Fighting the Shark
A ship in a harbor is safe,
but that is not what ships are built for.
– Anonymous
From the shore, I saw the gray fins splashing in the surf The beach was closed for the third time that week. That meant another day of standing around instead of swimming. I was fourteen and not very patient. I loved swimming. I craved it. And the sharks were forcing me out of the water once again. I would spend yet another day walking along the boardwalk, waiting for the sharks to swim back out to sea.
Generally I felt really lucky living near the ocean. My summers were spent swimming. And in the cold, damp winters, I would go to the beach after school and walk for hours along the shore. I loved the salt smell, the wet air, the sea gulls, the hoarse sounds of the waves, the touch of the cool sand on my bare feet, the white clouds on the dark water, the horizon that always made me pensive – where does the world end and empty space begin? Nowhere else could nature replicate the glorious ocean sunsets. I loved the beach’s solitude in winter and the excitement of the hordes of people in summer. I loved the playland where I worked each summer, getting paid to serve (and eat) hamburgers and cotton candy, and flirt with the girls.
I hated the sharks. I hated them for ruining my days of swimming. I hated their sleek movements and slimy features, their eyes, which appeared not to see yet let them know exactly where to go. And I hated the fact that they could devour me if they one day surprised me in the water.
I knew they were there even on days when they were not seen. They were always there. Sometimes we recognized it, and other times we pretended that the water was safe. The ocean is never safe; there are always dangers. But when you love ocean swimming enough, you take your chances and pretend you’re brave.
My friends and I never talked about it, because that would mean having to admit to our deepest fears. But some nights there would be dreams. I would be happily swimming along, when all of a sudden a shark would appear out of the blue, open its mouth, and come right at me. In my dream, I could count its teeth, see into the depths of its throat. I would wake up in a cold sweat. Even after I left home to go to university, where the only swimming I did was in pools, every so often I would wake up in a cold sweat after another shark attack hundreds of miles from the ocean.
The dreams have never entirely stopped. But they did change radically. I was seventeen when I received my blue belt. A few nights later, I had the shark dream for the first time in a long time. But this time, instead of snapping awake when the shark approached, I jumped up and executed a powerful punch right to the tip of its sensitive nose. The shark glided to the side and disappeared into the dark ocean depths. I continued my swim.
I guess this is why I so love the martial arts. And it’s funny, because it has nothing to do with real sharks. I have never been attacked by a shark, nor do I ever intend to be. Martial arts are really about conquering our deepest fears – in my case my subconscious fear of sharks. Fighting sharks or dragons, unfairness or cruelty – all battles we face are won or lost within ourselves, where we hold the knowledge of whether or not we can act with courage.
Before Musashi could defeat Gan-ryu, he had to conquer his own fear. To an experienced samurai such as he was, technique is always secondary to the mental state. I guess we could say that what we call the samurai spirit literally transforms the individual from the inside out. We dream different dreams than we once did.
Samurai Could Be Born or Made
Japanese society was made up of many rigid classes or levels. Originally based on what a person did – the nobility ruled, the samurai were warriors, peasants farmed and fished – these classes were held by families. Although many people were born into the samurai class, some warriors earned the high position of samurai by their merit on the battlefield. And someone born a samurai could also hold other positions, such as administrators in government, or even doctors.
To see what is right and not do it is want of courage.
– Confucius
Several hundred years ago, there was a samurai who had studied medicine. He set up a clinic in a poor area of Japan and worked tirelessly to help his patients. He badly needed the help of an assistant, but had trouble keeping one. Every helper referred to him by his many doctor friends would quickly lose heart and leave in frustration over the futility of the work: so many sick people amongst the poor, so few doctors willing to give help; so much ignorance, so little pay!
At long last the samurai doctor was sent an apprentice who seemed tougher than most. One day, the doctor and his young assistant set out to make calls in one of the poorest parts of the city. Their first patient, an elderly woman, told them a sad story about a child who lived in an even worse district of the city, where the samurai doctor himself had never dared venture. The girl’s father had died, and her mother, in terrible poverty, had married a man who drank himself into ruin. They were living more like animals than people. The old woman said that the man was terribly abusive to the girl, who was a virtual prisoner to her stepfather, and now she was taken seriously ill. There was no chance, the old woman said, that the stepfather would spend the money on a doctor for her. And without medical attention, she would surely die.
Upon hearing this story, the samurai doctor and his assistant went directly to the home of the girl, a shack that looked like it would collapse if you even looked at it too long. The samurai went in to examine the girl. Only the mother was home with her. The father was out drinking. The doctor saw that the child had been beaten. “This is no place for a child!” said the doctor. “I must take her to my clinic.” The mother begged him to hurry and take her child before her husband returned with his friends.
The two doctors hurried out with the child only to confront, outside the house, the father with a gang of his drunken friends. The samurai doctor hadn’t fought in years. Yet he could see no alternative to what lay before him. Dust and sand blew in the wind and into their eyes. The girl shielded her face, whether from her stepfather or from the blowing dirt, the doctor didn’t know, but it was true that the men were not a pleasant sight – tough, drunk, and looking forward to a fight.
The man who had trained as a samurai in the shadow of one of Japan’s great castles was now standing amid rabble who would no doubt, in a matter of seconds, attack him. If he wanted to take away his sick patient, he would have to fight. Or he could leave her there and go home. The first option was unpleasant, but the second was unimaginable.
Reluctantly, the samurai doctor put the girl down on the ground and went into the street to face his attackers. His assistant looked on in disbelief. How would they survive? They carried no swords with them, only medicine bags.
The rough men prepared for battle, happy in their numbers, circling like vultures around a wounded prey, ready to punish the doctor for daring to trespass into their territory.
“Let us pass,” said the samurai doctor.
They scowled in response.
“In that case, I will do my best not to injure you,” he said calmly.
The men laughed. “Can you not count?” one of them asked. The others snorted. The vultures moved in, slowly closing the circle around the doctor. Shoulders relaxed, stomach muscles taut, the prey waited. His eyes intense, not looking at any one of them in particular, the samurai doctor seemed to see everywhere. He faced them, knowing he was drawing upon his deepest power, something honed from years of training. One by one they attacked, each one from a different direction.
The doctor blocked each blow using a different counterattack. One by one he sent them flying – one with a dislocated elbow, the next with a dislocated shoulder, a third with his wrist out of joint, a fourth struck hard in the jaw and left powerless to utter any more threats. Those left standing backed away down the street.
The doctor went to each of his attackers in turn, and with firm hands set each joint back in place. Then he picked up the child and glanced over his shoulder at the silent men. No longer did they look menacing. They seemed puzzled. What type of man would risk his life so boldly for a little girl? As if the question in their minds was asked aloud, he replied, “She is human too.”
The assistant emerged from behind a pillar. He had thought he would be carrying the samurai home in pieces. But they were all alive. How could just one samurai, without swords, do all this?
The samurai doctor looked at him and said, “It is up to samurai to do such things. That is why we work to have strength and courage.”
“I am a samurai too,” said the assistant. “I have also had training in the martial arts, but I have no such courage as you. I have never seen anything like this, and you did it without swords.”
“The sword is only the symbol of the samurai,” the samurai doctor replied. “It is what we carry in our hearts that truly makes us samurai. I believe that, at first, you looked down on my work with the poor. I hope you will consider staying. It is here that you will learn to be a real samurai.”
The young assistant had decided to stay the moment he had seen the attackers flying through the courtyard. This is a samurai who will change the world, and being around him will change me, he thought. He knew that the spirit of the samurai doctor was contagious, and that this was something he truly wanted to catch.
The young samurai had learned more than medicine from the master. He learned about the meaning of pride. He had always been a proud samurai, defining himself as a warrior from an important family, and seeing a difference between himself and the people he worked with. He felt they were beneath him. The actions of his master made him see that his pride was actually vanity, and his honor was misplaced. The samurai doctor took pride in what he did, not what he was. His pride was in his actions that always contributed to the lives of others.
If we cannot conquer our personal fears,
then a life of a thousand years is a tragedy.
If we can conquer them,
then a life of a single day is a triumph.
– Bruce Lee
The shogun was the supreme military ruler of Japan. In his employ was a samurai who had a daughter, Ohashi. As befitted a samurai’s daughter, she had received an excellent education in literature and the arts. She was admired by everyone and beloved by her father and three brothers.
Also in the shogun’s court was a rich official, a man who was coarse and mean. He had outlived two wives, and had begun remarking on Ohashi’s beauty, her sweetness, her charm. Ohashi’s father had felt disgusted at hearing the words from such a cruel man, so unworthy of his lovely daughter.
But fate is unfair. Hard times came. Ohashi’s father lost his position in court and his family was thrown into poverty. He saw no choice but to sell his beautiful Ohashi in marriage to the official.
So Ohashi became the wife of a government official who was famous not for his competence or his compassion, but for his bad temper and arrogance. Everyone despised him as much as they admired his young wife. And he was cruel to Ohashi. When she did not do exactly what he liked, he would beat her. She knew that he continued seeing other women, shaming her at the same time she welcomed his absence.
Her husband blamed her for any detail that displeased him: the bed wasn’t comfortable; the rice wine wasn’t the right temperature; her opinions were always wrong. When she spoke up, he called her stupid. When she said nothing, he yelled at her for never having an opinion. Ohashi was torn between her past joy and her present sorrow, between her high ideals as a samurai woman and her fallen state with a man she detested. She felt like killing herself so she wouldn’t have to bring children into such a sad life. From the moment she woke, she feared each day. She jumped at noises. She became terrified of thunder. She became scared of the dark.
One day a samurai came to the castle to conduct government business with Ohashi’s husband. The stranger held himself in a proud and dignified manner, and had piercing eyes. He was a man of education and culture. He met Ohashi in the courtyard outside the house. She bowed respectfully to him, as he was a high-ranking samurai, and he surprised her by returning a bow as deep and respectful as hers. A few days later, she met him again as he was leaving from a meeting with her husband.
“Good morning,” he said respectfully, and bowed with the same deference he had shown her before. “You are Ohashi, and I am honored to meet you.”
“How do you know who I am?” Ohashi asked.
“Because you are famous for your beauty and your charm.” He paused for a moment. “And for being the unfortunate wife of the shogun’s official.”
“How do you know about that?” she asked.
“Many people know that your husband is a cruel man. And I knew your father. In times of peace, many samurai lose their positions, even great samurai. We all feel for your father, and it pains me deeply to know your situation.” His eyes were as gentle as they were powerful.
“You cannot imagine what it is to be married to a man like my husband, to have to live in the same house with his cruelty and temper, to have to sleep in the same bed with him each night. That is, of course, when he is not out with his other women.”
“If I had a wife such as you, I would never look at another woman, never even think of another woman, much less be with someone else.”
“Why are you not married?”
“I am still waiting. The shogun wants me to be one of his personal retainers. He will choose a wife for me. I cannot marry until he arranges it. And I may be an old man by the time he gets around to it. Maybe he wants me to concentrate only on martial arts.
“Of course,” he continued, “my problems are nothing compared to yours. Fate sometimes plays strange tricks on human beings. If I had enough money, I would buy you out of this loveless home and give you back to your father, but I don’t have enough money. I do have ways that could help you, only you must put your faith in me. Let me tell you a story.”
The samurai cleared his throat and began: “I had a friend who was killed in an ambush right before my eyes. He lunged in front of an arrow that was meant for me. His wife and children were inconsolable. His wife eventually married another man, who seemed gentle at first, but eventually treated her badly, beating her and the children and threatening to kill them if they should run away.”
“How horrible,” said Ohashi, glad that she had no children for her husband to terrorize.
“But what counts is that while my friend lived, his family had a happiness that was truly beautiful. He and his wife created beautiful children. And they all lived a wonderful life together. As it says in the Hagakure, life is but a dream within a dream. One morning they woke up and it was over – all that they had created and had labored so hard to develop.
“You see, your father’s fate is not so bad. At least he is still alive. Although he is poor, he still has his family. And I am sure that he still has hopes for you, however difficult your situation. I am certain that he dreams that you will somehow find contentment, however difficult that may be. I say that with confidence because I know you come from a samurai family and you understand how a great samurai dedicates his life to facing challenges.
“Remember who you are and find strength in that. You must tell yourself that you will never give up. Never lose hope. Find beauty in the little things around you and they will sustain you. You will find that this will be your escape from the realm of misery.”
Taking seriously the words of the samurai, Ohashi began to practice what he had suggested. Every breath of fresh air, every flower that she saw, every sunset, became a source of happiness to her. She discovered that the world was full of little joys all around her.
One day in a storm, with thunder rolling and lightning striking all around her, she was surprised to discover that she was unafraid. She had found joy in the thunderstorm. She did not have to be afraid. She found further strength everyday in her simple capacity to smile.
The years passed. One night Ohashi’s husband died in his sleep. The shogun summoned Ohashi to the castle. Others warned her of more tragedy to follow. “The shogun will probably give you away to an older man to marry now that you are ‘used goods.’” Sure enough, when she arrived, she was informed that the shogun had arranged a new marriage for her. She was sent to the adjoining room to meet her new husband.
Much to her surprise, it was the kind samurai she had met years earlier, whose words she had never forgotten. He looked much older. A horrible scar marred the left side of his face. He greeted her warmly.
“The shogun has finally arranged my marriage. Will you have me as your husband?”
Even with the scar, he had the same good humor and kind character. “The shogun has made the decision. It is not for me to decide,” she replied seriously. Then she laughed. “It is my choice also!”
The samurai explained that his scar was a price he paid as a samurai. It was a duel he had to accept, although he hated being placed in such a situation. At least he was still alive, and he had won the fight! “The man who lost,” he noted, “was in far worse shape.” She laughed again, and realized that she had loved him from their first meeting years ago. She understood that she loved him even more now. She saw how he had suffered, but could still smile, just as he had taught her to do.
The samurai said, “If you can smile through the life you have had, you will be able to find happiness even with a man as ugly as I. If you will marry me, I will do everything to make you happy.”
“Yes,” she replied. She looked closely at his face and realized that the scar was a mark of how he had not given up. It truly showed how beautiful his spirit was. And so they married, and each took it as their task to build the happiness of the other.
Ohashi learned to never give up. This is one of the most important lessons a samurai can learn. Even when life seemed unbearable, Ohashi focused on the small beauties all around her, and developed the strength to persevere. When her situation finally changed for the better, she went forward with optimism instead of bitterness. Even in adversity, a samurai looks for ways to become stronger, instead of excuses for being weaker.
Intensely enjoying his simple meal, a samurai sat at an inn with a bowl of broth and noodles, his superb swords at his side. Three rogue samurai entered the inn and saw the man’s magnificent weapons. How they wanted the beautiful swords!
They were confident that the man would be no match for the three of them. They jeered and jostled him, trying to provoke a fight. They did not succeed. The samurai continued eating, as oblivious to their taunts as he was to the three flies that buzzed around him in the warm air of the inn.
Finally, when all the diners in the inn were sure that the men were about to draw their swords, the lone samurai calmly pushed away his bowl and took up his chopsticks. With a flick of his fingers, he captured one of the three flies. He threw the fly in his empty rice bowl, lifted his chopsticks again, and in short order clipped the second fly between his chopsticks and threw it in the bowl beside the first. As the three samurai stood watching in astonishment, he reached over his left shoulder with the chopsticks and trapped the third fly, tossing it to join the two already in the bowl.
The three rogue samurai grabbed their things and ran for the door. It was only later that they found out that the man with whom they had tried to pick a fight was Musashi Miyamoto. They realized that they could have been thrust out the door as easily as the flies were plunged into the rice bowl.
Even for a well-trained samurai, three attacking swordsmen is a formidable challenge. Musashi knew he could have cut them down easily, but doing so would not be what reflects the excellence of a samurai. Rather it is his complete and total control of the situation. Musashi had so much self-confidence that one can readily imagine a whole army coming in, and he would still act in the same detached manner, scaring them off with the play of chopsticks.
One summer as a university student, I was visiting the Middle East, carrying only a small backpack containing some clothes, a bathing suit, my books, and my brown belt. Traveling through Turkey, Iran, and Afghanistan, I had been warned that I was going through some dangerous areas. But since I carried only my backpack and was dressed as a student, I didn’t feel I would attract attention as someone worth robbing. I was vigilant, nevertheless, and while eating lunch one day in a small town, I had a bad feeling about a table of men laughing at me while I ate. I decided to leave my lunch and get out.
Paying my bill, I observed that the group of three men laughing at me had grown to seven. That was okay; I was on my way out anyway. As I quickly exited, however, the seven of them got up and followed me outside. I moved rapidly toward the train station, four blocks away. When I glanced behind me, there were more men – about eleven – but I was no longer counting.
I had no doubt about their intentions. I quickly turned the corner into a little sidestreet where there was a bunch of large garbage cans lined up. I quickly removed my backpack and placed it on the ground, and then crouched down behind one of the cans. I heard the men round the corner into the sidestreet. They were talking excitedly. I could tell that they were looking forward to what was about to happen. I knew from the tone of their voices that they were asking each other where I had gone.
Suddenly I leaped out in front of them with a loud kiai, which almost gave a heart attack to the man standing right in front of me. He instinctively jumped back, smashing furiously into the man behind him, who in turn fell hard into the man behind him, and so on. I felt as if I had unexpectedly hit the jackpot in a bowling alley, witnessing a chain reaction of exploding pins in the dust of this back alley. Standing in a fighting karate stance with my open hands held high, I watched them disappear into the haze of dust, as they all fell upon one another trying to escape. In moments, I was alone on the street wondering what had happened.
After it was all over, I still had trouble believing it had actually occurred. Yet there I was, still in the smelly alleyway with my backpack on the ground beside me. I picked it up and continued my walk to the train station.
It wasn’t that I had learned how to fight. I didn’t lift a finger. Yet I knew the samurai spirit had become an integral part of me. Inside my head lived the spirit of Musashi Miyamoto and the Samurai Doctor, and they permeated my being. I was really proud to be who I was, and knew that feeling would stay with me my whole life.
What began as one of the most frightening episodes of my life ended as one of the funniest. I had anticipated a Samurai Doctor conclusion but, much to my surprise, it was a Musashi finish – without the chopsticks.
As a teacher, I see people alter their lives through martial arts. The self-defence they learn is important, but they are doing something far more profound – learning to confront their deepest fears. In every class, we have people attacking us from all sides with all their might. What often seems frightening at first, in time loses its sting. We become confident in our powers, knowing that we can easily defend ourselves – every night in the training hall – just as Musashi did with his chopsticks or the Samurai Doctor did against all those attackers.
The true mastery of an art is not
the development of technique,
but the mastery of self.
– Martial arts adage
Yagyu Tajima no Kami Munenori was a great swordsman and teacher to the shogun Tokugawa Iyemitsu. One day, a personal guard of the shogun came to Tajima wishing to take lessons in swordplay. The master looked at the young man before him and replied, “As I observe, you seem to be a master of the art yourself. Please tell me with whom you have previously studied, before you take me on as a new teacher.”
The guardsman replied, “I am ashamed to tell you that I have never before learned the art of swordplay.”
“Do you think that you can fool me?” Tajima asked sternly. “I am teacher to the shogun himself. Do you think that I cannot tell an expert swordsman who stands right in front of my eyes? My judgment on such matters never fails!”
“Sir, I do not mean to disagree, but I really know nothing.”
Tajima looked at the young man carefully, with eyes that seemed to penetrate right into his very soul. He thought a long time before speaking again. “If you say so, then it must be. Yet I am still sure of your being a master of something, though I do not know what.”
“Sir, if you insist, I will tell you something that might be pertinent. When I was still a boy, I was afraid of many things. Perhaps I was no different than many other boys in that. I don’t know. But the thought came to me one day that if I truly wish to be a great samurai, then I ought not be afraid. I must conquer my fears! I set upon this challenge every day of my life. I have grappled with this problem now for many years, and then one day I realized that the issue had entirely ceased to bother me. I had mastered my fears! Perhaps this is what you are seeing?”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Tajima. “It is what I meant. I am relieved that I made no mistake in my judgment of you. I knew you were not a liar, yet there was something about you that was more than meets the eye. The ultimate secret of swordsmanship lies in being released from the fear of death. I have trained hundreds of pupils, but so far none of them really deserves the final certificate for swordsmanship. You need no technical training. You are already a master!”
We all have secret fears. Conquering these fears is at the heart of the samurai spirit. It is also at the heart of the samurai ethical tradition. Only a person secure within himself is capable of helping others. Someone insecure, afraid, and whiny cannot confront real danger and prevail. What counts is not technique, but the spirit of the person. What Tajima most sought to develop in his students was a spirit that could never be defeated. Samurai training forced each student to reach deeply within himself and shape up.