Ron Breines began learning Kakuto-ryu, a strip down and straightforward martial art, from his uncle and his friend Bob in 1970. Stressing combat readiness, Breines found that his training assisted him in acquiring and internalizing many different martial arts and military combatives. Framing Kakuto-ryu in the similar fashion of Ryukyute, Breines emphasizes the combative elements of the art. Today, Breines took some time to discuss Kakuto-ryu history, effective training in the martial arts, and training with Okinawan karate masters. This is the first part of a two part interview. Read the second part here.
Martial Arts of Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow: Welcome Breines Sensei! Thank you for joining us today!
Ron Breines: Glad to be here.
MAYTT: Could you tell us about some of the beginnings of Kakuto-ryu?
RB: Kakuto-ryu came about with my uncle and his friend Bob. They got the kata from Okinawa. I really wish I’d been more aware or more curious when I was younger – curious about who they trained with here, who their masters were, and what styles they studied. This was in the 1950s, so the styles had already been somewhat solidified by then. I would’ve loved to know the origins and who they learned from and where. I know they studied everything. Whatever they learned, they picked up from all over. They traveled to China, the Philippines, and Indonesia – you name it. They went to pick up ideas. He brought Patrick McCarthy over in the 1980s, because I was in Israel at the time. Pat was there to teach karate techniques, but he had to strip away the kata. You can’t teach kata to soldiers in a few weeks or even a few months – it’s a waste of time. But when you really look at it, their approach was open to everything. They had to be; these were special forces guys, training for real combat.
MAYTT: What was your uncle’s and Bob’s background?
RB: When my uncle passed away, we found his old duffel bag, which was basically his entire life. Inside, we discovered his deployment orders for Phnom Penh in 1964. Officially, the U.S. wasn’t in Cambodia in 1964. But he was. What was he doing there? Then we found his records showing that he had gone through Navy SEAL training. But he was a Green Beret, a Ranger, and part of the 101st Airborne – all Army. So why would he train as a Navy SEAL? Because back then, Special Forces didn’t draw strict lines between branches. Whether you were Army, Navy, or Marine, you trained in whatever was necessary. If you were going to be operating in Asia, you needed to understand water operations, so you went through SEAL training. He did all of it. He was hardcore, a warrior through and through, and that’s why he was so tough to deal with. That’s all he knew: survival and combat.
I think the martial style he embodied reflects that mentality. Everything you learn should feed into your style, but the style itself shouldn’t be the focus. What truly matters is how you apply what you learn. That mindset alone is what keeps a style evolving and moving forward.
It’s hand-to-hand combat is what it means. So Kakuto, “the school of hand-to-hand combat” is what they chose. So they were looking for what’s hand to hand, and Kakuto means hand to hand combat basically. When I was growing up, they called it Kakuto-ryu, but they also referred to it as jujutsu simply because Moses Powell said, “Jujutsu is the best.” So they went with jujutsu. At the time, no one really knew what jujutsu was. It was all karate or kung fu. Who was practicing jujutsu back then? Brazilian Jui-Jitsu didn’t even exist as we know it today. They probably embraced the name partly because they didn’t want outsiders to understand what they were doing.
One thing that always stood out to me: my uncle was always hanging out with Black guys. And back in the ‘60s and ‘70s, that wasn’t so common. But he was very accepted in their group. I think it’s because in the military, most of his friends during the wars were Black. That was always interesting to me.
MAYTT: What was the connection between your uncle, Bob, and Powell?
RB: No, they pretty much grew up together. My uncle was in the Bronx and Brooklyn, and Moses Powell had his dojo in the same areas where my uncle moved around – especially when he got back from Vietnam, and even before that. He always came back and got involved either with the boxing community or the martial arts community. He couldn’t really talk to anyone else. He was one of those guys who would say, “You’ve got to get me into the action.”
He met Moses Powell, but I don’t know exactly how or when they first met. They were much older than me, and I was still too young to understand all the connections. But my uncle really admired Powell. He saw him as a legitimate martial artist, someone who was really trying to teach fighting the right way.
I don’t know how the conversation about jujutsu came about. They all grew up in the same circles. I just know it was Powell’s influence to call it “jujutsu” because they didn’t really know what else to call it. It wasn’t exactly jujutsu, it was actually based more on karate. They had a lot of kata they had learned, but like I said, the bunkai came first. The applications were what really mattered to them, and they taught through the kata. So he just taught the fighting techniques. And that’s exactly what my uncle did. He saw that same approach in Powell.
As for Powell and his influence on those two, I don’t really know. I wasn’t around then. I was in Long Island by that point. I was born in Manhattan, and we lived in Queens for a bit, but then we moved out to Long Island. Meanwhile, my uncle was in Brooklyn. His world was Lower Manhattan and Brooklyn, the same areas where Powell was based. So I didn’t get the full background information from the two. I wish I had. I wish I’d had more foresight to realize that these guys are going to die, and I won’t have the information for later. But I didn’t. I went in so many different directions in life. Martial arts was always something I did, but it wasn’t something I pursued in a researched way.
MAYTT: When did you get into Kakuto-ryu?
RB: I started in 1970. We had belts, but they were all white belts, and you never changed them. By 1978, my belt had turned black – not because I earned a black belt, but because we weren’t allowed to wash them, so they just got dirty over time. However, in 1978, I did earn my real black belt. I had to train for eight years and took quite a beating along the way. If I ever got in trouble, the dojo took care of it.
I remember one situation; it was actually going to be a riot. We lived on the border of a Black neighborhood, and there was a lake between us. In the winter, it froze over, and my friends, these white kids, were playing hockey. Then a group of Black kids came and started kicking them off the ice. One of them punched one of my friends in the chest, not knowing the kid had severe asthma. The kid died. The next day, we were ready for war. The cops came to the school trying to figure out when and where we were going to fight, but we acted like nothing was happening. We waited for a certain day. I had even made a kind of weapon. But then my uncle found out I was involved. We were in Long Island at the time. Bob was teaching, and my uncle never came out during the week. But this time, on a weekday, after school, I went over to the dojo. I’m sitting there, with the other kids and even some adults, and suddenly my uncle walks in. He just leans against the wall. I’m thinking to myself, “Why is he here?”
Then Bob says, “Ronnie, come here.” He asks, “You got something to tell me?” I said, “No, what do I know?” Boom, boom, boom. He just starts throwing me around. I was bleeding, I was crying. I think I was thirteen or fourteen at the time. My uncle just stood there, watching, arms crossed. Finally, Bob says again, “You got something to tell me?” I said, “No.” And he goes, “I’m not gonna hit you this time. You ain’t so tough,” because I was crying. But he was right. They taught me a huge lesson that day. After that, I didn’t use the stuff I’d been taught unless I had to. I still got into fights, but I knew where to stop. By the time I was fifteen, I stopped fighting altogether.
But my relationship with my uncle – well, I loved him. He was great to me, but man, he was difficult. He’d get me into trouble sometimes, fights and things like that. He was a killer, that’s what he knew. Asking him to sit down and explain things? That just wasn’t who he was.
In 1980, I earned my second-degree black belt, making it a ten-year journey. It was very much a family-induced style. When I started branching out into other martial arts, I had friends who trained in different styles. I briefly trained with Ron Van Clief, founder of the Chinese Goju System.
I left, and Bob was still in New York for a while, then he moved out to California too. Funny enough, when I came to California, Bob left. I could’ve gotten the information from Bob – he was easygoing, very talkative. Bob looked like Robert De Niro with a goatee – that’s who he reminded me of.
I also got into Judo, where I reached Nidan. Then, I practiced Shotokan Karate and attained Sandan, followed by Goju-ryu Karate, where I earned Godan. I tested with Kokutsu Dachi for Karate rankings and achieved Godan with them as well. I got deep into gymnastics – ended up becoming an NCAA gymnastics champion. That probably saved me from getting into real trouble, maybe even jail. Later, when I came back from college, my friends had opened a dojo. I joined, and we had a lot of fun. We even ended up working as bouncers for a bar next to the dojo. That led to some good times too.
Beyond that, I’ve also trained in Filipino martial arts. From 1985 to 1987, I was with the Israeli Defense Forces, where I participated in a specialized program that I can’t talk about in detail.
MAYTT: How had the experience in the Israeli Defense Force help you further understand Kakuto-ryu?
RB: I learned from Avi Nardia, who is a retired major from the IDF and Special Forces, and he has his own style now. He calls it Close-Quarter Combat, or something like that. It originally came from Krav Maga, but he didn’t like how the name was commercially usurped. That’s all BS, I can tell you firsthand. I trained in Krav Maga in Israel, and it was brutally effective – there’s no way you can teach that kind of training to civilians. What I learned there was very similar to what my uncle taught me, which I think is why they took me in for that program. But Avi, this is all he knows. Now, he calls it KAPAP, which was actually the original form of Krav Maga. He teaches that and does anti-terrorism training. But, like me, he does a bit of everything.
Kakuto-ryu is similar to Krav Maga in that it doesn’t adhere to a single style. Krav Maga itself is a mix – they took techniques from Muay Thai, karate, and other arts. I never really saw Kakuto-ryu as a single style; it was always a blend of everything. We trained in a bit of everything. We even used nunchaku, but we didn’t have to learn kata, just how to actually hit things. The one thing Bob took seriously was iaido, so I trained in that. Later on, I got involved with the New York Budokan and did sword training with them.
By the way, do you know Patrick McCarthy? You’ve heard of him, right?
MAYTT: Yes
RB: Pat’s a good friend of mine. He lives just up the road here in Okinawa and is well-known for translating the Bubishi, along with many other books he’s written. He teaches Koryu Uchinadi, which is karate-based, but incorporates a wide range of techniques.
I’ve been here in Okinawa since 2012, but before that, I had my dojo in New Mexico. I was teaching Kakuto-ryu. I was teaching some of the things I learned when I was young, but you couldn’t include a lot of the more brutal techniques. It was never meant to be a sport; it was strictly what was used in Korea and Vietnam. As I got into other things, I would introduce new elements into the style.
MAYTT: What are some other arts that you have included into Kakuto-ryu?
RB: Right now, my brother is the only one continuing Kakuto-ryu. He recently moved and is setting up another dojo. We don’t do anything for profit anymore – I don’t care about the money. I’m retiring as a professor, and when I leave, I won’t return to the States. I’ll probably move to Portugal and open a dojo for whoever wants to learn.
I trained in Wing Chun with Phil, but I also got really into Tai Chi. That’s what I’m in love with now. I’m sixty-six, turning sixty-seven in September, and I love Tai Chi because it provides both exercise and deeper understanding of movement. I always do my kata, which gives me a good aerobic workout, but Tai Chi adds another dimension. The resistance involved in Tai Chi makes for an incredible workout. If you truly understand every movement in the Tai Chi form, it’s like karate on steroids. Practicing it slowly allows you to fully grasp how each movement works in terms of body alignment and application.
But anything I study, I integrate into Kakuto-ryu. I learn Tai Chi the way it’s traditionally taught, but I apply it differently. The bunkai (applications) are very similar to what I learned when I was young.
When I say jujutsu, I mean we trained in all kinds of throws, but not like judo throws. We don’t throw over the back; our throws are fast, throwing over the back of the leg, straight to the ground. It’s all about off-balancing, however it’s done. I did study judo with Linda. I don’t know if you know her, but she was a very good friend. My brother trained with her more seriously, but I learned a lot from her as well. I never asked for a belt, and we didn’t need to; she taught me what she knew, and I taught her what I knew. By that point, I couldn’t have cared less about rank.
MAYTT: What about rank do you not like?
RB: I’m not anti-belt, but I started feeling uncomfortable with ranking people. We have godans and rokudans, but when they asked me to be hachidan, I refused. I stopped at shichidan, seventh dan, because I was too young for eighth dan. I was only fifty-four, and in our thinking, you need to be in your sixties for that. Judan (10th dan) is something you can only receive after death; my uncle was a judan, and he passed away.
At this point, I don’t care about rank at all. The system evolves based on what we add to it. My brother got deeply into Brazilian Jui-Jitsu, so I trained in it a little, but I’m not a huge fan. Too much time spent turning people into pretzels. Our philosophy is simple: two strikes. If you don’t finish in two, you’re in trouble. Everything is about efficiency. For example, I trained in aikido in Tokyo, but there were too many movements. It’s beautiful as an art, but in real combat, it’s impractical. Judo is the same way. It can be great, but if you have to reposition multiple times, you’ve lost the advantage. That’s why I spent time in the Philippines learning their approach. Those guys don’t waste time, it’s hit and go, in and out. That’s how we think.
Even here in Okinawa, I spent ten years training in dojos, but I stopped because it became too formalized. I think many Okinawan schools lost the original intent of Ryukyute. I still practice Ryukyute, but I see Kakuto-ryu as simply protecting the castle; whatever techniques work in that context are what we use. If a move takes more than three steps, it’s useless. Avi Nardia is the same way. He trains military and police forces worldwide. When teaching anti-terrorism or military tactics, you can’t afford unnecessary movements.
I also spent five years in Okinawa teaching Marines, Marine Recon, and Special Forces combat skills. The Marine Martial Arts program has a lot of flaws. These guys go to war, and they need techniques that work. I had an instructor once say, “Sensei, I learned a new throw!” I told him to go ahead and try it. As he attempted it, I simply held his shoulder and hip. He asked, “What happened?” and I explained that he was completely off balance. He was trying to throw while turning, but his shoulder was behind him. All I had to do was hold the shoulder and bump his hip, and he lost control.
Military training relies heavily on muscle, but they don’t have time to refine their techniques. If you don’t teach them proper off-balancing, you’re putting their lives at risk. They might get lucky, but luck isn’t a strategy. No matter what happens, no matter the weapon, off-balancing is key. A lot of military programs teach flashy disarms that look great in movies but don’t work in real combat. No one in a real fight walks up, puts a gun to your head, and gives you time to react. If they have a gun and they’re five feet away, going for your own gun will get you killed. At that range, you go for the weapon itself. At 20 feet? Sure, draw your gun. But real combat isn’t choreographed, and if you train people with bad habits, you’re setting them up to fail. That’s why our approach is purely pragmatic.
MAYTT: With this emphasis on taking what works from other arts and maintaining the Kakuto-ryu curriculum, is there a standard that you have for the techniques within Kakuto-ryu to decide when a technique is no longer effective or needs to be modified?
RB: I wrote up the curriculum back in 2006 or 2008 – somewhere around that time. However, I’m not very tech-savvy, and at the time, we weren’t dealing with the internet as much. Mitch has the original curriculum somewhere, so I can always track it down if needed. But right now, since I’m over here and not actively teaching that system, I don’t follow any specific curriculum. When students come to train with me, I don’t start them off with a set syllabus. Instead, I focus on body alignment and might teach them a few forms to help them understand movement. I show them how certain movements apply to real situations, but I don’t rely on a structured curriculum at the moment – just what I know and what’s necessary for the student. Mitch, one of our instructors, is much more judo- and combative BJJ-oriented, so he follows his own approach. We do still have the original curriculum, and if I go back to the States, I may revisit it. I plan to move to Portugal, but I’ll spend some time in the U.S. as well. Mitch recently moved into a new place and wants to start a dojo there, so when I visit, we’ll probably pull out the curriculum. I retire in December, and in January, I’ll take a look at it and help him emphasize the most important skills.
As for the other instructors, they’ve all developed their own specialties. Phil Romero leans toward Wing Chun, while Andrew Fry incorporates judo and aikido influences. Another instructor, Frank, who has since passed away, was exceptional in Hung Gar Kung Fu and spent five years training in the Philippines. We used to get together often to exchange ideas. I’ve never required any of my instructors to follow a strict curriculum. I believe in allowing them to explore what works best for them and their students.
It’s the same philosophy I apply to music. My father was part of the New York Philharmonic and the Chicago Symphony, so I grew up immersed in music. I’ve been composing since I was eight and still write music to this day. But I don’t limit myself to a single genre – rock, pop, jazz, classical – it doesn’t matter. It’s about what the piece needs. I see martial arts the same way. Many karate dojos have rigid curriculums where everyone learns the same thing in the same way. But when I observe these schools, I often think, “That’s not going to work.” A lot of what’s taught today doesn’t reflect the original intent of Ryukyute or early karate. Historically, these arts were about survival, not formalized training. The warriors protecting Shuri Castle weren’t training for sport; they were preparing for real combat, often against samurai from the mainland. That’s why my approach is fluid. Yes, there is a written curriculum, but we’re not strictly using it. Whatever I teach, whatever Mitch wants to teach, or whatever Phil and Andrew bring to the table, it all grows and evolves naturally. When I return to the US, I’ll reconnect with them and see what new ideas they’ve developed.
Phil, for example, trained directly within Ip Man’s lineage through his master, Hawkins Cheung. Cheung was Bruce Lee’s best friend, but in truth, he was far more skilled, just never as famous. He also practiced Goju-ryu, which was clear in the way he moved. I never met him personally, but we communicated through Phil. I remember watching Phil demonstrate techniques and thinking, “That’s straight out of Goju-ryu.” And sure enough, he confirmed that Cheung had integrated elements of Goju into his Wing Chun. That, to me, is the mark of a true master – someone who understands multiple systems and blends them effectively.
Martial arts aren’t static. What worked for Ip Man in his time needed to evolve. Everything changes, and you have to adapt. My philosophy is simple: If a technique works, it’s worth keeping. If it doesn’t, discard it.
MAYTT: So going back a little bit in relation to there is a disconnect from what was originating intended and what is current taught in dojos, why do you think there was either a disconnection or a change in teaching style and curriculum from then till now?
RB: Great question. Pat and I have discussed this a lot, and it’s been frustrating for him. He moved here, bought a house, and tried to break into the world of the Okinawan masters. But the truth is, you’re never going to be fully accepted by the Japanese. I’ve been here much longer than he has, and over the years, I’ve managed to become friends with many of the masters. For four years, at the Okinawa Karate Masters Seminars, I was the only non-Japanese participant. It was an incredible experience, but also frustrating when you realize how closed off the traditional circles can be.
Historically, Ryukyute was combat-based. That changed in the early 1900s when figures like Gichin Funakoshi brought karate to Japan. He helped establish the Japan Karate Association (JKA), but in doing so, karate became something different. Funakoshi befriended Jigoro Kano, the founder of judo, and in a similar way that Kano simplified jujutsu into judo’s forty core throws, Funakoshi adapted karate into a more structured system that fit into the Japanese martial arts framework. When the Japanese took over, karate became sport-oriented. This was partly due to necessity. After the Meiji Restoration in 1868, many traditional martial arts, including jujutsu, were banned. The shift from battlefield-effective combat to something more structured and widely accepted meant that arts like Daito-ryu Aikijujutsu had to evolve. Morihei Ueshiba, the founder of aikido, was a brutal fighter. He had real combat experience during World War II, but after the war, the climate changed. The original, more violent jujutsu systems had to be reworked into something more acceptable. That’s how judo emerged – not as a direct combat art, but as a path for spiritual and physical development. Judo became the philosophical embodiment of what jujutsu once was.
I spent about a year and a half in Tokyo with a jujutsu family. A friend of mine, who was actually my editor—I used to do literary reviews—introduced me to their dojo. It was a tough environment. First of all, it was freezing, and they would actually turn on the air conditioning when it was already cold. On top of that, the training was done on wood floors, so we had to throw each other without mats. You really learned how to land properly on wood.
The techniques they practiced were very similar to what I had learned when I was young, so adapting to their style came naturally to me. It was a family system, and they never wanted any public recognition. Even if I could introduce you to them, they wouldn’t want it. The dojo wasn’t open to the public; I was only brought in through a personal connection. What I witnessed there was something deeply rooted in the original jujutsu, like Daito-ryu. They had no interest in judo or modern karate, believing those styles had nothing to do with real martial arts. To them, those were just sports, and while they didn’t mind sports in general, they didn’t see them as true representations of martial skill.
There’s another system here in Okinawa with a similar mindset: Motobu Udundi. In my first two years here, I trained in Motobu Udundi, which is related to Motobu Ryu, a family-style karate system. But if you look closely, Motobu Ryu is really early jujutsu in many ways. The head of the system at the time, Arakawa Sensei, passed away a few years ago.
I remember when I first joined the jujutsu dojo, he called me over. There was a special room, almost like a locker room, that no one was allowed to enter. But he took me inside. Even though I was technically a beginner in that dojo, he recognized that I was at a similar level in martial arts. I was wearing a white belt out of respect, but he told me, “Take that off. You’re insulting us.” I told him, “I don’t know anything about this style.” He replied, “You do.” Inside the room, they had those large legal pads commonly used in Japan. There were five of them, each containing 1,000 techniques, with 5,000 in total. My ex-wife, who is Japanese, was with me. Arakawa Sensei knew she wouldn’t reveal anything because, first, she wasn’t involved in martial arts, and second, it was a closed system.
He then told me, “Pick a technique.”
I was confused and asked, “What do you mean?”
“Just pick one,” he said.
So I randomly flipped through the third book, selected a technique, and closed it. “Okay,” I said, “it’s number 561.”
Without hesitation, he told me what the technique was. They didn’t use names like kote gaeshi. Instead, they had their own internal terminology, like “Koyate. Do it this way.” When they demonstrated a move, they simply said, “It’s done this way.” I opened the book, and my ex-wife read the description; it was exactly the technique he had named. He had memorized all 5,000 techniques over sixty years. That, to me, was a true master. He explained that there were really only thirty-six to forty core techniques, and everything else was just a variation. When you think about it, that means 5,000 movements were built from just a few core principles. I trained there for about two years, and I really enjoyed it. But in the end, I committed to one dojo because I had friends in the States and felt like I was representing them in Japan. Looking back, I think that was a mistake. I wish I had continued training in multiple places.
MAYTT: What happened next?
RB: Based on what we just talked about, the master of that dojo refused to let me demonstrate bunkai. I tried many times, but he wouldn’t allow it. Many of these dojos don’t focus on bunkai at all. Instead, they just repeat the same movements over and over again. When I asked about practicing bunkai, the response was always, “No, no, no. Only black belts.” But for me, I learned bunkai first. We were taught the application of a technique before learning the kata that contained those techniques. Even at twelve or thirteen years old, I understood how the movements worked in real situations. Here, however, you could be training for ten years and still not know the meaning behind the movements. I kept trying to convince this sensei to let me demonstrate. Even when I offered to show him my interpretation, he dismissed it, saying, “You’re just making it up.” I told him, “No, I’m not. There are oral teachings that have been passed down for generations, and I’ve read books that document these interpretations.” But he didn’t want to hear it.
So I tried another approach. I demonstrated a movement, using an example from Saifa kata, and asked, “What is this?” He replied, “You’re blocking a kick.” I pressed further, “And this?” He said, “You’re blocking again.” That explanation didn’t make sense to me. “Why would I block a kick down here while my arm is up here?” I knew that wasn’t the real application. The movement, where the hands cross, is actually an entry; it allows for multiple possibilities. When an opponent throws a punch, I don’t just react with a basic block. Instead, I read the movement: I see the shoulder, the intent, the mechanics. As the attack comes in, my hands cross – not as a block – but as a control mechanism. A natural gross motor reaction might be to block instinctively, but in this case, by crossing my hands in a specific way, I could break the opponent’s elbow or gain control of their arm, allowing me to strike immediately.
When I demonstrated this, the sensei got angry. At that point, I realized it wasn’t going to work for me. I had already spent almost eight years there, but that moment confirmed it was time to move on.
This is the first part of a two part interview. Read the second part here.
Martial Arts of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow 