The lake was glass at noon.
Children shrieked in the shallows, dogs chased sticks through the reeds, and families sprawled on blankets under birches. The smell of grilled sausages drifted with the breeze. It was the kind of summer day people carried like a memory stone into winter.
Marta sat on the pier, her feet dangling in the water, watching her younger brother, Kaspars. He was twelve, reckless, always chasing dares. Today he had found three other boys his age, and together they were racing each other out to the floating platform anchored twenty meters offshore.
“Don’t let him go too far,” their mother called from the blanket, fanning herself with a magazine.
“I’m watching,” Marta replied, though her eyes kept flicking between her brother’s skinny arms cutting the water and the shining surface that could swallow him whole.
Kaspars reached the platform first, slapping the wet boards with triumph. He stood tall, chest heaving, grinning at the others. Marta smiled despite her nerves.
But then he jumped again—this time not toward the pier, but farther out, into deeper water where no one else followed.
Marta’s stomach clenched. She stood, shading her eyes. “Kaspars!” she called.
At first, he splashed confidently, his strokes wide. Then something shifted. His head bobbed lower. His arms thrashed unevenly. He coughed once, then again.
Marta froze. The noise of children and radios seemed to fall away, leaving only the sharp, panicked sound of her brother’s gasps.
He was drowning.
Kaspars’s splashes grew frantic, arms slapping instead of stroking. His mouth opened wide, but no sound carried across the lake—only short, ragged gasps.
Marta’s heart hammered. For a second she couldn’t move, her mind blank except for the sick thought: It’s happening. He’s going under.
Then she was running—off the pier, into the shallows, water breaking around her legs.
“I’m coming!” she shouted, though she knew he couldn’t hear.
Their mother’s voice pierced the air behind her. “Marta! Wait! Get help!”
But Marta didn’t stop. Kaspars’s head dipped once, then came up again, eyes wide with terror. His thin arms flailed in wild circles, pulling nothing but air.
“Don’t fight!” she screamed, plunging forward, the lake rising to her chest. “Kaspars, float! On your back!”
But panic deafened him. He coughed hard, his chin slipping under. He was too far gone to hear reason.
Marta kicked off from the lakebed, striking out with quick strokes. Each second felt stretched, cruelly slow, while her brother’s body jerked closer to the waterline. She could see it in him—the desperate instinct to climb the water like a ladder that wasn’t there.
He’ll drag me down, a voice warned inside her. Her swimming coach’s words from years ago: “A drowning person doesn’t want to hurt you—but panic makes them dangerous. Keep distance until you control the hold.”
But he was her brother.
She reached him just as his mouth slipped under again. His arms shot up, clutching at her shoulders, shoving her down with his weight. Cold water surged into her nose and mouth.
Marta fought for air, chest burning. If I fight him, we both drown, she thought. If I calm him, we live.
She twisted sideways, breaking his grip, then lunged behind him the way she’d been taught—hooking her arm under his armpit, across his chest. His body jerked and struggled, but she locked the hold, gasping above the water.
“I’ve got you!” she shouted into his ear. “Stop fighting! Breathe!”
His thrashing slowed, but his weight dragged heavy in her arms. Marta kicked hard, angling toward shore. Each stroke felt like pulling a boulder, her muscles screaming, lungs burning.
Behind her, voices rose on the beach—shouts, feet splashing into the shallows. Help was coming, but it was still too far.
It was her against the water. Her against her brother’s fear.
Marta’s legs burned as if iron weights had been tied to her ankles.
Each kick gave them only a hand’s length closer to shore, and the weight of Kaspars on her chest dragged her down like an anchor.
“Stay still!” she gasped into his ear, though her own voice shook with fear.
Kaspars coughed, sputtering, his body jerking as reflex tried to claw him upright. He didn’t understand the hold, didn’t trust it. Every time his arms flailed, Marta’s head went under, lake water stinging her throat.
If I panic too, we’re both gone, she told herself, forcing her breath steady.
She adjusted her grip—tilting his face upward with her forearm across his chest, keeping his mouth just above the surface. His gasps turned to sobs, then whimpers, weaker now.
“Good,” she said, kicking harder, her thighs screaming. “Let me do it. I’ve got you.”
The shoreline still seemed impossibly far. She fixed her eyes on the pier, on the cluster of people rushing into the water—two men wading out, arms outstretched, shouting encouragement.
“Almost there!” someone yelled. “Keep coming!”
Every meter was a battle. The current tugged gently, deceptively, as if the lake wanted to remind her how easy it would be to let go. Her arms trembled. Her breath came ragged.
Kaspars coughed again, but this time his body sagged instead of thrashing. Marta felt his weight grow heavier—not fighting, but limp with exhaustion.
“No,” she whispered fiercely, kicking harder. “Not now. Not like this.”
Her legs gave another burst of power. The men from shore were close now, splashing forward, water to their waists.
“Pass him!” one shouted.
Marta’s strength faltered just as strong hands reached her. One man seized Kaspars under the arms, hauling him from her grasp. Another grabbed Marta’s elbow, pulling her toward the shallows.
Her knees buckled when they reached sand. She collapsed forward, coughing water, chest heaving like a bellows.
On the beach, Kaspars lay pale and shaking, water bubbling at his lips. Their mother knelt beside him, crying his name. Someone shouted for blankets. Another pounded Kaspars’s back until he vomited lake water and drew in a sobbing breath.
The sound of that breath was the sweetest thing Marta had ever heard.
She lay on her side in the sand, tears mixing with lake water on her face, whispering to herself:
“We made it. We made it.”
Kaspars sat wrapped in two blankets, shivering though the sun still blazed overhead. His lips were blue, his breath shallow, but steady now. Their mother clutched him so tightly that he groaned in protest.
Marta sat a few steps away, her own towel draped around her shoulders. She couldn’t stop coughing up the taste of lake water. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt again the pull of his arms dragging her down, the cold rush into her lungs, the dizzy terror of nearly losing him.
One of the men who had helped them—a broad-shouldered stranger with a fisherman’s tan—squatted beside her. “You did well,” he said simply.
Marta shook her head. “I nearly drowned too. If you hadn’t reached us…”
“But you kept him up,” the man interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “That’s the hardest part. Most people panic, both go under. You held on.”
She looked down at her trembling hands. “I thought if I fought harder, I’d win. But every time I kicked, it felt like the water wanted both of us.”
The man gave a thin smile. “That’s because water always wants both. You don’t fight harder—you fight smarter. Keep their face up. Keep yourself calm. And shout for help sooner than you think.”
Her mother’s voice broke the moment: “Marta—come here.”
She crawled closer, and for the first time in years her mother pulled her in, clutching both children together. Marta felt Kaspars’s wet hair against her cheek, his small body trembling.
“I’m sorry,” Kaspars whispered hoarsely. His eyes were red, full of shame. “I thought I could swim farther… I wanted to show off.”
Marta swallowed hard, her throat still raw. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”
But her voice cracked, and instead of anger it came out as a sob. She buried her face against his shoulder, holding him as if her arms could still keep him from slipping away.
The lake lapped quietly against the pier, indifferent, shining as if nothing had happened. Children’s laughter returned slowly, though the families nearby glanced often at Marta and Kaspars, as if reminded of something they’d forgotten: that joy and death swam side by side in the same waters.
That evening, the lake was calm again, the surface burnished gold by the sinking sun. The pier was empty now, only wet footprints fading into the wood. Marta sat at the edge, legs drawn to her chest, staring at the water.
Kaspars came quietly, still wrapped in his blanket. He lowered himself beside her, silent for a long time. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with something new—no longer the blind confidence of a boy, but the weight of someone who had looked too close at the edge of life.
“I thought it was just swimming,” he said finally, voice small. “But it felt like… like the lake wanted me.”
Marta swallowed, her throat tight. “It doesn’t want you, Kaspars. It doesn’t care. That’s why it’s so dangerous. You can’t fight it—you can only respect it.”
He nodded, eyes fixed on the glittering water. “I thought I was strong enough.”
“Strength doesn’t matter when you panic,” Marta replied. “Breath does. Calm does. Knowing when to float instead of thrash.”
The memory of his arms dragging her under flared in her chest. She shivered, then placed her hand over his.
“You have to promise me something. If you ever feel that again—like you’re sinking—don’t fight the water. Roll back. Float. Shout. Wait for help.”
Kaspars’s lip trembled. “I promise.”
Their mother’s voice carried faintly from the blankets behind them: “It’s time to go.”
They stood together, leaving the pier, but both turned once more to look at the lake. Its surface rippled gently, hiding everything beneath.
To anyone else it was still a place of summer joy—of swimming, laughter, and games. But for Marta and Kaspars, it was now also a teacher, as merciless as it was beautiful.
The lake had nearly claimed one of them, and nearly both. Instead, it left them with something harder than fear—
a lesson carved deep:
Life on the water is not about strength. It’s about respect. And respect is what keeps you breathing.