing exists but jab/reverse-punch/kick—especially
the kick, mine usually so heavy and ponderous. Somehow
my hips turn, pull my knee up, allowing the rear (right) leg to kick through
and snap back. Then the hips turn again, returning the leg to its original
stance. Hands and legs move automatically, undirected. That mental baggage that says, “Think of how winded you are”
or “Everyone else is doing better than you” is gone. For
that moment, nothing exists but karate and the doing of it. It is a sensation of experiencing perfection.
Why would anyone
go to karate camp? Why does anyone undertake the study
of karate in the first place? Answering that question is the topic for many a lengthy dissertation.
It does, for example, develop a certain sense of self-assurance and
well-being, related as much to the exercise as to knowledge of technique.
There is, for some, the joy of actual combat, or the beauty of the
various kata and their elegant, stylized forms. And
there is the pleasure and satisfaction in every discipline where one learns
to do a thing well. Every karate-ka has his own particular delight derived
from karate.
But those few
moments at Kamp Kamikaze, when everything just flows and nothing exists but
being and motion, are unlike any moments I have ever experienced.
I am told by painters, dancers, and musicians that such things happen
to them on occasion, but only rarely, in magical instances.
It is what any art form is about, what separates Kamp Kamikaze from
boot camp. As Tabata reminded us so frequently, “You
can’t buy this!” Osu!
