The River’s Grip

The Daugava looked wide enough to swallow the sky.
From the old pedestrian bridge in Ogre, the river below ran fast, brown-green, carrying broken branches and foam. Children had always leaned over the railing here, daring each other to spit and watch their saliva whip away downstream before it even touched the surface.

That afternoon, four university friends came to the bridge.
It was summer session—long days, exams behind them, futures still only drafts. The air smelled of hot asphalt and algae.

“Bet you wouldn’t jump,” Andris said, grinning. He had that grin people both loved and hated, the kind that pulled you into his trouble.

“I’m not stupid,” Kristaps shot back. But his voice betrayed curiosity.

“You swim better than me,” Andris teased. “C’mon. Straight in, across to the reeds, then back. Easy.”

“Easy?” Māris laughed. “That current could drag a car. You’d end up in Riga before you touched shore.”

Elīna, the quietest of the group, leaned on the railing, eyes narrowed. “You don’t fight rivers. They always win.”

But Andris was already pulling off his T-shirt, muscles corded under the summer tan. His bare feet slapped the boards as he climbed onto the railing.

“You’re insane,” Kristaps muttered, but there was a thrill in his chest too, the thrill of being twenty and half-invincible.

The river below seemed to lean upward toward them, whispering, Come see if I am as gentle as I look.

Andris whooped once, then leapt.

The splash echoed against the bridge pylons. For a moment his head surfaced, laughing. “See? Nothing!”

Then he was gone—not under, but sideways, ripped downriver as if an invisible hand had snatched him by the ankle.

Kristaps froze. Māris swore. Elīna’s hands gripped the railing hard enough to hurt.

“Andris!” Kristaps shouted.

The laugh had vanished. The river had him now.

The river didn’t roar—it whispered. That was the trick of it.
It carried Andris not with violence, but with a steady, merciless pull, dragging him downstream toward the bend where the current curled like a whip around the pylons.

Kristaps kicked his shoes off. His pulse hammered in his throat.
“I’m going after him!”

“Don’t!” Elīna grabbed his arm, nails digging deep. Her eyes were sharp with fear. “If you dive straight in, you’ll just be two people drowning.”

“He’s my friend!” Kristaps barked. His chest was a storm, but her words struck like stones in water—slowing, rippling.

Māris leaned over the rail, pointing. “Look—he’s surfaced!”

Far below, Andris’s head broke through, sputtering, eyes wild. His arms flailed not against waves but against emptiness—he was swimming as if sprinting, straight against the current, chest heaving, mouth gulping river. The more he fought, the less he moved.

“Andris!” Kristaps shouted again. His voice cracked. “Go sideways! Not against it! Across!”

But panic had already closed Andris’s ears. He clawed at the water, stronger strokes, faster, burning his muscles to nothing. The current toyed with him, holding him almost still while dragging him farther from shore.

The bend approached—a dark churn of foam where the flow slammed against concrete pylons. Everyone in town knew the stories: fishermen sucked under, children pulled too close, bodies found miles away.

Māris ran down from the bridge, sprinting along the bank. “We need a rope—something!”

Elīna still clung to Kristaps. “If you jump now, he’s dead—and you too.” Her voice was low, almost breaking. “Think. Think!”

Kristaps forced his eyes back to Andris. His friend’s strokes were already sloppy, desperate. His mouth opened again, coughing river water.

And then something in Kristaps snapped—not courage, not madness, but memory. His father’s voice, long ago at the lake:
“Currents aren’t walls, they’re roads. You can’t run against a road. You step off it.”

“Sideways,” Kristaps whispered, chest heaving. Then louder, cupping his hands: “ANDRIS! STOP SWIMMING AGAINST IT! FLOAT—MOVE ACROSS!”

For a moment, Andris’s head tilted, as if some part of him still heard through the panic. But the pylons loomed closer, water foaming like jaws.

Kristaps looked at Elīna, then the river, then back. His decision was written across his face.

“I’m going.”

He tore free from her grip and vaulted the railing.

The plunge stole his breath.
Cold slammed Kristaps’s chest, drove needles through his skin. The river swallowed him whole, then spat him up with a slap of foam.

He forced himself not to thrash. The current grabbed him instantly, yanking him downstream with frightening ease. It was like being tied to a runaway horse—you didn’t control it, you just hung on.

Andris was ahead, closer to the pylons now, his strokes jerky, his face twisted in panic. He was losing.

“Andris!” Kristaps gasped, the water flooding his mouth. “Stop! Float—sideways!”

But panic deafened like water in the ears. Andris’s arms flailed harder, his head sinking lower with each breath.

Kristaps fought the instinct to swim straight at him. Instead, he angled his body across the current, remembering his father’s words. The river resisted, shoving him downriver even as he edged sideways. Progress was slow, but real.

“Just keep across,” he told himself. “Don’t fight it. Cut the angle. Keep breathing.”

A log swept past, spinning. He ducked, heart punching. The pylons were nearer now, the water curling white around their stone legs.

Andris’s head vanished. A single arm flung up, then disappeared under.

“No!” Kristaps dove, his body dragged faster as he kicked down. His hand brushed skin—an arm, thrashing blindly. He seized it, locking his grip.

Andris was heavy, coughing underwater, half choking, half fighting him. Panic made him an anchor. Kristaps wrapped an arm under his armpit, pinning him in a rough lifesaving hold. His own lungs screamed for air.

“Stop fighting!” Kristaps roared when they surfaced, water gushing from his nose and mouth. “Let me—just float, damn you!”

Andris coughed, sputtered, but the fight in him softened. His body went slack, trembling. His chest heaved raggedly.

The pylons loomed—black, solid, waiting to smash them like toys. Kristaps turned, forcing his body at an angle, kicking sideways with everything he had. The current still dragged them, but the shore was inching closer. The bend’s roar thundered behind.

He fixed his eyes on the reeds ahead, a patch of green shaking wildly in the wind. “Sideways. Just sideways.”

Every kick felt weaker, his arms leaden. Andris coughed against his shoulder, still alive, still breathing.

The pylons rushed past behind them—close enough Kristaps felt their shadow. Foam spat against his face. But they had cleared them. Barely.

The river, cheated, still dragged, but less viciously. Andris wheezed, finally croaking, “I… can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Kristaps rasped. His whole body trembled, but his angle was still right, still cutting.

The reeds were nearer now. He could smell the mud, hear the buzzing of dragonflies. Shore was no longer an idea. It was there, waiting.

The reeds slapped Kristaps’s arms like whips. He pushed through them, half dragging, half shoving Andris ahead. Mud sucked at their legs as the current released them reluctantly, like jaws opening.

They collapsed in the shallows. Kristaps lay on his back, chest burning, coughing river water until his throat felt torn. Andris rolled onto his side, vomiting brown foam, choking, then finally dragging in a shuddering gasp of air.

For a long moment neither spoke. The river’s hiss filled the silence, the bend roaring downstream where they might have been lost.

Then Andris croaked, voice raw, “I… thought… I was dead.”

Kristaps turned his head, hair plastered to his face. He wanted to shout, to hit him, to hug him all at once. Instead, breathless, he rasped:
“You nearly were. You idiot.”

Andris coughed again, tears mingling with river water. “I swam… harder than ever… and it was like nothing. Like I was running on ice.”

“That’s what rivers do,” Kristaps said bitterly. “They don’t fight you. They just… carry you until you stop existing.”

Footsteps pounded through the grass. Elīna and Māris burst out of the thicket, faces pale, eyes wild.

“Oh my God!” Elīna fell to her knees, grabbing Kristaps’s face as if to be sure it was real. “You both—” Her voice cracked and broke.

Māris hauled Andris upright, smacking his back until he wheezed another mouthful of water. “What were you thinking? You nearly—” His voice failed too.

The four of them sat in the mud, shaking, laughing and crying at once. The sky above was clear again, summer sunlight spilling as if nothing had happened.

Andris buried his face in his hands. “I thought strength mattered. I thought if I just swam hard enough…”

Kristaps stared at the current still racing past, unbothered, endless. “Strength means nothing in a river. Only direction.”

They sat like that for a long while, the smell of mud in their noses, the rush of water in their ears, each silently knowing that something inside them had changed.

That night, they gathered in Andris’s garage, the one that smelled of engine oil and summer dust. No one wanted to be alone. The river was still in their bodies, rushing behind their ribs, filling their ears even in silence.

Andris sat hunched, a blanket over his shoulders though the air was warm. His skin still looked pale, as if the current had drained color along with his strength. He hadn’t spoken much since they left the riverbank.

Finally, Elīna broke the silence. Her voice was soft, but steady.
“You know… it wasn’t luck. Not really. Kristaps didn’t fight the current. He remembered.”

Andris looked up, shame flickering in his eyes. “I panicked. I swam as hard as I could, but it was like pushing against a wall. Every stroke… nothing.”

Kristaps exhaled, running his hands through his wet hair. “It wasn’t a wall. That’s the point. It was a road, pulling one way. You can’t run against a road. You have to step off it.”

Māris nodded, leaning forward on his elbows. “That’s what people never learn. They think power saves them. But it’s direction, calm, breath. Floating. Sideways.”

Andris’s throat worked as he swallowed. His voice cracked when he finally spoke:
“I would’ve died today. If you hadn’t—if you hadn’t remembered—”

Kristaps shook his head sharply. “We all remembered. Elīna stopped me from jumping stupid. Māris ran for help. You…” He hesitated. “You’ll remember next time.”

Andris gave a bitter laugh. “Next time? No chance. I’ll never set foot in a river again.”

Elīna touched his shoulder gently. “That’s not the lesson. The lesson is respect, not fear. Water isn’t an enemy—it’s just stronger than you. Always will be. But you can live with it, if you know how.”

Silence fell again, but it was different this time. Not the heavy silence of shock, but the thoughtful kind that plants roots.

Kristaps looked around at his friends—mud still under their nails, skin still raw with scrapes, eyes still too wide. He realized they’d carry this day forever, like a scar on the inside of the chest.

He whispered it then, almost to himself, but the others heard:
“Don’t fight the current. Go sideways. Always sideways.”

No one argued.

Outside, the summer night hummed with crickets. Inside, the four of them sat together, alive—more alive than they had ever felt. The river still ran out there in the dark, indifferent, endless. But now they carried its lesson with them, carved deep, not as fear but as knowledge.

A knowledge they would never forget.