Waves, Waza and Warm Welcomes

It is only when some days become the past that we come to comprehend their meaning to us. As I now look back on the “not-the-summer-camp” from two months ago, its beauty and meaning begin to unfold. 

Two weeks before the camp started, I had just gotten my first nafuda - a small front line with Yōshinkan, followed by larger characters: my name, Rain - which at the time simply meant no longer being anonymous. Two weeks later, with lingering excitement from this name recognition, we were on our journey to Paekākāriki Holiday Park, where the camp would take place. That night, as I arrived at the dinner table surrounded by everyone in their casual forms, I stepped into a conversation where one Senpai was commenting on the stunning sunset along a stretch of beach, a scene that happened to be captured not only in mine but also in several others’ phones. I soon realized it was a moment when individual paths began to overlap. The camp, therefore, had already begun long before the formal first day. It had begun at the dinner table, the night we stepped back from our own lives, ready to begin writing a story we would share.

At 6:45 am the next morning, ambitious kenshi were already heading to the beach in the chill darkness. As sunlight blossomed from thin fog, we had completed hundreds of voluntary suburi, accompanied by gentle morning waves. When the park had filled with the stirrings of others waking from their drowsiness, we were having our first family breakfast, sunny eggs sizzling expertly from one Senpai, an urgent request from another Senpai for a bread knife that surely well-deserved by their fancy bread, and most importantly, solving the puzzles of who was the loudest snorer last night. When the sun was fully risen and the park buzzing, we were in our camp dojo, wearing gear, putting on our kendo faces, and welcoming Alan Sensei, whose unfamiliar presence brought a tinge of freshness and unnamed excitement.

The two-day training sessions were well-organized and truly insightful. Alongside all the other useful exercise (e.g. staying for 15 seconds in chūdan for honing patience and observance, practicing ōji-waza to appreciate proper timing, etc.), two tips especially stood out to me. First was the emphasis on elongated kiai. We all know kiai plays an important role in kendo as a way to intimidate opponent or to unleash instinctive aggression repressed by civilization, yet I only came to feel its personal meaning when Alan Sensei demonstrated both a “good example” and a “bad example.” When his elongated kiai, alongside all the other details involved in the good example - clear step, upright posture, decisive cut, etc. - became the very element that expressed one’s attitude, I suddenly had a clear reason to explain those unexplainable feelings: why I couldn’t help but feel a lump in my throat, applaud, and respect when the seriousness and intention exuded from other Senpai: because their kiai spoke of their clean and enthusiastic attitude. 

Second advice by Alan Sensei is outside dojo: how to watch kendo videos, particularly relevant to people like me who love watching “ippon clips.” Alan Sensei suggested, “Don’t just pay attention to the ippon, but to what happens before it.” I found this helpful for understanding all strikes, whether they validly land or not: “Why do they make this strike?” “Is it whimsical or well-planned?” “Oh, was it a trap to lure the opponent in?” With this mindset, I came to realize every strike is more than just a sudden lucky hit but rather a full mind game. 

This camp was wrapped up with a group shiai. Although shiai means competition - with “win” and “lose” as its built-in components - it was never stressful but rather a precious experience to watch and take part in. Fighters never lost their best-can-do focus, and the audience was never stingy with a single clap. Each shiai touched my heart. It revealed a simple truth: an eager heart can always shine, regardless of outer factors. During shiai, we were treating and treated equally with the utmost seriousness, whether it was a common occurrence for Dan grades, a new experience for someone who had only worn bogu for two days, or the very first time some even understood what shiai really is. Enjoying the process means looking beyond the result, and our shiai was one hundred percent enjoyable. I had never imagined I could be standing in chūdan with a Senpai in a shiai, and that alone was already so much fun. In the end, earning a “Fighting Spirit” was never my expectation, but now it whets my appetite to explore the unknown within myself.

Two nights and two days, the length feels longer than it sounded. As I write these words, looking at the photos as if I am travelling back to those days; as if I am hearing again the shinai clashing, the shoutings, the foot stomps, the clinking beer cups, the big laughters, and also the distant sea waves by the dojo, the wind rustling through trees; as if I am seeing again the determined eyes behind men-gane, the sweaty gear hung on the rooftop, the fumes from the barbecue, the shared jellies and crisps, the greedy digging into Kiwi trifles, Sensei joking that sobriety should be added to one pleat’s representation. The days intertwined with two sides of us, within and beyond Kendo. It became a turning point for me to reflect on what this dojo means to me, and what these people mean to me.

Now, as I glance at my nafuda, I remember its first significance: no longer being called “that beginner.” And indeed, people started calling me by name:

“Rain, you wanna half my long black?”
“Hey Rain, can you pass me your shinai?”
“Your distance, Rainnnnn!”
“Oh Rain, you got a Men!”
“Rain, you took us all by surprise!”

Pictures flash by. People calling out my name. Yet the significance of being recognized has faded and quietly outshone by the smaller characters above my name: “Yōshinkan.” The title I once felt indifferent toward, but now the one that sits above all our names. The place we all belong to. The place that offers security, belonging, happiness - for the first time, for me, on this land.

“Yōshinkan is a family.” And now, it is my family.