If you've known me for a long time, you might remember the brief period in my life when I was absolutely obsessed with all things "Pirates of the Caribbean." To this day, I've seen each of those movies at least 20 times (and I'm not exaggerating).
When I'm going through my jewelry box, I sometimes find a replica of Davy Jones' locket from "Dead Man's Chest" and "At World's End," and the piece of Aztec gold from "Curse of the Black Pearl." My hope chest, which my mother bought me as a high-school graduation present in 2007, looks like a treasure chest.
Though I'm seven or eight years older, I get excited when I hear about a new POTC release (the next one is in 2016). The adventurousness and wonder of the franchise still captivates me. Argue all you want about how ridiculous the series has gotten, but there's a reason each new film still breaks box office records.
Lately, I've found a new reason to watch the movie franchise, a new way it mesmerizes me.
Since January, I've been taking fencing lessons at the Baptist Healthplex in Jackson (717 Manship St., 601- 968-1766) with the Mississippi Fencing Club. I love the look people give me when I tell them I spend three hours each Thursday and Saturday in a mask and jacket, sweating my butt off while doing parries and ripostes, advances and retreats.
My parents tell me just how impractical it is. My favorite questions have to be my stepfather's: "What's the practical application of that?" and "Can you defend yourself with it?"
The answers, sadly, are no and probably not, though I do wonder. But, as my coworkers at Jackson Free Press remarked, I can scare the hell out of someone by pulling a foil weapon out of my car.
There are actually three types of fencing, but since I'm still new, I only fence foil. In my opinion, foil is more complicated than the other two. While epee and sabre are aggressive, foil is more calculating and precise, although it does require a level of aggression.
The thing about that type of fencing is that you have only a small target area. Epee is the whole body, sabre is all of the upper body, but the area for foil is the torso, excluding the head, arms and legs.
You have to be careful about where you hit and how you hit. Top of the shoulders? Not a hit. If the button at the end of your foil doesn't click? Not a hit. From the moment I stepped onto the gym floor, donned in a mask and a blue-jean fencing jacket, I knew this was going to be different than anything I had ever done.
The first day wasn't the most physically demanding, but was probably the most confusing. The first and most simple lesson Richard taught me was how to salute. Saluting feels much like I would imagine a plie feels, but instead of my feet pointing out, my left foot was parallel to the front wall, and my right foot was parallel to the mirror to the right of me.
I followed Richard and pointed my weapon down to the left, pointed the tip at his face, then the ceiling and down to my right. From salute, I went into en garde, possibly one of the most confusing pieces of footwork in the history of footwork. As before, my left foot was parallel to the wall, but I had to bring my right foot forward, pointing straight, and then do a slight squat. During fencing, you have to stay like that, which is hard to remember most of the time (for me, anyway).
From then on, it got harder. I had to remember to salute (which I still forget all the time), how to hold my weapon, how to move the blade with my fingers and keep my wrist almost prostrate, how to advance and retreat, how to lunge, and then how to advance and lunge.
I jokingly told Richard that I needed flash cards to remember the terminology, but he said that fencing isn't something you learn from textbooks or even Google. I can know the differences between the types of weapons all I want, but it doesn't matter if I can't actually fence with them.
A couple of weeks ago, I performed my first bout. I went up against a girl who is probably about 14. She had the advantage, because she's been doing this sport for five years. I've been in it for a mere month and a half. At first, I was scared. My instinct to flee kicked in, and all I could do was run from her attacks.
Eventually, though, I found myself getting more into it. I advanced, I retreated. I changed up the footwork to confuse her, which was actually kind of an accident, and then I lunged, and even hit her a couple of times. And when class ended, all I could think was how much I wanted to go again.
I've bouted a few more times, and one of the more experienced fencers informed me I need to be less aggressive because I'll wear myself down quickly. Of course, my bouting isn't that amazing. I mostly run back and forth trying to break through and hit, and I often forget that after I parry, the point is mine if I score.
My boyfriend, Jon, asked me a couple of weeks ago how I feel when I fence. Do I feel fat? Do I care? I answered him with a resounding "no." When I fence, or even watch fencing, I don't think about anything else. I'm no longer short and fat—I'm just short, and I have that advantage. The fact that my hair is a mess before and after doesn't matter to me, because I'm going to end up smelling like a dirty gym sock anyway. I'm not worried about where my life is headed or whether I ate healthy that day. I'm present. I'm in the moment.
Everything else falls away, and I'm there, defending myself, advancing and retreating, learning how to fake an attack to gain right of way, and when I don that fencing mask and jacket, I feel like I can do anything. Even go to the Olympics.
Now, when I watch POTC, I'm not only entertained by Johnny Depp's ridiculous portrayal of Captain Jack Sparrow—I'm also watching the footwork and the way the characters duel. I want to be a part of that world, and though I'm about 400 years too late, I can still participate in some shape or form. I'm not a great fencer, not yet. But watch out. I'll be winning tournaments before you know it.
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