the next day when Onami knocked at the monastery gate. A young monk answered and took him to the temple where a thin old man sat in meditation. The young monk left, and Onami waited. The old man’s body was still, silent. His face was a picture of complete relaxation. Yet despite the coolness of the morning air, perspiration ran freely down the old man’s face. He was obviously engaged in some inner struggle Onami could neither see nor sense.
Eventually the old man opened his eyes, rose, and turned to Onami. “You are Onami,” he said.
“Yes,” Onami replied bowing deeply. “Your name means ‘great wave.’” “Yes.”
“I hear you are not so great in the dohyo. I hear a tiny splash could push you over.”
Onami cringed but said nothing.
“Would you like to become a great wave, pushing over everything in your path?”
“I would,” Onami replied, “more than anything.”
“Then kneel here,” the old monk said, motioning to a small kneeling bench. “Close your eyes. Meditate. Picture a big wave.”
Onami knelt, closed his eyes. In his mind he saw a wave, a large wave. It crashed on the beach before him. He wondered if he was becoming a better wrestler yet. He opened his eyes.
“I’ve seen the wave,” he said rising to his feet. “What do I do next?” “Next, you see the wave,” Hakuju said motioning for him to kneel again. “I will be back this afternoon to check on you.”
Onami knelt and closed his eyes again. In his mind he saw the wave. It rose and fell, rose and fell. Onami heard its thunder, saw it crash on the beach. All morning he watched the wave. And all morning he wondered how the wave was going to help him become a better wrestler.
That afternoon, Hakuju returned. “Have you been picturing a great wave?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Onami replied.
“Tell me about it,” Hakuju said.
“Well,” Onami began, “it’s large, and it’s covered with foam, and it crashes on the beach.” He paused, not sure what else to say.
“It sounds like a pretty small wave to me,” Hakuju replied. “I told you to picture a big wave. I will be back at sunset to check on you.”
Onami closed his eyes. The wave in his mind grew. It rose high above his head, crashed at his feet. Onami smelled the wind off the ocean, tasted the salt on his lips. The power of the wave shook the earth around him, filled him with its echo.
Onami was deep in his meditation when Hakuju returned that evening. “Tell me about the wave,” he said.
Onami paused, not sure what to say. “It shakes the earth when it crashes. It’s frightening, but it’s also beautiful. It’s more water than I have ever seen in my life,” he said.
“It sounds like a pretty small wave to me,” Hakuju replied. “I told you to picture a big wave. I will be back at sunrise to check on you.”
Onami was disappointed. In a way, though, he was pleased to have more time to spend with the wave. He closed his eyes. All night the wave swelled and grew. Its sound was deafening inside Onami’s mind. Suddenly, it leapt forward and picked up Onami from where he had been sitting on the beach. In its core, Onami rolled and tumbled until he came out the back of the wave. Sputtering water, Onami paddled to keep up, struggled to catch the wave, to become part of it. The wave picked him up and carried him, filled him with its power. It washed through the temple, carrying it away. It washed through Onami’s school, carrying it away. It washed over the dohyo where Onami competed, carrying away the great roof and all Onami’s competitors. Nothing could stand in the path of this great wave.
“Onami!” Hakuju’s hand was on his shoulder. “Onami, it’s morning.” Onami opened his eyes. Salt water rolled off his forehead. He blinked it back, surprised to see the temple still standing. The ground all around him was dry.
“Tell me about the wave,” Hakuju said.
Onami broke into a huge grin. “I’m not sure I can,” he said. “You should have been here. It was . . .” he paused, not sure how to describe the experience.
“Go home,” Hakuju said. “And remember next time you step into the ring that you are Onami. You are the Great Wave.”
Onami’s opponent squatted opposite him beneath the great roof of the dohyo. Onami looked around. In his vision, the wave had carried all this away. “I am Onami,” he said to himself. “I am the great wave.”
The gyoji signaled with his fan. Onami felt the swell inside him. He crashed into his opponent, flowed over and through him, pushing him easily out of the ring. The judges gave the signal. He had won the match.
Robert Trias is known as the “father of American karate.” As a sailor in the United States Navy, he was the middleweight boxing champion for that branch of the service. During World War II, he was stationed in the British Solomon Islands in the South Pacific. There he studied karate and Hsing-I with Tung Gee Hsing, a Chinese martial artist. In 1945, he returned to the United States and opened America’s first commercial karate school in Phoenix, Arizona. Later he became a highway patrolman in Arizona and is credited for adapting the tonfa, an Asian martial arts weapon, into the L-shaped police baton that law enforcement officers use today.
The Hard Way to Find a Teacher
Robert Trias popped his opponent with a quick jab to the chin, followed by another, and another. His opponent danced back, shook his head, and grinned. He moved in and shot an uppercut under Trias’s lead arm but missed him by crucial inches. Trias slipped the punch and drove a glove into his opponent’s ribs. The bell rang. The two men hugged each other, thumping each other’s back with their bulky boxing gloves. They stepped through the ropes out of the ring.
“Geez, Robert,” his opponent said, tugging at the laces of his glove with his teeth. “Every time I climb into the ring with you I come out feeling like a punching bag after a hard day.”
“You got a few good ones in, too, Tom,” Trias offered.
“Yeah, right. I think one was off your arm. And the other hit your shoulder, was it?”
Trias grinned, rolling his head from shoulder to shoulder. Boxing made him feel good. He took a swig of water from a bottle next to the ring.
“Serves me right for stepping into the ring with the Navy’s top middleweight,” Tom muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Every time I fight you I learn something, though. In another twenty years you’d better watch out!”
Trias ran a towel over his regulation Navy haircut. Even the spring in Solomon Islands was hot, and a lot more humid than his home in Arizona.
“Mr. Trias?”
Trias turned to see a small Asian man make his way to the ring. “I’m Robert Trias,” he said.
“Pardon me for disturbing you. My name
