There are huge roars as 18-year-old Catriona Ryan appears at the poolside in her lime-green hat and black swimsuit for the 25 metre freestyle final. Her mother, Anna, usually can't bear to watch. But in the hot and steamy spectator area of this noisy, crowded pool in Raleigh, North Carolina, she doesn't seem to have a choice this time.
"By God, you're not going off now - we've come too far for this!" declares her husband, Eugene. They've travelled from near Easkey in Co Sligo to cheer on Catriona, one of 77 Irish athletes competing in the Special Olympics. For their daughter, who has learning difficulties, it's the end of a journey that can't be counted in mere miles.
Catriona was first brought to a pool when she was 10. "It took her nine months to just get into the water," Anna recounts. The patience alone involved in coaxing Catriona into the water over those many visits to Ballina pool reveals much about the extraordinary levels of commitment these parents give to their special children.
The 25m freestyle race is one length of the pool, and the event for which she won gold in the National Games in Dublin last summer. That victory qualified her for the Olympics, but didn't guarantee it. As each country is allocated only a certain number of places for each discipline, names of gold-medal winners were drawn out of a hat last September.
"They rang Catriona's school to tell her," Anna says. "I came home and found her out dancing in the street, she was so happy to have been chosen."
Today, this is her first of two finals. Catriona looks up to where we are sitting and gives a quick wave.
In a hot and distant country supporters are enormously important to the contestants. Like many of the other Irish families in North Carolina, the Ryans are disappointed that the Irish contingent is not all staying in the same hotel. Locations for events are very spread out, and since competition schedules are usually announced only the previous night, it's almost impossible for people to support each other's children as they don't know when their events are happening.
The schedules at the pool are running almost two hours behind time. In the pre-race build-up, the word "sandbagging" comes up amongst onlookers. Athletes are graded at different levels for their events, according to the extent of their disability, and also to their performance in prelims. Sandbagging is the alleged practice of coaches encouraging athletes to perform more slowly at prelims, so that they will then be awarded a lower grading and subsequently out-perform other contestants in their finals. Whether this goes on or not, the term was certainly bounced around enough times in North Carolina to illustrate that contemporary sport, even in the apparently pure-spirited aura of Special Olympics, is never without rumour and allegations of cheating.
They're off. The Irish supporters are on their feet, cheering Catriona on. Anna is shaking, but she's still there. The green hat bobs up and down gallantly. The noise is incredible.
Catriona touches the wall first. There is uproar. Someone gives me an enormous spontaneous bear-hug. It is Eugene. He looks utterly ecstatic. Eugene is the one who has driven Catriona several miles four times a week since last September - and who knows how many other times over the years - from their Easkey home to train at Ballina with her coach, Ronnie Mulloy. Anna, who looks stunned, is in tears.
The atmosphere is very different in the equestrian arena at the James Hunt Horse Complex in Raleigh the following day, with Gerry and Maria Sweetnam and several other family members, and their neighbours. There is none of the wild noise and applause that's been heard at other venues. Out of consideration for the horses and the safety of the riders, applause is not permitted: hands can be waved silently, like enthusiastic starfish dipping through the still air.
Diarmuid Sweetnam, who is 22, has Down's syndrome. He has been riding ponies and horses at the family home in Kanturk since he was 10. The previous day, he had come 4th in Equitation. Today, he will be competing in the Trail Ride, on an American Quarter horse called Baker's Wimpy Leo, loaned by Julie Tilley of Fuquay-Varina, North Carolina. Horses and riders are matched with each other early in the week: in all, 130 horses have been loaned to Special Olympics from people across the Southern States.
The riders first walk the course three or four times with their coaches. Diarmuid's trail ride involves opening a gate and going through it, walking over a raised box, or "bridge", stepping over poles, trotting to a squared-off box and turning around in it, walking backwards through parallel poles, weaving through cones at a trot, and trotting over splayed poles to the finish.
Ciara, Diarmuid's sister, who has also been riding for several years looks at the course with dismay. "I'd have trouble doing that bit myself," she says, pointing to the parallel poles, where riders will be walking through backwards. Maria looks at the bridge with equal dismay. "The animals won't like that," she states.
There are five others in Diarmuid's class. As Maria guessed, the horses are not keen on the bridge. Most of them shy away from it, despite the riders' repeated attempts. "Diarmuid has his own pony at home, Mickey, a lovely animal," says Maria. She looks wry and wistful. "Maybe we've spoiled him."
Diarmuid is one of the last to ride. He goes through the gate, steady and sure. Then Baker's Wimpy Leo takes one look at the bridge and backs off. He won't go near it. No way. Eventually, he bypasses it, trots to the box and turns around carefully. "Good boy, Diarmiud," mutters Gerry, clicking encouragement.
Then Diarmuid just trots off. He's left out half the course by mistake. "He forgot, poor Diarmuid just forgot," Maria says. The family are all very subdued. There is a palpable air of disappointment.
In the marking, Diarmuid is placed sixth out of six. Being placed last, his horse is first to be led out of the arena. We all go out to where medals and ribbons are being presented: every athlete other than the top three gets a ribbon. The podium is outside, and everyone gathers around as the athletes take their places. Diarmuid gets up on the Number One place, as does the rider who was actually placed first. It is a dreadful moment.
When Diarmuid is gently guided to sixth place on the podium, he looks totally crushed. It emerges that he thought he had won because he was first to be led out of the arena. When he goes to the athletes pick-up area, he sits down and puts his head in his hands. His family crowd around him, giving hugs and solace. The rider who won silver comes over with hesitant grace to shake Diarmuid's hand. "You think they don't know, but they know well," Maria says, to nobody in particular. "Deep down, everyone wants their son or daughter to win something," Ray Morrison observes, as he waits at the Raleigh Convention and Conference Centre for the gymnastics finals to begin on Thursday, July 1st. "The thing is, we can cope with the disappointment if they don't, but what we don't know is how they'll deal with it."
Like Diarmuid, Adam Morrison, who is 18, has Down's syndrome. He has been performing gymnastics - floor, vault, high bars and parallel bars for the past two and a half years. When he was selected in September, he started training on the rings and pommel horse also. He will be competing in all six finals today. Prelims were earlier in the week; 25 per cent of today's final total will come from those prelim results.
Sending athletes to North Carolina from Ireland cost £1,400 per athlete, a sum which was mostly gathered by local charities and special fund-raisers. Families paid for themselves, so for many of the Irish contingent, like the Ryans and the Morrisons, this was also their annual holiday.
"Coming out here has definitely made a difference to Adam," Annabelle says. "He's getting so much out of the experience. It's making him more independent. He does things like picking up his own tray at self-service restaurants now; he never did that before. And he's smiling a lot in public, usually he's very shy and quiet. We've even seen him dancing!"
Adam's only sibling, Paul (23), is also here, with his fiancee Deborah. Deborah has made an Irish flag with Good Luck Adam written on it, which is hanging behind us. Ray has the biggest green hat in the world, with a leprechaun on it, and Annabelle has a green and white hat which sings When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.
Ray has taken the precaution of sewing his leprechaun onto his hat to avoid its theft by moral-free memorabilia collectors. One of the biggest sub-cultures of the games is swapping - team pins, badges, T-shirts, hats, pens. Anything Irish is as hot as the temperatures outside, and the first question to anyone looking remotely Celtic all week is invariably: "Have you got an Irish pin?"
It's confusing and noisy in the gym. Athletes are rotating between 10 events, some of them performing to music. Although most athletes at these Olympics have learning difficulties only, some Special Olympians are physically handicapped in addition to having learning difficulties. There is a blind gymnast on the floor, David Grant from Pennsylvania.
He silences the audience when he takes a guiding ribbon between his hand, which is held at either end by two stewards, and runs carefully up to a vault springboard. A knot in the ribbon tells him when it is time to jump onto it. To watch this blind gymnast competing is to meditate on the Special Olympic oath: Let me win. But if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt. David gets the loudest applause of the day - and he goes on to win three gold medals.
Adam rotates through his six events. Deborah and Paul watch for his scores and write them down. No one knows how he's doing. "We're used to the competition set-up by now," Ray says, "but the judging is still a mystery to me." After the high bars, Adam's last event, he looks up from the floor to the balcony where we are sitting, and gives a big smile and wave.
Later, after the audience has been treated to linedancing-type entertainment from the National Shag Dancing Champions, everyone goes to a nearby room for the men's awards. Paul admits to feeling very emotional. It's very late now, not too far off 11 p.m. and both athletes and supporters have been at the gym for several hours without a break, but the place is still crowded. Nobody wants to miss the medal ceremonies.
The gymnasts come in for their different level floor awards. Then Adam appears. He wins silver. Annabelle, Paul, Deborah, all the other Irish supporters cheer themselves hoarse. Ray just sits, chewing gum, shaking his head, and beaming. He can't take his eyes off Adam. Adam gives the thumbs-up sign and laughs. The Morrisons stress how unusual it is for him to express himself so openly in public: he must be feeling very relaxed and happy. "I'd just love to run around the back and give him a big hug," Annabelle says.
Adam goes on to win gold in the rings, silver in pommel, and bronze for both the vault and overall bronze in his level. It will be a long night for the Morrisons tonight in the local Irish pub, Tir na nOg. Annabelle's hat is singing its little tune non-stop now, When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. And they certainly are.