Chapter 4. Alone again .. naturally.

The dojo seemed to thrive under the new regime, and I was totally hooked! I was smitten with karate, and to a degree with the people I was starting to see and train amongst - those Vancouver brown belts. I had finally found friends in my new land.

Narumi sensei was visiting the dojo more often along with Greg and Howard. In some ways it seemed as if Graham and Isy were being relegated back to being students, which of course they always were. Greg was becoming more and more involved as the dojo leader and started to have influence in my private life as well.

The blue VW was visiting our house at least once per week. Greg was often by himself, but sometimes with others like Ritsu (a Japanese brown belt), Howard, and at times Sabu (another Japanese brown belt). They were all 1st Kyu in the Shiseikai dojo, and were to my mind the elite of the Vancouver karate scene. I wanted to be like them!

Greg would always bring a karate book with him and lend it to it to me to read. After a few minutes of idle chatting I was dispatched to my room to devour the contents of the books.

One day I was in the basement of the house, probably trying to build my training room (yes I had been given a room downstairs to turn into my own dojo!) and I moved a piece of old Gyproc. I let go of it, and it fell awkwardly. There was a galvanized nail in the board, and that nail decided, by it own volition, to pierce right through my finger. Talk about a good nukite! I went upstairs to show my parents, and they laughed, telling me to take off 'the joke ring'. But this was real. I had a nail stuck right through one of the fingers of my right hand! It did not hurt, it was not even bleeding, I was too shocked to realise I was in pain.

I was shipped off to the MSA (Matsqui Sumas and Abbotsford) medical centre and Dr. Pratt (yes, that was his real name) removed the offending object. It was not the most pleasant experience but there I was bandaged, with a war wound and a great story to tell anyone stupid enough to listen to it. I was so proud in a perverse way! I classed it as a karate injury - well I was building my dojo after all!  


Off to the Mission dojo I went, put on my do-gi, proudly showed everyone my bandaged hand and performed about 100 punches then went dizzy!

Greg took one look at me and told me to sit down. My 'punishment' for being so stupid was to read Nishiyama sensei’s book (Karate – The art of Empty Hand Fighting) that Greg 'magicked' out of his bag!  I had to sit and read it, but was not allowed to leave the dojo! I had to also watch the training and try to guess the errors that Greg was going to pick people up on. Was I going to be a karate instructor one day? That was a lesson I would never forget. Injured or not, the dojo was a place to go and learn. Karate was not only for fit people!

I was quite amazed that the stern Greg softened enough to let me slack. Was there a crack in his armour? Was there a person under that stern exterior? Hell, was Greg human? No, it had to be the Frost 222 painkillers I was ingesting. I wasn't in pain - I was stoned!

Once healed, which in reality was only a few days later, I was back in the dojo trying to terrorise the adult members, but as always without any degree of success. After all, I was an orange belt (7th Kyu) going on 10th dan!

My next secret was due to emerge in one class. Floyd and I decided to be clever and sit with the rest of the group on the wall outside during the break! Being 'grown up' and 'cool' I decided to fire up a cigarette. Floyd and I had been smoking for about a week, and now we could be part of the boys club. We were so cool (even if I wasn't inhaling as that reduced me to a spluttering wreck) sitting with the adults puffing on Craven A or similar.

Graham was none too impressed! In fact I would say he was totally disgusted. 


He asked what we should do for the second half of the class. I made a suggestion about Kihon Ippon Kumite and was told to mind my place and that it would be a good idea to ‘shut up’! What? I was mortified so inwardly I slunk away. But there was no way that I was going to be defeated! I would never leave the dojo! But I realised I was being told off either for overstepping the mark, or for being a goof and trying to smoke.

Somehow my parents discovered that I was smoking. I wonder who the informant was?  Greg, co-incidentally, said nothing about it (he wasn't there), and luckily sensei never found out or I would have been in serious trouble (my alcoholic induction was yet to come at his hands ... another great story - at least in my mind).

Practices were as per normal, always intense, but to a degree they seemed to be aimed at an upcoming grading. Greg came to the dojo one day with the announcement we were waiting for. Narumi sensei was going to conduct a kyu examination! Great news indeed! But there was a downside for Floyd and me, as Narumi sensei did not recognize orange belt. If we tested and passed then we would move to green belt 5th kyu. If we did not pass, then we would have to revert to yellow belt, but at 6th Kyu.  Narumi sensei only recognized 9th and 8th kyu as white belts, 7th and 6th kyu as yellow, and 5th and 4th kyus as green!

I was confused and ‘up in the air’ as a few weeks earlier Greg had said that Floyd was very coordinated and was doing well and me … I was uncoordinated, lanky, skinny and basically was never going to be good as long as the hole in my bottom pointed downwards! I was too gawky! I was growing like a weed, and had virtually no control over my limbs.

Was Greg serious? Really. Was I that bad? I thought ‘well my friend screw you! I will show you!’

If I failed would I really have to go back to yellow? Floyd and I spoke about it. On the day of the grading I went to Mission, nervous but determined. Floyd decided to stop training and did not come. I would not give up for one simple reason. Greg had issued me a psychological challenge, and there was no way he was going to win.

Was I nervous? Oh yes. Was I scared … hahahahahahaha! No, I wasn’t, I was bloody petrified!

Off to the dojo I went. There he was, Narumi sensei, sitting at a table looking more menacing than usual. Who else was there? Ritsu, Mitchell, Sabu, Greg, Howard? I don’t remember. Only one thing mattered; that green piece of cloth was going to be mine! I was going to become a senior grade (keeping in mind that Graham and Isy were teaching me at the start wearing green belts).

I was now probably 14 years old. For 5th Kyu we had to perform kihon ippon-kumite to Narumi's standard, hard and strong. But there was no Floyd! My safety blanket had been removed. I was the smallest and youngest and had to do the kumite with Tom! Narumi sensei had to be joking … didn’t he?  A couple of punches and kicks later, it was all over. I have no idea what basics or kata I had performed. All I remember is that I had to try and beat Tom on that kihon-ippon kumite, and he was senior to me, and older, and bigger, and you guessed it .... better! Did I achieve that? I have no idea. I don't know if I hit him, or he hit me … but I was still standing at the end, and I was in one piece.

I recall listening intently at the end of the grading. A cold look in my direction came from Narumi sensei. Oh No! My mind was reeling with the possibility of failure!

I remember being told that perhaps it was time for me to travel the 40 to 50 miles to Vancouver to train, at least once weekly.

Why? Because now I had a green belt.

I had survived that hurdle, and I had been asked to go to the heart of Shiseikai!

Floyd must have hated to see it, but I made sure I paraded around my garden training the next day, wearing that dark coloured belt. I probably stayed out there for 2 or 3 hours!

There was a second piece of icing to be put on the cake! My parents had promised me that if I passed green belt I could have a canvass do-gi … a heavy weight do-gi.  A real gi, a serious gi.  A karate man's gi. This was it - I had finally arrived!

Where the hell was Hastings Street anyway? I was soon to find out.

Once again I found myself to be the only child in a dojo full of adults. Those adults were a lot higher graded than the Mission group, so ... as Gilbert O’Sullivan would sing a few months later, I was alone again (naturally)! As the saying goes 'c'est la vie'.

Chapter 3. Hachi ... Shichi - we are going backwards!

Bitten by the bug, I was now officially a karate afficionado … an addict. After just one class!

I had talked my friend into joining with me. So now it was Floyd and I taking the drive to Mission; twice weekly. Once driven by my parents, the other by his. One class taught by Graham or Isy, the other by Greg.

We had only been in the club a few weeks, and the grading day arrived. If I recall properly it was always around the time of the birth or death of a man called Funakoshi!  Always around April and November. I had started in the March. Quite how or why Floyd and I were placed on that floor and allowed to grade I do not know, but we were.  It was proven to be a great motivational experience, and although looking back it was inevitable we would pass in order to keep our interest, we did not know it at that time. We were, to say the least, terrified!

Two young boys amongst a group of older people, mainly adult men, having to take some sort of skill test. Would we have to fight these men? Would we get hurt?

There was Isy, Graham Tom, Doug, and a man called Ed. I saw Greg walk in with two older men. One was a large looking man (I think is name was Bob), the other a small Japanese man who was, I learned, the 'sensei'. He was Hiroo Yamashiro from the Powell Street Karate Academy. This was the man who would make the decision as to whether or not I stayed a white belt, or unbelievably improbable as it seemed get awarded a yellow belt.

We all did our grading. We punched and did some simple blocks and kicks. I can still remember just about getting through Heian Shodan without falling over or turning the wrong way. Luckily we did not have to fight the men, just do some simple stepping exercises blocking and punching at each other.

I still vividly remember being given the grade of 8th Kyu - I was now the proud owner of a yellow belt! Floyd also passed, as did everyone else.

What made me most proud that night was watching Isy and Graham being promoted to brown belt! My teachers were almost black belts now!

We were treated to a demonstration by Yamashiro sensei and Bob. Co-incidentally there was an awful lot of throwing going on! This slightly confused me as much of what was happening looked like Judo. But Yamashiro sensei was so fast when he moved, I probably missed half of the punches or kicks he threw, and just saw Bob rolling around the floor. Their kiais made me laugh (a little) as they were so 'showy' but that demonstration just served to make me even more hooked. I had been reeled in like a fish on the end of a rod!

I remember going to Isy's house after the grading and sitting on the floor listening, with awe, to Yamashiro sensei speaking. He spoke to me, and told me that 'karadi' as I called it was actually 'kara tay'. He told me what the word meant, and made me promise to keep training and try hard. He regaled me with stories of training in Japan, and I guess I must have looked like the audience in front of a magician.

The training from Graham, Isy and Greg continued. Other brown belt men started to come from Vancouver too. One was a large Scotsman named Howard, and the other a small Chinese man named Mitchell. Now these guys were good! Seriously good. The Vancouver brown belts were incredible, at least to my mind! Not to say that Isy and Graham were not good, but these  guyshad something different. I was too young to realise that the difference was experience and constant training, but I looked forward to their visits over the next year!

My yellow became orange six months later. My confidence grew, and bizarrely the bullying rapidly stopped.

Another six months or so passed and Greg made an announcement about a special visitor coming to the dojo. I did not really understand too much of it. But I could feel a palpable tension in the air. Something was happening and it was big.

The next week when Greg came I was watching for his dark blue VW Beetle. Actually I couldn't miss it, the sound of the engine was unmistakable. I liked that car, especially the cool karate logo in Japanese writing that he had on the rear window!

The beetle roared into the car park (I know an exaggeration – but I was perhaps13 years old) and out of the car exited a slim and very stern looking Japanese man. He was not jovial or round like Yamashiro sensei. He did not smile. I was surprised to see him smoking a cigarette. He was young, fit, and looked very scary! Who the heck was he? Why was he here? Was there another examination?

We were introduced to Hidetada Narumi. I recall that his hair was quite wavy, and he had a caterpillar under his nose! He came into the dojo in his do-gi, and the rest of my karate life was about to change. This man was totally different. He was not fast like Yamashiro sensei. He was lightening fast! And when he counted he shouted. And to top it all off, when we did not move to his liking he whacked the floor with a funny looking bamboo sword. What the hell was this?

At the end of the session I learned that our dojo was now part of the new Vancouver dojo on West Hastings near Abbott Street; near the Woodward's building. The Powell street dojo was no longer spoken of, it just seemed to fade out of our conversations. I would hear of that dojo again, but for the meantime there was only one karate instructor spoken about - Narumi. His name was ‘sensei’. His assistant was called ‘bumper stick!’

My third step towards a new life was about to be taken ... entering the blue painted room up a flight of stairs across from the Woodward's building that was Narumi sensei's dojo ... the Shiseikai … but first there was a major obstacle yet to overcome!

Chapter 2. Ichi ... ni.

The next week my parents drove me the 12 miles from our home to Mission City. I recall it as a ride of huge anticipation! It was to become my favourite ride. We had to cross the Fraser River over a rickety old bridge that allowed traffic (or trains) in one direction only! I felt like we were looking at death in the eye and cheating it. To say you could see the river below between the wooden slats of the floor was not an understatement. Having survived that bridge crossing there was only one more obstacle ... I had to summon up the courage to walk into that gymnasium.

Enter the Dojo part 1!

Both Isy and Graham welcomed me. I can still remember some of the people in the room. The highest students were orange belts, and there were perhaps two yellow belts. One was a blonde teenager (about 17 years old) named Tom, the other a man in his late 20's named Doug. I still remember their surnames, but as I do not have their permission to publish them I will only mention them by their given names.

Isy and Graham were, I learned, 4th Kyus. Their next step was a brown belt. Wow - brown belt - didn't that mean black was next? They were almost experts! I was learnng from experts! Enough of that … it was time to be donning my white pyjamas. I entered the dojo, and spent the next two hours learning the straddle leg stance, punch, and the rising block. That is all I can recall from that class, but it was enough! I was going to return, even if I had to walk there! Okay, maybe not, if I had to walk over that bridge.

My second class was a bit of a shock!

I bowed into the dojo, it was no longer a school gymnasium. I caught myself smiling, as I had also started bowing every time I entered my own school gym! I must have looked insane at school! But as I was the only one learning karate, it made me different, but this time in a good way!

After bowing in, I looked around the dojo and Isy and Graham were talking to a man who had his do-gi hanging from his hand; it was rolled up with a brown belt around it. I thought ‘who was this guy?’ ‘Why was he here?’ ‘Where did he come from?’

Greg, as I found out, had come from the main dojo in Vancouver. He was one of the senior students of a man I was to meet just a couple of weeks later. He had come or had been sent to check the dojo, as there was to be an examination for belt grades.

Greg was very different to Isy and Graham, he was so serious. He was younger than them, with a severe hair-cut. He was almost scary he seemed so intense. With the greatest respect to him, I recall thinking he could have worn an army uniform in a war film! Maybe I had made the wrong decision? Maybe it was time to find something else to do?

Greg did not smile very much, he just glared and made us do things over and over. I had no idea what a front or round kick was, but I had done my homework from the previous week. I had practised my kiba-dachi and age-uke! At least I thought I had to the satisfaction of the greatest critic … me! I hoped it impressed him.

I seemed to survive that class, and recall seeing Greg speaking to my parents at the end of the class. I wondered what that was all about? I never did find out.

The old Mission Bridge, clickety clack!

Yes it was long!

The mighty Fraser River.

Chapter 1. 1968 - Hajime!

We have all heard the phrase "the first step is the hardest to take." 

In my case that first step is metaphorical with regards to my practice in karate-do, specifically the Japanese style of Shotokan-ryu. I clearly … no, I vividly remember, that first step; one taken by a small boy trying to fit into a foreign land. A step taken with trepidation! Why?

I recall thinking that my secret was out! I thought people would know why I was taking that step! My life would be opened like the pages of a book in a public library. But there was no longer any place to hide; I found myselt sitting in the rear seat of my parent's car heading towards my date with destiny. It sounds so dramatic now, but at that time it truly was - well at least in my eyes - the eyes of a 12 year old!

I guess it was a positive step in my life, one that seemed almost akin to entering another parallel universe. The transition I found myself about to undertake would all but change my life forever; my story was about to become bolder if not better. One thing was for certain; I would never be that same person again!

I crossed the threshold of an elementary school gymnasium in a town called Mission City in British Columbia.

Just how co-incidental would that step be within the tapestry that was to become my life?

Only a little over a year before I had moved from Bridgend, South Wales to Abbotsford, British Columbia. That voyage was of course a life changing one, and after travelling by boat, and train we arrived in a small town called Mission City. A family lost in a small town located across the Fraser River from our final destination, Abbotsford.  Mission City was, to my mind, a town from the Wild West! I was waiting for the cowboys and indians to ride past, whooping and hollering. I expected to see people carrying six-shooters! Instead I saw huge cars with fins on the rear, looking like strange whales moving on the wrong side of the road. We waited for a taxi at the Canadian Pacific train station for what seemed like hours. Little did I know what that town (Mission) would come to mean to me, or the influence that it would have on my very existence.

There I was a young boy, in a strange land; lost and confused yet thrilled to be starting a new life. Unknowingly that boy was about to learn what it was like to be bullied!

It started when I was promoted from grade 6 (my age group) to grade 7 after only two weeks in the school. I recall sitting some sort of exams, and then being moved off! SO now I was the youngest in the class by a year, and I was the one who spoke ‘funny’. The bullying started, groups of kids asking me to show up after school to do something, then being subjected to taunting! I did what most kids did … kept it to myself.

So there I was, perhaps eighteen months later, once again standing in Mission City. For some strange reason I was re-tracing my footsteps for the second time. That same small and strangely named town was becoming part of my life again.

My Welsh accent was not accepted, my turn of phrase too different. My father was a school-teacher, with a reputation for strictness; and I became the perfect victim; a small, shy, skinny Welsh boy who was the son of that school teacher. Every time my father upset someone, or someone’s brother or sister, I seemed to 'cop the fallout!'

I had told my parents of the bullying, and the rugby team (of which my father was coach) was dispatched to speak to my bullies! This mortified me even more because now I was using people I did not even know to fight my battles for me. It was nice to have an army behind me, but there was no respect to be gained, just more ridicule - although the verbal bullying was not as bad as the physical!

Somehow we found out about a karate club across the river. And that is how I found myself, approaching the school. My dirty secret was about to come out! The people there would know why I had come. Would they laugh at me? Would they too scorn me? Did I really want to take that first step into the room? Would I fit in? What if it was all in vain?

There I stood, looking through the open door into the school gymnasium and I was instantly transfixed. Watching people dressed in those funny white pyjamas, moving around the floor performing strange but exciting maneuvers excited me. It made me feel something I had not experienced before.  I had experienced Judo back in Wales, but it was not for me. This 'karadi' was different. I wanted to become part of it.

These people seemed to move so fast; yet the scene unfolding itself was becoming etched in my mind in some sort of slow motion play.

Our television had been able to receive the ABC TV Network, and I had seen the Green Hornet. These guys were doing what 'Kato' did. Punching and kicking, with what seemed to be effortless concentration and skill. Karate looked, to me, a little like a strange dance, but the controlled aggression immediately struck a chord within me. I wanted to become part of that parallel world. I wanted to escape my life. I wanted to become a karate-ka. Most of all I wanted to wear a green belt around those pyjamas, like the two instructors who were named Isy and Graham. I wanted to become someone!

They seemed to understand my plight, and although all the people in the room were older teenagers or adults, and I was still pre-teen, I was told I could start at their next session. I have no idea what happened on that ride home, I was imagining what it would be like to join those people in the funny pyjamas.

I was told that I did not need a set of pyjamas for my first class, but there was no way I was going to be different again! This time I wanted to fit in right from the outset. I was going to learn that ‘hajime’ meant to start, and I was ready to do just that, with all guns blazing.

So my pyjamas, the ‘do-gi’, were ordered. It, and I, would be there for the next session.

I knew that by donning that uniform something was going to change. Little did I realise just how much, and what an influence on my life karate was going to become.  To be more precise karate was to consume my life.

CPR Station, Misson, BC (1990 Photo)

Abbotsford, BC.

Matsqui Prairie, Abbotsford, looking from Mission!