Saji Valasseril: The man who turned a river into Kerala’s biggest survival classroom

There are tragedies that fade into headlines. And then there are tragedies that quietly reshape an entire life.

For Saji Valasseril, the 2009 Thekkady boat disaster was one such moment.

“When the Thekkady accident happened, and 45 people died, it affected me deeply,” he says. “I kept thinking, how many of them could have survived if they knew how to swim?”

That question stayed with him.

Sixteen years later, on the banks of the Periyar near Aluva Manappuram, the answer has become visible every morning before sunrise.

What began as one man’s response to loss has grown into one of Kerala’s most remarkable community-led water safety initiatives, training more than 10,000 people to survive in water.

And for Saji, this was never just about teaching a sport.

“Learning to swim is essential,” he told The Bridge in an exclusive conversation.

“If you don’t know how to swim, it is like having a deadly disease. In a drowning situation, death becomes almost inevitable if you cannot swim. Swimming is like a vaccine against it.”

Before sunrise, the riverside comes alive

At 4:30 am, Desham Kadavu is already awake.

The sky is still dim. Mist hangs lightly above the river. Scooters line the roadside. Cars are parked in long, uneven rows near the field.

Parents walk toward the ghat carrying bags and towels while sleepy children trail behind them.

For a moment, it feels like a festival gathering.

Until you realise everyone is here for one reason: to learn how not to drown.

Every year, from November to May, this stretch of the Periyar transforms into an open-air swimming classroom unlike anything else in Kerala.

There are no tiled pools or concrete walls. Instead, the river itself becomes the training ground.

The setup is tyre tubes and floaties tied together to form floating lanes across the water, arranged almost like a giant jigsaw puzzle.

Over the years, Saji developed the system through trial and error, creating different levels of training that he jokingly labels from “pre-lower kindergarten” to “post doctorate.”

The humour is intentional. It makes beginners less afraid.

“The biggest issue is fear,” Saji says. “People panic before they even understand the water. So first, we teach them to trust themselves.”

The training starts with floating. Then breathing. Then kicking. Students are slowly taught to remain calm in water rather than fight it.

“Swimming isn’t taught here as a competitive sport,” he says. “It is taught as a life skill.”

“Most drownings happen close to shore”

For Saji, the urgency comes from years of watching preventable accidents happen again and again.

“People think drowning happens somewhere far away,” he says. “But around 99 per cent of drowning accidents happen close to the shore.”

He pauses before recalling one particular incident.

“Last year in Mudikkal, two girls had gone for a morning walk. They climbed onto a rock to take a selfie, slipped, and fell into the water. The elder one died while the younger one was rescued.”

The story still unsettles him.

“What I’m saying is that girls can become victims of this as well,” he continues. “Boys usually go straight into water bodies after cricket matches or games. We may think our children will not go near the water, but they do.”

Many accidents, he says, never even reach the news unless someone dies.

“Right here at this place, a man died three months ago in water that was only 12 feet deep.”

That reality shapes the way rescue training is taught here.

Because according to Saji, saving someone from drowning is far more dangerous than most people realise.

“A drowning person doesn’t think normally, they only think about survival,” he explains, adding: “They grab. They pull. Without proper skill, one life trying to save another can become two.”

That is why rescue techniques are taught alongside swimming.

Students learn how to approach a drowning person safely, how to use flotation devices, and how to avoid being dragged underwater themselves.

“We spend around 30 minutes teaching rescue methods and one hour on swimming,” Saji says. “If I take 100 students, at least 60 of them will be ready to help somebody else.”

A ₹100 fee that builds safety, not profit

One of the most striking aspects of the initiative is its accessibility.

The fee is just ₹100 per month.

In an era where structured coaching often costs thousands, the amount almost sounds impossible.

But for Saji, affordability is central to the mission.

“We create a committee every November after the first 15 days to handle safety arrangements,” he explains. “We collect ₹100 from each student. That money is used for safety boats, ambulances on standby, and emergency arrangements. We do not make any profit from it.”

The setup runs heavily on volunteers, many of whom were once students themselves.

“Once students complete the highest level, I tell them that if they cross the river, they should come back as volunteers,” he says. “We have more than 200 people ready to volunteer every day.”

Some of those volunteers now train younger children. Others help monitor safety in the river. Many simply return because they feel responsible for keeping the cycle alive.

“I have trained at least 4,000 students to cross the river,” Saji says proudly. “But crossing the river is not the final goal. Coming back and helping others is more important.”

More than a swimming class

Spend enough time at Desham Kadavu, and it becomes clear this place is about far more than water.

“To be honest, learning swimming is secondary here now,” Saji admits.

Every morning, between 800 and 1,200 people gather along the riverside. Children, teenagers, parents, working professionals, and senior citizens all share the same space before dawn.

And somewhere along the way, the classes evolved into something much larger.

“We encourage students under the age of 22 to stand up and speak,” Saji says. “Sometimes they explain the exact route to their house from Aluva town. Parents love it.”

The idea sounds simple. But for many students, it is the first time they have spoken into a microphone in front of a crowd.

“If you go elsewhere for public speaking training, it may cost more than ₹12,000,” he says with a laugh. “Here we already have microphones and speakers. So why not use them?”

Confidence slowly builds.

Children who arrive shy begin speaking freely. Teenagers who avoid attention start volunteering. Parents begin interacting with people outside their own circles.

And then there are those who come here carrying heavier struggles.

“We also see people dealing with addictions,” Saji says. “Smokers, alcoholics, even drug addicts. Some people come because they cannot sleep properly.”

The discipline of waking up before sunrise changes routines.

“The class starts at 5:30 and I do not tolerate latecomers,” he says. “If you want to wake up early, you must sleep early. For many people, that itself reduces their dependence on alcohol because they often drink to fall asleep.”

People even travel from outside Kerala to join.

“There are Malayalis settled in Mumbai who come here during vacations,” he says.

A mission that keeps expanding

For Saji, all of this traces back to something deeply personal.

“My father taught me how to swim,” he says. “That knowledge stayed with me.”

Saji also admits that none of this would have been possible without support at home.

“My wife is the one who keeps everything going,” he says with a smile. “She runs our furniture shop and keeps food on the table while I spend my time here.”

It is a rare moment in the conversation where the coach, so used to speaking about others, briefly turns reflective about his own life.

“This work needs sacrifice from the whole family,” he adds quietly.

Today, he wants to make sure it spreads even further.

“If somebody anywhere wants to start something like this, I am ready to teach them for free,” he says immediately. “This should not stay limited to one place.”

Because for him, swimming is no longer just a skill.

It is prevention. Confidence. Community. Responsibility.

And every morning, before the sun fully rises over the Periyar, that belief quietly takes shape again, one frightened beginner, one volunteer, one floating lane at a time.