Saturday Morning, Poolside

It would be hard to vacate more than I did today. For most of the day, I have done nothing. And I haven't even done that very well.

Thank goodness my friend Laura was up early. She's the one who encouraged me to go to the Special Olympics swim meet at Lincoln High this morning. Special, indeed.

The meet was just starting when I wended my way through the crowded stands. I found a spot near an aisle and settled in. First up was a relay and I spotted a few athletes I knew from school. One, Kristen, had just finished her leg of the relay and was splayed out on a folding chair behind the line judges.

She looked utterly spent.

I had no idea Kristen was a swimmer. In some arenas, I suppose she isn't, but here, in the warmth of the Lincoln High pool, she was a silver medalist who had left everything she had in the rough waters of Lane One. As it should be.

I like the rules of a Special Olympics swim meet. In a word, they are "freestyle," in the truest sense of that word. I have never seen so many body shapes or styles of swim strokes in my life. Some athletes paddled, others floated on their backs, still others--the more traditional, less creative ones--stretched one arm before the other, a steady kick guiding their lower bodies.

More than once, when the judge told the athletes to get in the water before the race, someone mistook the direction and took off down their lane. No amount of hooting, hollering and arm waving could dissuade these anxious swimmers, a few of whom put in an extra two laps before their races even began. One man, sporting a nice freestyle stroke, finally got the message after nearly completing his race before it even began. When his line judge finally got him to stop, he looked around, shook off his head and said "I'm sorry," lining up to begin it all again.

One athlete was wheeled to the poolside and lowered into the water for his event. Another--a huge woman in a flowered suit shaped like an umbrella--slowly walked the ramp into one end of the pool and eventually made her way up to her lane, not one of her opponents catcalling the delay.

My favorite event, though, was the 200 Freestyle. Now, I was a sprinter in high school. No surprise there. I have always sought the easy, quick way out of things. The most I'd ever swam in a race was the 100. Four lousy lengths of the pool and I acted like I'd climbed Mount Everest. There were only two contestants in this morning's 200. I was curious how--or even if--they'd finish 8 lengths of the pool

Oh, ye of little faith. . . .

One man's stroke looked painful, as he favored his left side, yet it was oddly effective, each pull propelling him in smooth, long bursts through the water. The other man's stroke was more traditional, right down to his rhythmic breathing. They were neck and neck for the first half of the race. At one point--further than I'd ever swam in a meet--the man with the odd stroke popped his head up to get a lay of the land, eyeing his opponent two lanes over.

These guys even did flip turns, God bless 'em. Loopy, angled, sloppy turns, but turns, nonetheless. Heading into the final lap--one I wouldn't have guessed they'd still be swimming--the two were still surprisingly close to each other. By then, the crowd was whooping, taken away by the emotion of watching a great race.

It was then that the more traditional freestyler pulled ahead a bit, steadily making his way to the finish. He must have heard us screaming and hollering and decided then and there to just himself over to the moment. Why do I think this? Because, when he finally reached the end of the pool, he looked up, took a gulp of air, and did a flip turn and kept on swimming.

Never wavering, his pace strong and steady, he made his way to the other side of the pool, where the meet officials and timers and a few fans were whooping and waving at him to stop. All those sounds, that cheering, the waving and smiles--Well, what's a guy to do but take a gulp of air and somersault his way into one more length of the glory?

By the time he'd finished his 200--a 250, to be exact--the crowd was going wild. When his hand finally touched the edge of the pool, he looked around and joined in, his arms outstretched and victorious.

It was one of those "glad to be there" moments for all of us.