07/27/2017
THE ART OF DEFENDING AGAINST SURPRISE
In the old days, Japanese swordsmen often referred to the “four sicknesses” to which a warrior was susceptible: Surprise, Worry, Doubt and Fear. Surprise and its meaning for modern martial artists will be discussed below.
The serious budoka must never be taken by surprise. Although he might train eight hours a day and be a world champion, his mental attitude makes him susceptible to a sneak attack. Therefore, all his practice will have amounted to nothing. It is only natural that martial artists would consider fuiuchi, or “surprise,” to be one of the most insidious “illnesses.”
Classically, avoiding surprise is approached in two ways. First, a person must develop external vigilance, a steady maintenance of his guard against any possible threats. This can serve as a physical defense against surprise. Often exposed to frequent, unexpected peril, the samurai were masters of physical defense. If we believe the stories about them, they went to extraordinary lengths in exercising and perfecting this defense. During wartime, for instance, they would randomly jab a spear or sword up into the ceiling of an unfamiliar room, thinking that spies were lurking overhead. Fans of popular samurai movies will recognize this practice, for it’s almost a cliché: A warrior will thrust his weapon through the ceiling, then go about his business. A few moments later, the camera will pan to the small hole the blade made in the ceiling as it begins to run with blood.
To protect themselves against surprise, the samurai adopted many such habits. Even after the days of feudal-era battles, my sensei kept a heavy wooden sword leaning against a corner of his toilet room. He followed the example of Takeda Shingen, a great general who was supposed to have done the same. This was done to prevent himself from ever being surprised while he was unarmed. In addition to this, my sensei never relaxed in his bath without a dagger within arm’s reach. Other similarly experienced swordsmen would not sit with their back to a doorway; instead, they positioned themselves at an angle that allowed them a view of anyone entering. They would also give themselves ample room to draw their weapon, if needed. They took equal precautions outside, carefully tilting their wide-brimmed straw hat down slightly to keep the sun’s glare at a minimum and to prevent an opponent from knowing where their gaze was directed.
While probably not as drastic, modern martial artists often acquire similar habits. They check the rear seat of their cars before getting in, and while walking, they swing wide around street corners to preclude the possibility of an unexpected assault. However, like the samurai, modern-day martial artists using a purely physical approach to defense are soon confronted with a problem. After all, a guy’s got to sleep, eat and brush his teeth. It’s pretty tough to execute a side kick while taking a nap, or a reverse punch while eating a bowl of chili. No human being can be physically on-guard 24 hours a day.
This is where the second method of defending surprise enters the picture. Sometimes it’s called zanshin, and while it is not entirely an accurate term to use, we shall do so here for the purposes of explanation.
Zanshin, which literally means “lingering mind,” could be considered the spiritual counterpart to physical defense. It is best illustrated by a story handed down through generations of martial arts practitioners. There are many versions of it, and what follows is one of them.
A young man wished to learn the art of the sword, so he traveled to a region of mountains in the province of Kii that was threaded with 48 spectacular waterfalls. Cascading more than 400 feet, the tallest and most scenic of these was Nachi Falls. At the foot of it stood the Kumano shrine, which had been the site of ancient and mysterious rituals since time began. Behind the shrine lived a master swordsman.
After a long journey, the boy reached the Kumano shrine and found the master living in a hut nearby. “I’ve come to learn swordsmanship,” the boy announced. “How long will it take me?”
“Ten years,” the old master replied.
“That’s too long,” the boy said. “How about if I work extra hard and practice twice as much?”
“Twenty years,” the master answered.
The boy saw that this conversation was leading nowhere, so he wisely argued no further. He simply requested that he be accepted as a student, and the master agreed.
It was a peculiar apprenticeship. The boy was put to work cutting firewood, cooking and cleaning up around the hut—chores that lasted from before dawn until after dark. The master rarely spoke, never mentioning swordsmanship to the boy. Finally, after a year of toil, the boy grew frustrated, suspecting he had been tricked into becoming nothing more than the master’s unpaid servant.
While angrily chopping a log one day, the boy decided to find instruction elsewhere. Suddenly, he was sent reeling by a terrific blow. He looked up from the ground, dazed, only to find the master standing above him brandishing a green bamboo stick. The master left as silently as he had come. But an hour later, while the boy was washing clothes near the falls, the old man struck again, harder this time, and he roared over the crashing of the waterfall: “You expect to learn swordsmanship, yet you can’t even dodge a simple hit from a stick!”
The boy’s pride was understandably wounded. He resolved to stay with the master and prove him wrong. He began to concentrate on keeping his mind clear and receptive to an attack, and while he suffered many more strikes in the following months, he was able to anticipate some of them and effectively ward them off. When the master’s slashing blows started to come at night, he learned to sleep lightly; his subconscious stayed alert to every sound. The more successful the youth grew at avoiding the bamboo stick, the more frequently the attacks became. Dozens of times a day, the master would suddenly be there, swinging at him. The youth’s instincts sharpened, and as the months went by it became more and more difficult for the master to catch him unaware.
Three years after he had come to the Kumano shrine, the boy was nearly a man. One night, while he was totally absorbed preparing dinner, the master struck from behind. But now, the young man’s spirit was so well-disciplined that he merely fended off the blow with a pot lid and returned to his cooking without a pause. That night, the master presented his student with a fine old sword and wrote out a certificate of full mastery. The young man did not need either, though. Without ever having a formal lesson, he had become a man of phenomenal martial powers.
We don’t know what happened to the master’s student, or even if the story is true. But if it is, one thing is certain—the young man who learned his art at the foot of Nachi Falls was never, ever, taken by surprise.
