Travel

“When I’m a blue belt…”

I uttered that phrase a lot when a tattered white belt still hung from my waist.  Many times it precluded a joke.  “When I get my blue belt…I’ll stop showing up to warm-ups.”  “When I get my blue belt…I’ll finally learn berimbolos.”  “When I get my blue belt…I’ll get a tattoo.”  Pretty much leaning into jiu-jitsu memes and clichés before even advancing to the color belts.

When I’m a blue belt…I wanted to embrace the “journey” a bit more.  This meant competing at more than local New Breed or NAGA tournaments, being more cognizant of my learning and growth, attending seminars, drilling and holding myself accountable for clean techniques, and doing jiu-jitsu while traveling.  This last part, not necessarily part of most journeys, felt important to me.  I traveled a lot for work, for pleasure, for really any reason at all.  I also liked jiu-jitsu.  Why not marry them?

There were a lot of reasons to keep them separated.  Creonte-ism (being branded a traitor for training somewhere else).  Fear of injury (I’m still a small-framed, mid-30s human being) from some random rolling partner that doesn’t care if I limp my way back to my hotel.  My ingrained shyness, especially towards jumping into potentially awkward social situations.  A deep-lying imposter syndrome (do I really deserve my blue belt).  A whole pu-pu platter of relatively weak reasons, but reasons enough that the Gi I packed in my suitcase never saw the light of day.

Returning from one of those trips (I think Cincinnati), while still a white belt, I searched the Internet for “travel” and “jiu-jitsu.”  At first, I wanted to understand the etiquette of this.  Did I have to pay a fee?  Were there uniform requirements?  Were there weird traditions to be aware of?  Generally, though, it was okay to train while traveling.  In today’s hyper-connected society, people understood you needed a good sweat while away from home. 

When searching “travel” and “jiu-jitsu,” though, I found something I didn’t expect.  I found camps.  Apparently someone had the brilliant idea of bringing together people who enjoyed traveling and grappling and stirring them all together in some location worth visiting.  I mean, who wants to go to Cincinnati just to train?  Much less 100s of people?  Who wants to go to Copenhagen and hang out for a week, but also train?  Yes, please.  Who wants to travel to the Caribbean for a few days and also train?  Definitely.  So I found BJJ Globetrotters.

Hence I promised myself, “When I get my blue belt…I’ll sign up for a camp.”  And so I did.

##

Advertising is a fascinating concept.  To quote The Lego Movie, “Everything is awesome!”  No one advertises a bad time.  No one posts a picture of the someone sitting in the corner by themselves, crying into their hands because they just had the worst experience imaginable.  The same extends to products (“This cornballer burns you every time you touch it.  But definitely buy it.”) or movies (“No one enjoyed this movie.  Check your local listings.”) or really anything.  It’s always about putting your best foot forward.

For BJJ Globetrotters camps, the website displays a multitude of smiling faces, people slap-hugging (a semi-staple of our sport), wearing goofy outfits, having a few beers, and generally enjoying themselves.  For the USA camp, it showed a bunch of people wearing Gis and smiling and generally having a good time while holding bits and pieces of Americana (red, white, and blue spats; an American flag tossed over a shoulder; a bottle of Budweiser pushed towards the sky in a salute).  Campers stood in front of cabins, rolled on wrestling mats in a large gymnasium, and ate altogether in a mess hall. 

The USA Maine camp mirrored my pre-teen days bunking in cabins with a bunch of relative strangers (and maybe new friends), running through the woods, swimming in lakes, and otherwise taking a break from the world, but with a lot more Gi burns and a lot less acne and braces.  Sprinkle in some jiu-jitsu and I was sold.

##

Everything I knew about Maine, I learned from reading Stephen King novels.  I imagined a bloody trip through the New England countryside while running from clowns, rabid dogs, and mysterious men in black dusters.  Ironically, that might have sold me even more.

Then it came down to logistics.  I’d be traveling alone, expected to rent a car and drive an hour and half into the woods, and show up to a place with 100s of strangers and live at a summer camp for almost a week.  I wasn’t sure if there would be WiFi or good weather or warm showers or an impending outbreak of ringworm.  All I knew, though, was the chance to unplug from work and spend a few days on the mats.  I could deal with that, but I had to admit to being quite scared-excited.

I’d never rented a car.  I’d never gone on a solo vacation.  I’d never driven in an unfamiliar place.  I’d never really trained outside of Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu.  I was particular about my laundry and diet and training regimen (weights, etc.).  I wasn’t much for drinking or staying up late if I planned to train the next day.  In short, I’m not really the type of person to do any of this.  This was not me.  I wanted to change that.

After a few clicks, I bought a ticket to stay in a bunk with about a dozen strangers (presumably guys).  Then I booked my airline tickets to Maine.  Finally, I texted my wife while my heart still surged in my chest.  “Going to Maine.”

##

I didn’t learn to drive until I was 19.  My sister taught me on her stick-shift Toyota Corolla.  After that, I still generally avoided driving.  Yet there I was in the middle of Maine and renting a car for the first time.  I wasn’t 100% sure where I was headed (despite cellphone maps), but there I was traveling deep into the forests of Maine.

Landing in Portland, near the water, it reminded me of any small coastal town.  Anchors and lighthouses adorned touristy knickknacks such as coffee mugs and t-shirts.  Bearded and barrel-chested men lumbered in and out of pick-ups while fishing poles poked from the beds.  The women wore faded fleece jackets and jeans.  I knew this vibe.  This was where I grew up (Alaska). Isolated, rugged, independent, and probably a bit off our rockers.  I could handle this.  Unless there was a clown holding a red balloon.  That…I wasn’t sure I could handle.

The road to camp punched through the middle of nothing.  Miles disappeared in the rearview mirror.  Construction dotted the two lanes heading west.  Long stretches of pavement were peeled back, leaving scarred and bumpy blacktop that would (presumably) be filled with fresh pavement.  The rented Nissan’s tires slipped a bit in these stretches.  I gripped the wheels with white knuckles.  I reminded myself to breathe, waiting for the road to smooth out again.  These stretches lasted a mile or so before a brief reprieve.  I turned up the music beaming in from my iPhone and continued my grip on the wheel.

I forget the actual mileage, but it took about an hour and a half to two hours to hit the off-ramp towards Oakland, ME.  I remember counting down the miles and estimated time of arrival.  It became a chant with words of encouragement.  “One more hour.  You got this.  50 more miles, now 49.”  This is what it took for me to drive that distance, hoping to maintain a semblance of control on the car and not end up careening away from a random deer or randomly swerving around a rabid St. Bernard before ending up in a fiery crash on the side of the road.

##

I was the first to arrive at my cabin.  The bunks lay bare.  Blankets, sheets, pillows, and sleeping bags were piled or folded on one of the bunks near the entrance.  I paced around the room and took a few lounging seconds on a couple of beds before deciding on one in the left back corner.  The head faced the wall, away from the windows, but still had an electrical outlet.  This could work.

After making my bed and unpacking and switching to sweatpants and a hoodie, I sat alone in the room.  A few voices passed the cabin, heading this way or that, but always away.  It was cool, but not frigid.  I was glad I brought my usual travel “blanket” (an US Army issue poncho liner).  I turned off the overhead bulbs, leaving a little bit of moonlight streaming in from the entrance.  Stretching out in the sleeping bag, I felt an amalgamation of being 10-years-old again and a weird, questioning version of my mid-30s.  What was I doing here?  Shouldn’t I have a meeting to get ready for?  Why was I already enjoying myself in this solitude and isolation?

I texted my wife a bit, the only string to the life back home that I really cared about, before turning off my electronics and closing my eyes.

##

Waking the next morning, I sat on my bunk, hesitant to unwind from the sleeping bag and start the day. Early sunlight pushed through a couple of windows.  Birds chirped somewhere in the distance.  It was early.  No human sounds – engines, talking, footsteps – broke the feeling of solitude.  I remembered living with my sister in an A-frame cabin in Palmer, Alaska.  It felt like this.  Loneliness starts comforting you.  You don’t want to reintegrate into society, alone with your own thoughts, maybe turning off the alarm clock before shutting your eyes again, no expectations or demands to be anywhere.  Once the sleep ends, you (emphasis you) decide what you want to do today.

I pulled on some workout shorts, shoes, and a hoodie before unwrapping a protein bar from an assortment I brought to camp in case hunger struck between the provided three square meals-a-day.  I filled my water bottle, splashed some pre-workout into the mix, and made my way to the gym.  My footsteps broke the sereneness of the morning.  My breath hovered around me like a cloud.  It was very likely I was the first up.

The previous evening, I poked around the gymnasium and found a smaller room towards the back of the building.  Rusting free weights and barbells sat beside benches whose stuffing slithered from seams and cracks.  A few warped dumbbells sat on a couple of racks.  Miscellaneous other pieces of equipment dotted the rest of the room, but for the most part it would do.  I could skip rope, file through basic weight routines, or simply be creative.  And this is how I chose to start my day.

After my workout, I returned to the cabin and curled myself back into my sleeping bag.  Wind whistled through tree leaves.  I remembered this sound, nature’s version of white noise, and my eyes drooped shut.  I woke to the cabin door slamming.  My first roommate arrived.

I don’t remember who this was.  I made no friends in my cabin that year.  It only signified that people were arriving.  As I woke, the sounds of the world broke the magic of the morning.  Footsteps slapped against hardwood floors.  Car tires crunched across gravel.  A few voices yelled from a distance.  Doors slammed.  Toilets flushed.  This was camp and people spread their presence like the rising sun.

Introductions started.  Names, where you train, what belt, how long you’ve been training, etc.  At the time, I had trained right around one year.  To many, that meant I was either an upper white belt or a fresh blue belt.  The latter proved correct.  This repeated over and over again for each set of cabin-mates.  The main group, though, were from a relatively local gym (Connecticut or Massachusetts or New Hampshire).  One large round of introductions capped off their arrival, which then led to grabbing some late breakfast before attending the opening gathering for the camp.

##

A hundred people or more huddled together on long swaths of wrestling mats.  The gymnasium’s double doors hung open, letting the cool morning air tumble in even as the sun started warming the day.  We wore hoodies and sweats and a few Gis.  We tucked our hands in pockets or blew on our palms.  This was life in a northern forest.  You’re rarely freezing, but you’re always a little cold.

A tall Danish guy sauntered to the front of the gymnasium.  He wore slim-fit pants and a t-shirt with an American eagle screen-printed on the front.  Curly blonde hair hung down almost to his shoulders.  This was Christian, the original BJJ Globetrotter.  Our own personal crazy conductor of backwoods fight clubs and parties.  He reminded me of a hesitant rock star.  Not a strutting, needy, attention-whoring personality that begged for everyone to notice them.  Not the cocksure, smirking, Tyler Durden sort who smirked through a cult of personality.

Instead, he seemed shy, almost hesitant to take too much of our time except to provide the most necessary information, such as camp rules and setting the general tone.  Through a lingering Dutch accent, he cracked jokes at his own expense and poked fun at the whole event – grown adults paying money to stay in a kids’ camp to roll around and sweat on each other.  This was the opposite of a cult leader.  This was the opposite of serious business.

Even the camp rules followed the same semi-seriousness.  Let’s all just have a good time vibe:  Smile, make new friends, don’t stink, no fights to the death, and respect the mats when a class was in session.  Really it came down to be friendly, have good hygiene, and don’t be a jerk.

Pretty easy rules to follow, really.  No bowing.  No uniform policies.  No hierarchical line-ups.  Simply  have fun and respect each other and let’s not be gross.  I mean, this sounds simple, right?  Well, it was.  No one expected you to go to any classes or open mat.  No one expected you to miss any classes or open mat.  No one cared if you showed up or didn’t show up.  No one cared if you hid out in your bunk or practically camped out on the mats.  That’s the point.  No one cared and in that came freedom to be yourself and choose your own adventures for the next  few days.

What a concept.

And with that, the first open mat started.

##

Open mats present their own social complexity to jiu-jitsu.  Some people live for them, ready to strap on their Gis and go to war for two, three hours at a time.  To these grapplers, open mat is a less structured competition in which they can go home and relive the glory of a number of rolls.  “Man, I really took it to that one blue belt.  Practically shipped him back down to white belt.”  From an economic perspective, it makes sense.  Structured competitions can be expensive.  You might get one match (if you’re an early exit) or maybe only a couple matches if you win a smaller division.  Then you might have to make weight or wear a particular Gi.  You have to abide by a ruleset with human referees interpreting those rules.  All of it adds to the insanity of competitions and you start to question whether or not it’s even worth it, both in regards to time and cost.

Before this camp, I’d never attended an open mat outside my home academy and that presented a problem.  I’m still small, the paint still drying on my blue belt, and the last few months comprised of being horribly injured.  With nearly 200 people on the mat, what a way to dive right back in. 

Strangers strolled around the mat looking for partners.  It reminded me of a junior high dance where some cocky and outgoing guys were able to always rustle up a dance partner, while the wallflowers (me) nodded at other wallflowers when the right song came on.  Nonetheless, I was unknown and frankly looked to be easy pickings.  I accepted all rolls, as this was the whole point of the camp (in my opinion)…mat time.

Considering myself a semi-expert in half guard, I pulled to this right away.  Subsequently, guys smashed me down with their weight or length.  They stretched me out and Darce choked me or simply guillotined me until the room spun and I tapped.  I held my own in guard, not letting an easy pass, but I tapped a ton.  Even on top, where I felt like my pressure usually decided my competition matches, people whipped to complex guards like DLR and pummeled me to the mat before coming on top with another choke.  I remember a multitude of big guys smashing me.  I remember lanky guys tying me up.  I don’t remember a lot of success, although there’s no way I was at the utter bottom of the blue belt hierarchy.  Yet I do remember feeling like I sucked.  A lot.

After a few rolls and as people started wandering off to their cabins or to get some food, I sat there a little dazed and realized how much I had to learn.  Just to make sure I didn’t totally suck and needed to go home and burn my blue belt, I asked a wallflower white belt to roll.  I smashed him.  I did the same to another white belt who asked me to roll, expecting an easy time when he outweighed me by at least 50 lbs.  I mounted him before subbing him with an Ezekiel choke.  He slithered off to the other side of the mat, leaving me with a small sense of victory.  Yet beating white belts, no matter their stripes, didn’t feel good.  It maintained my feeling of being an imposter blue belt.

Sure…I was still a fresh blue belt.  The growth between blue and purple tends to be the broadest.  I was still recovering from my broken arm.  I hadn’t even been training for a full year (~11 months at that time).  Big breath.  I can wipe away my ego for the next few days and keep learning and growing.  That’s what I was there for. 

But man, all the colored belts (blue and above) intimidated me.  Athletic, lanky guys with four raggedy stripes hanging from their blue belt practiced bolos in one corner.  A few stocky wrestlers in rash guards and shorts dove at each other’s legs and ankles.  Thick, bearded blue belts stomped around the mat still looking for easy prey (like me).  Yet here I was, holding down a far corner and wondering if I even belonged.

So I bumped fists and went again.  This was the way to get better, even if it meant I was easy pickings.

##

“Okay guys…”

All the classes are taught by black belts, albeit Judo classes were taught by a Judo (rather than BJJ) black belt.  Many instructors owned/operated local academies in the greater New England area.  Others drove up from Maryland or New York or Pennsylvania.  A couple even flew in from Oregon or Colorado or Europe (my memory is foggy here and don’t intend to equate a whole continent to a single US state – that would be very American of me – nonetheless I don’t want to attribute someone’s nationality to the wrong nation).  Classes ran most of the day, starting around 9 am and ending at some point in the evening.  Open mats broke up the day, but the vast majority of mat time was dedicated to classes.

At some point it becomes too much.

“Okay guys…we’re going to learn about spider guard.”

“Okay guys…we’re going to work some pressure passes.”

“Okay guys…anybody want to learn some cool chokes?”

“Okay guys…you ever get smashed in half guard and not know what to do?”

Even as a veritable sponge, trying to soak it all in without previous bias or expectations, even after the first few hours, it felt too much.  I quickly learned these camps were a marathon.  People dropped off the radar after the first open mat.  They went hard, trying to win scalps and elbows and heels.  Then I never saw them on the mat again.  They meandered out to the swaying hammocks hanging from thick oak trees or simply stayed in their bunks to catch up on sleep.  Or I partnered with someone during an early class, then by the evening sessions they were burnt out, lounging on the bleachers or creeping near the mess hall to be the first in line for chow.

Yet I kept chugging along.  I grabbed some water or a protein bar from my backpack before scampering back to the next class.

“Okay guys…”

##

At this point, you’ve probably pegged me as an introvert.  I am.  Although I’m not one of those reclusive, live in a cabin and only come out to get groceries sorts.  I do enjoy the presence of people, but I’m definitely one to walk my own path.  Generally (but not always), this has served me well.

So why would someone that eats alone, trains all day, barely talks to his cabin-mates, and otherwise keeps to themselves want to attend a camp?  Surrounded by dozens of people at any given moment, yet continues to be alone sounds sad.  It does.  I get it, but there’s 100+ people at these things.  You’re bound to come across others like yourself.

If you’re the type of person that likes wearing rainbow-colored spats as you twist people’s knees apart…there’s a group for you.  If you like to drink beers in your cabin and talk about the glory days on repeat…there’s a group for you and I’ll gladly switch cabins with you.  If you like to show up to almost every class and all the open mats, just trying to improve without falling apart…oh, and you happen to be smaller and a bit older…we have a group for you and “hi.”

It started at open mats.  Eyeballing the various grapplers, you get an idea of approximately where everyone stands (or rolls).  Sometimes, especially that first day, you learn through getting tuned up or tuning someone up.  In other ways, especially as you avoid the 20-year-old ex-wrestler doing cartwheel passes and flying bicep slicers, you start to learn who you can safely roll with.  For me, I learned I could safely roll with a guy named Jason.  He was a blue belt, like me, with a bit more wear and tear on his belt.  He trained in Colorado, but balanced a family and an impressive career.  Not to mention other hobbies such as biking and developing apps.  Yet here we were bumping fists in Maine and quickly learning that even as raw as our grappling was, we still could keep flowing and have good, technical rolls.  It didn’t matter who won or lost, in fact I don’t remember, but I remember feeling comfortable enough that neither of us would get hurt and both of us could put our egos aside and try techniques or concepts we learned that week.

My favorite class was one on rolling back takes.  I’d never seen that before, except in highlight videos where I didn’t understand anything going on.  For the class, a guy covered in tattoos and lounging on the mat like some Cheshire Cat (or tired Doberman) sarcastically walked us through a million ways to twister/ninja roll people.  From side.  From mount.  From pretty much anywhere, you could roll through and get someone’s back.  The technique definitely intrigued me, but more so the instructor’s tough, yet sardonic humor is what grabbed my attention.  It reminded me of my brother.  A good heart, but also trying to hold you and others to a higher standard with humor sprinkled in to soften the edges.  He was one of a few instructors who I made a note of where they owned a gym.  In this case, Colorado Springs, CO.  His name:  Ben.

After the initial surge of ass-whippings, the pecking order stabilized.  I tapped all white belts that asked me to roll.  As I started making my way through the dregs of blue belts (not the uber-athletes and giants), my eyeballs drifted toward the purple belts (there were almost none) and the smattering of brown belts on the mat.  With one brown belt, I held my own for quite a while before succumbing to a pressure pass and submission (probably a kimura or arm bar).  In short, I felt I was holding my own once my ego recovered from the first open mat.  Yet one fading purple belt eluded me.  He was about my size and maybe a handful of years older than me.  He called me “Tommy!” as he beckoned me over to his table in the mess hall.  So, towards the end of the week, I summoned the courage to ask Steve to roll.  At this point, I felt a bit cocky, like I could handle this guy and prove I at least could do well against people approximately my size and age.  I ended up getting loop choked repeatedly.  From bottom, from top, from side, from left, from right.  This was my lot in life, to continuously get loop choked as I realized I had much to learn.  For some reason, though, I enjoyed this.  This is what I had to look forward to in a few years.  A tattered purple belt and an ability to nonchalantly tap uppity blue belts from all angles.  With that, I made another Globetrotters friend:  Steve.

##

As I loaded my belongings back in the rented Nissan, I remembered the creepiness of Stephen King and didn’t looking forward to the early morning drive across the state.  Again, I expected haunted rooms and rabid dogs and creepy clowns and possessed cars to keep popping up on the empty highway.  No way would I escape Maine that easily.

During my drive, I listened to music and started thinking back on my first BJJ Globetrotters camp.  The week started with questioning my belt rank and going through the introvert’s usual uncomfortable phase around new people.  Yet, like most things in my life, I kept showing up.  Time added up.  Days passed by and I persevered.

I grew more confident in my belt.  I learned that half guard wasn’t a long-term sustainable primary guard for someone my size.  It was too easy for larger opponents to simply lay one me, waiting for me to tire or flatten out or slip up.  I needed better options and my open guard knowledge was severely limited, like a void in space quietly needing filled.  Yet, by the end of the week I started getting to, retaining, and playing from DLR.  It wasn’t anything to shout about, but it was a glimmer of something.

I held my own or did well against others like me – older, smaller blue belts.  I surprised a few people looking for an ego boost from someone smaller and older.  When I swept them and passed their guard (still can’t finish anyone) over and over again, it reminded me that there were bits and pieces of knowledge and technique kicking around my muscle memory.  I wasn’t the worst person on the mats.  That much I could guarantee.

I started making friends.  I sat with people.  We chatted about where we’re from, what we do for a living, how we got into this sport, and why we decided to come to a camp.  As the week progressed, we talked about which classes we liked the most or which instructors were most helpful.  I remembered a solid handful from that first camp – Ben and Nate and Trenton – whose classes and instruction and vibe really stuck with me.  I hoped to see them again in future camps.

And there it was.  I realized I would inevitably attend another camp.  I wasn’t sure where, as a jump to a non-USA camp seemed crazy.  Even then, I logged into the Delta Airlines app and realized there were direct flights from Atlanta to the Caribbean Islands.  So I became a budding Globetrotter.