Lineage: What We Receive, What We Pass On
From a boy who trained alone in the mountains to a teacher who dreams of continuing to learn until he is a hundred years old. A story about the people who taught us, gratitude, and the responsibility of passing on what we have received.
1. Before I Had a Teacher, I Had the Mountains
For as long as I can remember, martial arts have held a special fascination for me.
I grew up in a large family of modest means. During my early childhood, we lived in Conchalí, a district of Santiago, Chile. My father, Ángel, worked as an intercity bus driver and an automotive mechanic; my mother, María Elvira, devoted much of her life to looking after our home and raising us. She had also trained as a hairdresser and, for a time, ran her own beauty salon.
We were seven siblings. And we still are.
Although money was not always enough for everything, I remember a happy childhood, surrounded by love.
I was a shy and rather solitary child. I struggled with a stutter so severe that, at times, I could barely speak. Expressing myself in front of others could be an agonizing experience. Sometimes I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but the words simply would not come out.
There was, however, something that stirred my excitement like few other things: the heroes I watched on television.
First came Mazinger Z. Then Jet Marte (Jetter Mars, created by Osamu Tezuka). And finally, Sankuokay (Message from Space: Galactic Wars), which completely captured my imagination.
I was fascinated by the battles, the movements, and that combination of courage, discipline and determination.
In 1982, we moved to El Arrayán, a neighborhood in the foothills of the Andes, on the eastern side of Santiago. I was six years old, and suddenly the mountains, the river, and the wide-open spaces became my world.
I couldn't afford to train at a martial arts club. I had no uniform, no tatami mats, and no instructors. But I had my imagination and an overwhelming desire to learn.
I would climb into the mountains and practice alone. I threw punches and kicks into the air, tried to recreate the movements I had seen on television, and invented my own training routines.
Many years later, I would joke that it had been my own Chilean version of Dagestani training.
Of course, back then I had no idea what I was doing. But looking back, I believe those early experiences awakened something that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
I did not simply want to learn how to fight. I was also searching for a way to feel more confident in myself.
2. The First Teachers I Didn't Know I Had
Although I trained alone in the mountains, my earliest martial arts influences did not come from television alone.
My brother-in-law, Patricio Cuéllar, whom we affectionately called Patito, had married my sister Pauly when they were both very young. My earliest memories of him go back to the years when we still lived in Conchalí.
Patito was a young man of the 1980s, fascinated by Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris. He practiced Karate, and I would watch him train, admiring his strength, speed, and agility.
I was so shy that I never dared to ask him to teach me formally. Perhaps I picked up a few punches and kicks from him, but what I remember most is simply watching him.
There was one technique that particularly impressed me: De-ashi-barai, a foot sweep he used to take his opponent down, followed by those characteristic Karate strikes.
Long before I ever stepped onto a dojo mat, Patito was one of the first martial artists I had seen with my own eyes.
My father, Ángel, had also practiced boxing, as many men of his generation had.
I remember watching him shadowbox. His movements were precise, quick, and effective.
There was something in the way he moved and threw his punches that revealed skills developed many years earlier.
His physical strength was extraordinary, too. Until just a few months before he passed away at the age of 98, he was still chopping firewood. He had broad shoulders and a well-defined back, with muscles that were remarkable even at his age.
As a child, I admired him for that strength. Our relationship was rather distant back then, but over the years we grew closer, building a deep bond of trust and affection. As adults, we shared conversations and confidences that remain among my most treasured memories.
Without realising it, I had been learning from them long before I attended my first formal martial arts class.
3. The Spiritual Search
During my childhood in El Arrayán, I was fortunate to meet someone who would leave a profound mark on my life: Monsignor Cirilo Polidoro Van Vlierberghe, a Belgian-born Franciscan friar and Bishop Emeritus of Illapel, who used to spend much of his time in El Arrayán.
He was already an elderly man, humble, hardworking and extraordinarily kind. To me, meeting him was the closest thing to meeting a living saint.
I remember our long conversations about theology with particular affection. Despite my young age, I found in him someone willing to talk, share his knowledge and listen to my questions.
But what left the deepest impression on me was not simply our conversations. It was the way he lived the Gospel. Through his example, I came to understand that spirituality was not merely about studying, praying or speaking about God, but also about how we treat others, how we work and how we live each day.
His example profoundly influenced my understanding of faith, and he was one of the people who awakened my religious vocation.
At sixteen, after finishing secondary school, I felt a spiritual calling and entered the seminary of the Legionaries of Christ.
For two years, I studied theology, philosophy, Latin and Gregorian chant. It was an important period in my development, awakening in me a love of learning, discipline, reflection and the search for meaning.
During those years, I was fortunate to have an Irish priest, Father John O'Brien, overseeing my formation. His simplicity, his deep sense of vocation and his dedication to teaching left a lasting impression on me.
More than thirty years later, I still remember him with great affection and gratitude.
Looking back, I realise that he was one of those teachers whose example stayed with me long after our paths had parted.
Gregorian chant also introduced me to the study of breathing, diction and the use of my voice. Although those exercises did little to help with my stutter at the time, some of the techniques I learnt would stay with me for many years.
Eventually, I had to decide whether to continue my religious formation in Europe, with the possibility of studying in Salamanca and later in Rome. In the end, I chose to remain close to my family.
I have never considered those years a waste of time. Quite the opposite: many of the lessons I received continue to guide me to this day.
Without realising it, that spiritual search was preparing me to discover another tradition that would bring together so many of the things I had been searching for.
4. The Day I Found My Path
In 1994, I began working at the Hyatt Hotel in Santiago, in the laundry department. For the first time, I had an income of my own and could look for a school where I could formally study martial arts.
I turned to the Yellow Pages.
I visited different schools, watched classes and tried various disciplines, hoping to find something that truly answered what I was searching for.
Until I came across Aikikai Chile, located at Libertad 86, in central Santiago, where it continues to operate to this day.
I remember that day with a clarity that still surprises me. I went in to watch a class and, suddenly, everything seemed to fall into place.
The precise, harmonious movements, the ceremonial etiquette, Reigi (礼儀), the Kiai (気合), and the practices of Ame no Torifune (天之鳥船) and Furitama (振魂).
That Japanese tradition, which until then I had known mainly through books, films and scattered images, was alive before my eyes.
It was not simply a way of fighting. It was a way of practising, studying and relating to others.
My eyes filled with tears.
“This is it. This is what I've been looking for.”
I felt that I had found something I had been searching for over many years.
There, I met teachers who left a lasting mark on my development. What I remember most about Jorge Rojo is his technical precision and his use of Metsuke (目付け), the deliberate direction of the gaze. From Elson Olea and Mario Perillán, I remember the fluidity of their movements and their impeccable Ukemi (受け身).
Over time, I also explored the history of Morihei Ueshiba, Sōkaku Takeda, and teachers such as Morihiro Saito and Hitohira Saito.
I began to discover that tradition was not something distant, confined to old books. It was something I could practise, experience and come to understand for myself.
At the time, I did not yet realise that by entering that dojo, I was becoming part of a story far older than myself.
Every movement, every bow and every teaching had travelled a long way before reaching my hands.
5. Finding My Voice Among the Mountains
During those years, something happened that would become particularly important in my life.
I began returning to the mountains of El Arrayán. But this time, I was no longer the boy who imagined fights inspired by what he had seen on television.
Now, I was practising Aikido.
I performed Ame no Torifune and Furitama, repeating their movements while coordinating my breathing and my voice.
I would climb into the mountains alone and practise over and over again, accompanying the exercises with the Kiai I had learnt at the dojo.
Ei ho! Ei ho! Ei ho!
Ei ha! Ei ha! Ei ha!
Ei, ei! Ei, ei! Ei, ei!
I shouted at the top of my lungs, surrounded by the echoes of the mountains.
Those exercises in breathing, movement and vocal expression helped me develop confidence and self-control.
For much of my childhood, I had struggled to find the words I wanted to say.
Now, I was learning to use my breathing, my body and my voice in a different way.
That does not mean my stutter disappeared. Even today, when I speak too quickly or become nervous, it can still make itself felt.
But martial arts gave me tools to face those difficulties and develop a better relationship with myself.
Long before I fully understood its meaning, I was beginning to experience something I would later recognise in a teaching of Morihei Ueshiba:
Masakatsu Agatsu (正勝吾勝) — True victory is victory over oneself.
6. The Encounter with Jiu-Jitsu
As I delved deeper into Aikido, my curiosity about the Jiu-Jitsu associated with the old Japanese schools also grew. I had read about Sōkaku Takeda and Daitō-ryū (大東流), but the information available was limited.
Then, a recording of the first Ultimate Fighting Championship found its way into my hands.
Watching Royce Gracie face and defeat physically imposing opponents from different martial arts had an enormous impact on me.
There was something I could not understand.
How was he able to control those fighters using positions and movements I had never studied?
I wanted to learn.
But in Chile during the 1990s, finding Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu instruction was not easy.
It was Professor Fernando Delgado who eventually opened that door for me.
Fernando, who would also have an important influence on my development in Aikido and, later, Iwama-Ryu, told me that he had been training in Jiu-Jitsu.
One day, he gave me a demonstration. From a position that was completely unfamiliar to me at the time — side control — he established a figure-four grip and applied an Americana shoulder lock.
I tried to escape and ended up injuring my elbow.
It was hardly a gentle introduction.
But that experience finally convinced me that I needed to understand this world.
I accepted his invitation and arrived at Cristián “Gorila” Martínez's school, located at 4080 San Pablo Street in Santiago.
There, one of the most important chapters of my martial arts education would begin.
7. Cristián Martínez and the No Holds Barred Years
Arriving at Cristián Martínez's school introduced me to a completely different world. The training was demanding, physical and direct.
I trained with Cristián from 1997 to 2003, and I came to particularly appreciate his willingness to explore different martial arts and incorporate whatever proved effective.
At a time when many disciplines defended their own methods as complete systems, that open-minded approach was especially valuable.
No Holds Barred fighting was growing, and knowledge of ground fighting offered an important tactical advantage.
It was also a time when knowledge was shared in a very different way.
A magazine could become a treasure. A VHS tape could be studied for months. Every opportunity to learn something new was precious.
In 2003, before a trip to Switzerland, Cristián presented me with a certificate and a belt recognising my rank as a Monitor in Martínez Vale Tudo. It was an acknowledgement I still treasure with affection and gratitude.
Those years left me with experiences, friendships and lessons that have stayed with me. But if I had to single out one thing, it would be his willingness to learn from different disciplines without being confined to a single way of understanding combat.
8. The Lessons That Stay With Us
Over time, I continued studying with other teachers.
Víctor Vásquez introduced me to an approach to training characterised by strength and vigour. With him, I continued developing my Jiu-Jitsu, first in La Florida and later in Las Condes.
In 2003, I met Álvaro Bobadilla through Víctor, and it was from his hands that I received my long-awaited blue belt.
Álvaro would teach me lessons that went far beyond technique: friendship, hard work, dedication and family.
I also continued practising Aikido with Fernando Delgado whenever I could, deepening my understanding of Iwama-Ryu and attending seminars with Hitohira Saito.
From Fernando, I gained an understanding of Aikido shaped by its martial dimension, its demanding nature and the spirit of Budō (武道), the “martial way”. Our relationship grew beyond the tatami and became a friendship; I even have the privilege of being godfather to his son, Jiddu.
Each of those teachers gave me something different. Not simply techniques, but ways of studying, training, facing difficulties and relating to others.
Over the years, I came to understand that every teacher teaches from their own history, their experiences and the circumstances in which they were trained.
All of them helped build the foundations upon which I continue to learn.
9. Nine Tatami Mats in Quilicura
In 2015, I made a decision that would change my relationship with Jiu-Jitsu.
I set up a small dojo in my home in Quilicura.
I had nine tatami mats, each measuring one metre by one metre.
Nothing extraordinary.
But to me, they meant a great deal.
I began teaching family members, friends and acquaintances. And I discovered that passing on knowledge brought me a different kind of satisfaction from learning a new technique or overcoming a training partner on the mats.
Teaching also brought me face to face with a difficulty that had accompanied me since childhood: my stutter.
At first, it was extremely challenging. Explaining a technique in front of a group of people could cause me considerable stress. I knew the movements, I knew what I wanted to communicate, but sometimes the words simply would not come out as I had hoped.
Over time, I learnt something important: I did not need to speak perfectly to teach well.
I began to accept that sometimes I might stumble over a word or a sentence. My students understood that too. I never needed to hide that difficulty from them; they accepted me as I was.
Little by little, I found my own way of communicating.
Today, my stutter is almost imperceptible. I speak with a gentle, measured rhythm and a way of phrasing things that has become distinctly my own.
I also draw upon techniques of public speaking, diction and breathing that I learnt many years earlier, during my formation at the seminary.
It is curious to think that those lessons, which had done relatively little to help with my stutter at the time, would find an unexpected purpose so many years later.
Something that had made me feel so insecure during childhood had ultimately helped shape my own voice as a teacher.
Teaching also forced me to study differently.
It was no longer enough to know how to perform a movement. I needed to explain why it worked, what problems it solved, what obstacles might prevent it and how to adapt it when an opponent responded.
Every question from my students became an opportunity to deepen my own understanding.
I did not always have an immediate answer. Sometimes I had to return to my studies, test alternatives and reconsider explanations that had previously seemed sufficient.
Little by little, I came to understand that teaching is not simply about demonstrating what we know. It also means recognising what we still need to learn.
Over time, I continued to progress in my own training. I received my purple belt with the help of Víctor Vásquez and, years later, with Álvaro Bobadilla's support, our dojo became affiliated with GFTeam.
Founded in Brazil by Mestre Julio Cesar Pereira, GFTeam had grown into an international Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu organisation. Becoming part of the team allowed us to broaden our horizons, learn from other teachers and strengthen our ties with Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.
In a way, that small dojo in Quilicura, which had begun with just nine tatami mats, was becoming part of a story much greater than ourselves.
In 2023, during a visit from Álvaro, who was living in Australia, I received my brown belt.
But as the years passed and the belts changed, what interested me most was finding better ways to teach.
I wanted my students to learn not only techniques, but also the principles that allow them to understand those techniques. I wanted them to develop the ability to observe, experiment, solve problems and make their own decisions.
Little by little, that small space with nine tatami mats began to become something more important than a place to train.
It was becoming a community.
The Effort to Keep Going
Even today, I still live with many doubts.
I have a full-time job that demands much of my energy, three daughters, my mother, my family and all the responsibilities that come with everyday life.
And there is Jiu-Jitsu, too.
Preparing classes, studying, training, supporting my students and keeping our little dojo alive all require time and dedication. Time that I must learn to divide among people and responsibilities that are equally important to me.
It is not always easy.
There are days when I finish completely exhausted, when worries pile up and I wonder how I will find the time or strength to manage everything.
I do not have a definitive answer. I am still learning to find that balance, and some days I manage it better than others.
Sometimes, making progress means studying a new technique. At other times, it simply means arriving at the dojo, opening its doors and sharing the tatami with my students after a difficult day.
I do not always make as much progress as I would like, but I keep moving forward.
10. A Master with an Open Heart
In 2025, we received devastating news.
My mother-in-law, María de los Ángeles Guerrero, whom we affectionately called Mae, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
Mae had always been one of my greatest supporters in martial arts. She encouraged me, took an interest in my progress and shared my dream of one day receiving my black belt.
I travelled to Brazil with Melissa to visit her. During our stay in Santo André, São Paulo, I looked for GFTeam academies where I could continue training.
That was how I met Mestre Fran do Carmo.
From the very first moment, I felt as though we had known each other all our lives.
Fran welcomed us with a warmth that took me by surprise. He opened the doors of his dojo to us, gave us gifts and generously shared his time and knowledge. He even called Mestre Julio Cesar Pereira so that I could greet him and speak with him.
That encounter marked the beginning of a friendship that continued to grow.
Mae passed away on 17 December 2025, without being able to witness the moment she had so eagerly anticipated. But she had prepared a very special gift: she herself had bought the black belt that would one day be presented to me.
Six months later, on 19 June 2026, Mestre Fran travelled to Chile to share a very special day with us.
He first led a seminar for my students. We trained, studied techniques and enjoyed the opportunity to learn directly from him.
Then came the moment when I would receive my black belt, in a simple, warm and intimate ceremony.
Only my students, Melissa, my three daughters —Javiera, Matilde and Beatriz—, and Mestre Fran with his family —his wife, Bruna, and their daughter, Maya— were there.
There were no special guests or elaborate preparations. Just our little dojo, surrounded by the people with whom I shared my life and my practice.
I remember Fran's words in particular.
He told us that, upon entering our dojo, he had felt that Jiu-Jitsu was in the very air we breathed. He spoke of a fighting spirit, of Budō — the martial way — of discipline and of an atmosphere that cannot be built through techniques or facilities alone.
He said he knew that I woke up and went to bed thinking about Jiu-Jitsu, because that love for the art was reflected in my students, in their character and in the way they trained.
As I listened to him, memories began to surface.
2025 had been an extremely difficult year. We had said goodbye to Maximus, our dog and companion of so many years, to Patito, to my father Ángel and to Mae.
And there, in the middle of that ceremony, I remembered them all.
For a moment, I was back in the mountains of El Arrayán, at my earliest training sessions, when I was just a boy dreaming of learning martial arts.
I remembered Patito practising Karate, those movements I used to watch as a child without daring to ask him to teach me. I thought of my father Ángel and how proud he would have been to see me there.
And I remembered my walks with Max, so many simple moments that I now treasure.
My thoughts also returned to those years when I searched the Yellow Pages for a martial arts school, to my first Aikido classes and to the VHS tapes I studied as I tried to understand the movements of Jiu-Jitsu.
It was a mixture of joy, gratitude and sadness. A wave of memories that came over me unexpectedly as I listened to Fran speak about our dojo and my students.
Then Fran spoke about Mae.
He recalled how she had dreamt of witnessing that day and how, although she was no longer physically with us, she was there, watching us and smiling.
I could not hold back my tears.
The belt I was receiving had been bought by her. It was her gift, her love and her way of being beside me at a moment I had waited so many years to experience.
After more than thirty years of martial arts, I received my black belt.
And some people continue to walk beside us, even after they are gone.
11. What We Pass On
When I began teaching, I discovered that many of the most interesting questions did not arise while performing a technique, but when trying to explain it.
Why does this movement work? What happens if the opponent changes their posture? Why does a technique seem effortless against one training partner and almost impossible against another?
Those questions forced me to observe more carefully.
Over time, I began organising my teaching around the problems we need to solve during combat and the principles that allow us to find solutions.
When teaching a Kimura, for example, I am not simply interested in having a student memorise where to place their hands. I want them to understand how to control their opponent and what alternatives become available when that opponent defends.
The same applies to Kuzushi (崩し), the art of unbalancing: learning to recognise what supports an opponent, how to provoke a reaction and when an opportunity to act presents itself.
This approach to studying has gradually shaped our methodology at 4th Axis Jiu-Jitsu.
But there is something I consider even more important than any technical system.
The willingness to keep learning.
I remember an occasion when one of my students arrived at the dojo with something none of us had studied before: K-guard.
He began showing us the entries, attacking possibilities and transitions he had learnt.
We were all surprised.
But what I remember most is the enthusiasm with which we welcomed that discovery.
Suddenly, we had a new technical problem to explore.
We began practising it, studying its strengths and weaknesses, understanding when it might work and how an opponent familiar with its mechanics might respond.
And so, thanks to the initiative of one of my students, we incorporated something new into our practice.
I was not the one who arrived with a technique to teach. It was one of my students who opened a door we had not yet explored.
And we all learnt.
I remember the years when finding a magazine or a VHS tape was an extraordinary opportunity. Today, we can study teachers from around the world, watch competitions, exchange ideas and access knowledge that once would have taken years to find.
In our dojo, I do not consider it disloyal for a student to train at another academy. When someone returns with a new technique or idea, I want to learn about it.
We try it, analyse its possibilities and seek to understand what it can teach us.
A student who returns to the dojo with something new does not disrupt the learning process. They help it grow.
But over the years, I have also come to understand that teaching martial arts is not simply about sharing knowledge. Sometimes, the most valuable things to emerge from a dojo are the relationships we build, relationships that endure even when thousands of miles separate us.
I think of my cousin Martin López, who lives in England, and his son Santiago, whom everyone affectionately calls Santi.
Martin travelled to Chile for the first time to meet his Latin American family. He spent several weeks staying with his sisters in Linares and a few days in Santiago. During that visit, he made time to come and spend some time with us, while Santi took the opportunity to train at our little dojo in Quilicura.
Welcoming them was a genuine joy.
I have great admiration for Martin's dedication to supporting his son's passion for martial arts, accompanying him on his journey and helping him grow.
And Santi, in his own way, has given us something equally meaningful.
He affectionately calls our little academy “Uncle David's dojo”.
Wherever his competitions take him, across Europe and beyond, he proudly wears the shirt of our dojo. Although we live thousands of miles apart, I consider him one of my students, part of our little 4th Axis family.
Seeing him carry our name so far from home fills me with happiness and pride. It reminds me that the bonds we build through martial arts are not measured by distance, and that what we share on the tatami can travel much further than we ever imagined.
12. The Lineage Continues
When we speak of lineage in martial arts, we often think of a succession of names.
Teachers who taught other teachers, generations connected by a tradition that eventually reaches us.
That history deserves to be known and respected.
But after so many years, I have come to understand that lineage also reveals itself in what remains alive within us.
In the way we move, study, treat our training partners and face difficulties.
In the small details we learnt from someone and, perhaps without even realising it, eventually pass on to others.
Sometimes, lineage can be found in something as small as the position of a finger.
During the seminar on 19 June 2026, shortly before presenting me with my black belt, Mestre Fran taught us an adjustment to the grip used in Okuri-eri-jime, a choke that uses the lapels of the uniform.
Normally, when gripping the collar of the gi, we place the thumb underneath and the other four fingers on top. Fran showed us a variation I had never considered: placing the little finger underneath as well, leaving the index, middle and ring fingers above.
In this way, the thumb and little finger form a kind of pincer grip that considerably strengthens the hold and makes it harder for an opponent to free themselves by pulling on the lapel.
I found this particularly interesting because, from my years practising Aikido, I already understood the importance of the little finger when gripping a bokken, where the little, ring and middle fingers play a fundamental role in maintaining a secure hold.
Yet it had never occurred to me to apply that understanding in such a different way to gripping the collar of a gi.
Today, when I teach that technique to my students, I also pass on the adjustment Fran showed us.
And every time I do, something of that lesson remains alive in our dojo.
I also recognise, in my own way of teaching, the precision I admired in my first instructors, the rigour and discipline of Budō that I learnt from Fernando Delgado, the open-mindedness of Cristián Martínez and the generosity with which Mestre Fran welcomed us in Brazil.
Some teachings remain almost exactly as I learnt them. Others have evolved over the years, enriched by new experiences, questions and discoveries.
All of them are part of my journey.
I do not pretend to have reached the end.
If God grants me health and a long life, I hope to continue practising and teaching until I am at least a hundred years old.
I still have so much to learn.
I do not want to be the limit of my students' potential. I want to be part of the journey that allows them to surpass me.
Because lineage does not end with the person who receives a teaching. It continues through those who make it their own, enrich it and, one day, pass it on to others.
Sometimes, I think of that boy from El Arrayán.
I remember him training alone in the mountains, throwing punches and kicks into the air, imagining fights he had watched on television.
Without a uniform, without tatami mats and without a teacher who could formally guide him.
Today, when I open the doors of our dojo, I like to think that boy finally found what he was looking for.
David Tapia López
4th Axis Jiu-Jitsu · Black Belt
Cultural Note: Ame no Torifune and Furitama
Ame no Torifune (天之鳥船) — The Heavenly Boat
Its name contains the characters 天 (ame, heaven), 之 (no, a connecting particle), 鳥 (tori, bird) and 船 (fune, boat). It refers to a heavenly vessel from Japanese mythology.
In Aikido, it is associated with Funakogi Undō (舟漕ぎ運動), literally “rowing exercise”. It consists of rhythmic movements of the body and arms, coordinated with breathing and, in some forms of practice, energetic vocalisations.
Furitama (振魂) — Shaking the Spirit
Its name combines 振 (furu, to shake or vibrate) and 魂 (tama, soul or spirit).
It is commonly practised with the hands held together in front of the abdomen, producing a rhythmic vibration while maintaining concentration. It is connected to traditional practices of purification and spiritual preparation that influenced Aikido.
Both exercises have variations in their execution and interpretation across different schools.
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