“Wait until you see the relays,” the official told me. “They are complete chaos. Swimmers jump early, land on top of each other, lose their goggles. Mayhem.”

I was on deck at the pool at Lake Forest College working a Special Olympics swim meet. Having worked plenty of swim meets when my son Wes was competing, I had decided to volunteer for this one to get my swimming fix and help out a good cause.

But this was like no other swim meet I’d ever been at. 

Expecting the athletes to be kids, I was surprised that many of them were adults. Some wore racing suits and others wore trunks or one-piece “fashion” type bathing suits. All had swim goggles and some wore caps. Most were people with Down’s Syndrome. Some were more nervous and anxious and could have been individuals with autism or other behavioral disorders.  

My job was to line up the swimmers at the shallow end of the pool for their 25-yard races, help them get in the pool if needed, and remind them to put their hand on the wall before the start. They sat in chairs as they waited their turn.

As the swimmers sat there fidgeting before their races, I tried to give them words of encouragement. I soon learned that I couldn’t say, “Are you ready?” because they’d immediately jump up and start to get in the pool – even if there was another swimmer already in the water at their lane. I also quickly realized that although some of the swimmers needed a hand getting in the pool, not all of them liked to be touched. 

No one trained me for this. But I adjusted and am grateful to have been able to personally connect with these enthusiastic special athletes.

“What’s your name?” many of them asked me.

“Sara,” I’d answer. “What’s yours?” 

Their answer usually went something like this: “My name’s John, and THAT’S my mom up in the stands!” Excitedly pointing to a beaming mom.

“Let’s wave to her!” I’d say, remembering how I yearned for my own serious competitive son to look up at me before or after a race. He hardly ever did.

There were some swimmers at this event who were clearly better than all the others. But most seemed just happy to finish their race and didn’t care about winning. It was about the experience for them. Prizes, though, did await those who did well.

One young man excitedly told me, “Hundred percent I’m going to get a medal, as there are only three people in this event.”

Then there was the young man who walked all his races halfway down the lane, his arms above the water in a cold embrace. “He’ll start swimming when the water is over his head,” the official told me. And sure enough, he did. But it was an automatic DQ.  Special Olympics does not discriminate.

A few of the swimmers got confused and instead of just swimming 25 yards to the other end of the pool, they would do the turn and keep going.

“Stop, stop,” the official and I shouted, frantically waving our arms. They couldn’t hear us.

Then there was the young man who, upon sliding into the pool, immediately began shouting, “Abandon ship, abandon ship!” Apparently, the water was too cold for him.

Unfortunately, my volunteer shift ended before the relays began and I could not stick around to experience the chaos. As I left the pool feeling pride, joy, and warmth for myself and all those athletes, I was reminded that swimming truly is a sport for all ages and abilities.