JOURNEY - on Mastering Ukemi by Daniel Linden (classic books for 12 year olds .TXT) 📕

and lifted up the jar and smelled the coffee crystals. He was clearly not happy. I called Bim over and explained the problem and he spoke to Cook and then they spoke rapidly together and Cook started shaking his head in the negative.

“Ask him if it is possible to get black tea or traditional Chinese green tea. They both have some caffeine.”

Bim did and the conversation once again became heated. Cook left and did not return. The kitchen boy brought plates and we happily found small potatoes that had been boiled and then sautéed in some kind of oil until they were browned and delicious. There was a dish with greens and pickled beans of some type and sardines. We all ate hungrily now that we were feeling better. Before we finished, Cook returned and handed me a bag of black tea. I smelled it and nodded at him.

“We will have this in the morning and with breakfast, please. No more coffee.”

He smiled at that and left again. I stretched and went back to my bunk. I listened to the guys talking and laughing. They must have been still sipping on the rum and as I was hoping they would not get too carried away I fell asleep.

Chapter 15

Atemi

I woke to sunshine and had a moment when I believed the weather had broken, but by the time I woke everyone and told them to get outside I remembered that there was nothing to see. We were in a valley and until we climbed out there would only be the towering cliffs soaring 10,000 feet above us. We ate breakfast and hit the trail climbing up through Bhabarma. There were occasional yak shelters and the trail became uncomfortably steep for me.

My knees had begun to ache at first in the humidity and now were fairly screaming with the exertion and constant reminder of the arthritis that is the unrelenting result of forty years of aikido training. At least I still had my knees. My old friend Hiroshi Ikeda underwent knee replacement surgery years ago and I was very happy for him that it seems to be working out well. He is truly an aikido master of another magnitude. His skill and understanding of this art are unrivaled in America. I hope his artificial knees last for many years. I may need a set myself, some day.

Eventually I had to stop and Christian came back to wait with me.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

“Think you can carry me?” I chuckled.

“No,” he said. “I would if I could.” Then he looked off across the valley to the rushing river thousands of feet below. “Jesus...”

“What’s the matter, son?”

He put his head down. Then in a moment he looked at me and said. ”But you’d carry me, wouldn’t you? I mean if something happened. You would just ignore whatever pain you felt and you’d pick me up and carry me the hell out of here. Wouldn’t you!” he challenged. Then I saw tears come into his eyes. “You would. I know you would.” He closed his eyes and his head sagged.

I reached out and tiredly patted his shoulder. “You are starting to feel a long way from home, Christian. You are also starting to understand true ukemi. And don’t worry that you’re getting a little emotional, that’s just the altitude. It messes up your hormones. Pretty soon you’ll be crying like a little girl. Just keep attacking.”

He slowly looked up at me.

“I didn’t say you were mastering ukemi, son. But seeing it and recognizing it for what it is... well, that’s more than most ever do.” I patted him on the shoulder, again. “Yeah, I’d pick you up and carry you until I got you where you needed to be or until it killed me.” I turned and headed up the trail and Christian followed.

It’s easy to sound like a hero to a young boy, real easy. He could never understand that dying would be easier than looking his mother and father in the eye and telling them I had failed him and that their boy wasn’t coming home. Dying would be a cinch compared to that.

I climbed steadily for an hour. When I stopped again he waited by my side, but I saw he was depressed. I looked at him and said, “Christian, you have to decide what kind of man you want to be.”

He gave me a half smile and asked “What are my options? How many kinds are there?”

“There are two kinds, essentially,” I said. “There is the kind of man who decides who he is, decides what he wants, and lives his life to those ends. And there is the other kind of man.”

“What is the other kind,” he asked.

“The other kind is more concerned about what other people think of him than what he thinks. He does what he does because he believes other people will be impressed, and then want to be his friend. He changes his politics, his religion, his core beliefs if he thinks a woman will accept or reject him.”

“I’m still not sure I understand.”

I almost shouted, “The first kind of man decides he wants to go into outer space. He graduates with a degree in electrical engineering and then applies to the Navy for a commission. After he spends a few years landing F-16s on the pitching deck of an aircraft carrier he applies to NASA. Twenty years later and he’s commanded three Shuttle missions. That’s the first type.” I looked at him. “He sacrifices all to live his dream.

“Think of it like this; Hemingway wrote a book that shook the world. He’s the first type. Dozens of critics wrote volumes about his book. They are the second type. They don’t create, they don’t produce, they don’t enhance, they don’t build… they get all their juice by criticism. The get together with others of their ilk and talk,