We Jumped Over the Bonfire, All Five of Us

“Okay, wait. Are you seriously suggesting that we jump over a fire?”

I was standing there with a plastic cup of lemonade in my hand, staring at Marko as if he had just suggested summoning the spirit of an ancient forest.

There were five of us: three women and two men. We had come to a small lake simply for an overnight picnic — tents, food, speakers, playing cards, and absolutely no grand cultural experiments. But Marko was studying philology and specializing in Slavic culture, so an ordinary conversation around the bonfire suddenly turned into a lecture about Ivan Kupala.

He explained that in traditional folk beliefs, water on this night was associated with purification and renewal, while jumping over a bonfire was associated with cleansing by fire, good fortune, and a test of courage. Couples sometimes jumped while holding hands: if they managed not to let go, it was considered a good sign.

“So, basically,” Lena summarized, “we have to swim and jump?”

Marko sighed.

“I was telling you about traditions, not giving you instructions.”

“Too late,” I said.

Everyone laughed.

At first, it really was just a joke.

We found some wildflowers, and Lena decided that there could be no “historical authenticity” without flower crowns. Twenty minutes later, we had five completely crooked creations that looked more like botanical accidents.

My flower crown kept slipping over one eye.

“Very mystical,” Tomas said.

“Be quiet. This is ancient power.”

Once it got dark, the bonfire became much more beautiful. The daytime bustle had disappeared. There was only the black water, the smell of smoke, and our tents a little farther away from the shore.

Someone suggested that we go swimming first.

We stayed in our swimsuits and swimming trunks — we were not planning to turn our folklore experiment into a competition in recklessness — and ran toward the water.

It was freezing.

I stepped in up to my knees and immediately screamed:

“That is it! The purification is complete!”

Lena pushed me from behind with her shoulder.

I splashed into the water.

A second later, all five of us were laughing.

The funniest thing was that during the day, every one of us women had adjusted her swimsuit at least once, sucked in her stomach before a photo, or asked, “Does this look okay?”

At night, thoughts like that simply disappeared.

Wet hair? Who cares.

Sand on our legs? Great.

The photo did not come out perfectly? Even better.

After swimming, it was time for the bonfire.

Naturally, Marko immediately transformed from our cultural expert into a fire safety inspector.

“Only over the smallest part. One at a time. No heroics.”

Lena went first.

She took a running start, jumped over it, and landed with such ceremony that you would have thought she had just won the Olympics.

We screamed.

Then Tomas went.

Then it was my turn.

Just before I started running, I suddenly felt a little scared. The fire was quite small, but at night the flames looked much more impressive.

“Klara, you were the one who said this was ancient power!” Lena shouted.

It was too late to back out.

I ran.

For a fraction of a second, I saw the orange glow beneath me and felt the heat against my legs — and then I was already standing on the other side.

The adrenaline hit instantly.

“AGAIN!”

“And this is exactly why historians do not tell you people anything,” Marko said.

After several jumps, someone pulled out a phone.

And that was when the photoshoot began.

At first, it was normal: all five of us standing beside the bonfire.

Then Lena suggested trying to capture us in midair.

In the first photo, Tomas completely blocked me with his arm.

In the second, I looked as though I had just seen a ghost.

In the third, Marko was the only person who had actually managed to jump at the right moment.

We were laughing so hard that the photographs kept getting worse.

And that was exactly why they kept getting better.

Then we decided to photograph silhouettes by the water. We women posed together, the men pretended to be “heroes from an ancient legend,” and every couple of minutes Marko protested:

“Nothing like this exists in the historical sources!”

“It does now,” I replied.

My favorite photograph happened completely by accident.

The three of us women were supposed to throw our flower crowns into the air at the same time. Lena misunderstood the signal and, instead of throwing her crown, hugged me. I turned toward her in surprise, she kissed me on the cheek, and at that exact moment the third woman got hit in the head by her own flower crown.

The phone captured absolutely everything.

The bright bonfire behind us.

My enormous eyes.

Lena laughing so hard she could barely stand.

And a flower crown suspended literally ten centimeters from someone else’s face.

I looked at the photo and said:

“Nobody is deleting this one.”

Usually, photographs make me evaluate myself: my stomach, my arms, my hair, my facial expression.

For the first time, I did not look for flaws at all.

I saw a person having fun.

Maybe that was actually the most important thing that happened that night.

Not the jump.

Not the swim.

Not the ancient tradition.

But the strange realization that when you are surrounded by people you trust, your body stops feeling like a project that constantly needs to be improved.

We sat around the bonfire for a long time afterward, wrapped in towels and hoodies. Marko told us which Ivan Kupala customs were actually documented in ethnographic sources and which ones the internet had transformed into beautiful legends.

At two in the morning, Lena asked:

“Are we doing this again next year?”

I answered first:

“Only if we change the photographer.”

“The phone took perfectly good pictures!”

“The phone is fine. The models are unstable.”

The next morning, I woke up with sand in my hair and my flower crown lying beside my sleeping bag.

That evening, the famous photograph appeared in our group chat.

Marko had added a caption:

“Scientific expedition has officially gone out of control.”

I still have that photo in my favorites.

And while I used to automatically try to find the “correct” pose whenever someone pointed a camera at me, after that trip I started thinking more and more often: maybe the best photograph is the one where you completely forgot you were supposed to pose.

We have already agreed to repeat the trip next summer.

And yes, our group is happy to welcome new adult like-minded people too.

But there is now only one entrance exam: you have to be able to jump over a small bonfire and then resist demanding that everyone delete the photo.