The River Haul

The river was a beast, gorged on three days of rain, chewing the East Tennessee bank with mud and branches. Jake, 34, stood on the volunteer dock, boots sinking into the mire, his fisherman’s hands restless. Riverside Aid’s boat—loaded with food and medicine for a flood-cut hamlet upriver—was snagged on a fallen oak downstream, its hull groaning. Jake wasn’t into heroics, but his buddy Cal, who ran the volunteer group, had pleaded, and Jake knew the river better than most.

Tim, 31, hustled up, glasses fogged, flannel too neat for the chaos. A high school teacher, he’d swapped fishing tales with Jake at the gas station, his quiet calm grating like a dull hook. Cal had paired them, and Jake wasn’t happy. “Don’t slow me,” he muttered, slinging a rope over his shoulder.

“Tim,” Tim said, wiping his glasses, voice steady as the river’s deep pull. “I’m in.”

The dock rocked as they piled into Jake’s skiff, spray stinging their faces. Jake rowed, muscles straining, while Tim gripped the sides, knuckles white. The current bucked, slamming them toward a rock. Jake cursed, but Tim leaned hard, balancing the boat. Jake shot him a glance, respect flickering. “Not bad.”

They reached the volunteer boat, its bow snarled in the oak’s roots, water lapping crates—canned goods, insulin, the hamlet’s lifeline. Jake tied the skiff, rope rough on his palms, and waded in, the cold biting his thighs. Tim followed, slipping but catching himself, flannel soaked. They hacked at the roots with a hatchet, wood chips flying, but the boat held. Jake’s temper flared. “River’s got it,” he growled.

Tim, panting, shook his head. “Folks upriver need us.” He climbed aboard, checking the cargo, glasses glinting. “We keep going, Jake.”

Jake grunted, but Tim’s fire lit something. He joined him, shoulders brushing as they shoved the hull. The boat creaked, unmoved. Jake’s mind flashed to his sister, lost to fever years ago, when he’d been too proud for help. “I let her down,” he said, voice low, nearly lost in the river’s roar. “Didn’t fight enough.”

Tim paused, drizzle dripping. “You’re fighting now.” He touched the cross in his pocket, Psalm 46 whispering—God as refuge. “You’re not alone.”

Jake’s throat tightened, but he grabbed the hatchet. “Move.” They hacked in sync, Jake’s raw power, Tim’s steady cuts, spray a cold baptism. A root snapped, then another, and the boat broke free, rocking in the current. Jake whooped, grin splitting, and Tim laughed, clapping his back like kids.

Towing the boat back was brutal, rapids fighting every pull. Jake steered, shouting, but Tim’s calm steadied them, hands sure on the rope. At the dock, volunteers cheered, unloading crates for the hamlet, ready once roads cleared. Jake’s boots squelched, arms aching, but he felt lighter, like the river had carried off a weight.

Tim wiped his glasses, grinning. “Good team, fisherman.”

Jake snorted, eyes soft. “Maybe, bookworm.” He clapped Tim’s shoulder, heavy with thanks. “Fish with me Saturday? River’s calm then.”

Tim nodded, cross glinting. “Deal.” A few nights later, by a riverside campfire, flames warm against the damp, they shared coffee. Tim murmured Psalm 46, Jake nodding, his rough voice joining the prayer, their bond sealed—not just by the river, but by hauling together, flood or calm.