We are Made of Water

 

 

During the Covid summer of 2020, my daughter was enrolled by her mother in a class of traditional Japanese swimming.  I often accompany her, to sit and alternate between watching her instruction, and simply enjoying a book read beside the lake.  It was a beautiful setting, the hills rolling down to the far green shore, the shakkei immaculately groomed as part of a golf course built for the GIs after the war.  

I realized from her very first lesson that I was watching Nihon Eihō, which in actuality was traditional Japanese combat swimming.  I'd had an opportunity to do a one-off workshop in the art about 20 years before at the Budō Seminar that used to be held in Chiba every March.  I'd thought ever since that if the opportunity for further study ever presented itself, I'd jump in with both feet.    

Throughout the subsequent winter, I repeatedly kicked myself for staying on shore with my books and not taking part in the lesson myself.  So it was in the summer of 2021 that I enrolled, despite my daughter's lack of interest in continuing. Back during my summers in the 'Nog, I was blessed that the beach was a mere 15-minute bike ride away.  I envisioned a similar thing here, but this time the cooling relief of water would be enhanced by learning something unique.  Thus, these lessons set the framework for the summer, not only the swimming, but the trip up and back as well.  It formed a triathlon of sorts, as I would bike the 20 minutes to the northern reaches of the city, then hike up and over a small steep hill to the lake itself.  The return journey would be inevitably marked by exhaustion, accompanied by a great hunger. 

While I am glad I had the opportunity, I found the experience somewhat of a mixed bag, as the teacher's primary focus was on teaching the kids.  We adults were more often than not left to ourselves.  All the others had been practicing for 20 years or more, and admitted to rarely getting much instruction.  Every few sessions, Sensei would throw me a bone, and I would work on these new techniques over the following weeks.

Unfortunately he only offered the lessons during the summer, so there would be no chance to continue in smaller groups over the rest of the year.  As these summer sessions dwindled, I did something I'd usually never do in Japan, which was to pester him for a little bit more.  It wasn't that I was chasing a rank or trying to acquire a grade, but simply wanted to learn as much technique as possible in the limited time available. Luckily he wasn't offended by this stereotypical, pushy gaijin behavior, and gave me a number of exercises in the waning few days.  

But how lucky I was to be learning this in a lake rather than in the chlorinated sterility of a pool somewhere.  It was wonderful to feel the variability of water:  the tepidity of the hot August afternoon, or the frigid shock of entry during summer's bookends.  Since most of the strokes were of the sidestroke variety, I loved to face the far shore, and glide past all that rolling green.  And as I do every year, I immerse myself in films and books about the Pacific Theater, over the days leading up to the anniversary of that war's end.  As I swam, I thought that many of those sailors who entered the water as their ship went down under them prolonged survival with these very same strokes.  A funny thing to reflect on, as the clouds drifted peacefully above.         

Sadly the summer of '21 proved to be the rainiest I can remember.  Many days, I found myself obsessed with the weather forecast and the look of the sky.  It seemed a cruel joke that about 15 minutes before I would set off, the skies would open and pour until just after lesson's end.  This happened more often that not.  I found myself getting more and more angry, more and more depressed, being held in check in my own house rather than be allowed the freedom of the water.  As a result, my spirit was as a low as it ever was during the entire pandemic.  Finally I said screw it and made my peace with it, heading up to the lake regardless of the weather.  The spirit of the art is to essentially harmonize and not resist the water.  How ironic then the strength of my resistance to the rain, which of course is simply water in another form. 

On days without personal instruction, I would basically lap swim, maybe 100 meters each way, building to one kilometers, one mile, two kilometers, resting after every couple of lengths in the chest deep water along the muddy bank.  I would be immersed for two hours or more and in time forgot about the water altogether.  It was a reminder I suppose of our amphibious tendencies, for we all spent the earliest days of our lives in the water, and most of us find great delight and comfort when we are able to return.  

On the turntable:  Andreas Vollenweider, "Live" 

On the nighttable:  Gene D. Phillips & Rodney Hall, ed.  "Francis Ford Coppola Interviews"