Special Olympics teach lessons — to mentor, too

The moment came when I was least expecting it.

"Let's do Godzilla arms," I said to Chris. We started walking across the shallow Dillon Gym pool, using our arms to imitate the freestyle arm-pull above the water, mimicking monsters crushing the villages below.

Then, without warning, Chris started swimming. He kicked his feet up off the ground and swam halfway across the pool — feet flutter kicking, arms Godzilla pulling, body fully suspended by the cold pool water.

It was beautiful.

When he finished, he broke out into the same smile he gives after we've completed a lap of kicking or running or bunny hopping. I was ecstatic.

"Chris, you were just swimming," I said, offering a high five.

"I know, Sandy," he said, as if it was no big deal.

But it was a big deal. For the past two years, Chris and I have swum together on Sunday mornings through the Special Olympics program, which takes place for the first five weeks and final five weeks of the year. The program allows Princeton students, including a large number of varsity swimmers, to connect with children from the surrounding area who have special needs.

Chris is a 14-year-old child who is considered multiply handicapped due to developmental delays. More importantly, he loves ice hockey and is a huge New Jersey Devils fan. He rides horses and will be competing in a Special Olympics equestrian show this weekend on Misty, his newest friend. And he is an absolute gentleman who despises getting splashed before he's ready to get in the water.

I distinctly remember our first lesson. I was an awkward freshman, unsure of what to expect. I had given swimming lessons before, but had never worked with a child of special needs, and wondered if I was up to the challenge. Chris was much quieter — he answered questions politely when I asked them, but seemed wary of the fact that I was new, a stranger in his life. We kicked a little that first day; Chris refused to put his head under water and wasn't fond of floating on his back.

Time progressed and our relationship blossomed. But early in my freshman year, I constantly worried about results.

A natural hard worker, I expected my efforts to lead somewhere. Working hard in practice daily would surely lead to a time drop at the end of the season. Keeping up with schoolwork would lead to good grades. Being super friendly would lead to lasting relationships.

Get the best of the ‘Prince’ delivered straight to your inbox. Subscribe now »

What I failed to realize was that the real experience was in the journey, working toward those end results.

When Chris and I first started swimming together, I thought my purpose was to teach him how to swim. I expected that once he could perform a perfunctory front crawl and backstroke, we'd be finished and both of us would be considered "successful."

Weeks of swimming passed as we made baby steps toward swimming. Before long, I realized that seeing Chris every Sunday wasn't really about the swimming lessons. It was about a friendship. Like when Chris trusted me enough to allow me to flip him on his back and knew I wouldn't drop him. Or when he started taking charge of lessons, asking to kick or blow bubbles without any initiation on my part. Or how his family has partially adopted me into their own.

I stopped thinking about the swimming because, frankly, it didn't matter. Our time together on Sunday mornings is precious because we're together, and whether that means we're tossing a polo ball around in the pool, talking about how our weeks have been or swimming — that's special.

Chris swam that half lap on his own when I was least expecting it. Appreciating the journey toward that half lap made it all the more meaningful.

Chris and his parents thank me every week after we swim together. What they don't realize is that I'm the one who should be thanking them. Chris has taught me the greatest lesson, one that spills over into every aspect of my life: the beauty of letting go.