I feel a responsibility to share my story, recounting how my young campers saved my life

As told by Sholom Ross to Sandy Eller

I’m okay, I’m okay,” I said — and an unfamiliar voice responded, “No, you’re not”

I

had just finished davening at Chabad of the Five Towns in New York, where I lived, before Shavuos 2001, when fellow mispallel Dr. William Muller approached me.

“I have a summer job for you,” he said.

It was in Columbia, South Carolina, of all places. Dr. Muller explained that several frum families in the area — Chabad shluchim, one of whom is his son, and some other locals and visitors — needed someone to run a program in June between school and sleepaway camp.

“You’ll have your own car, your own apartment, and access to a private pool,” he said — all things that appeal to a 19-year-old.

To be honest, I thought Dr. Muller, whom I had known for years, was kidding. With my sense of geography, South Carolina may as well have been South America — and with a name like Columbia, I was sure they spoke Spanish there. When I realized he wasn’t joking, I told him I’d discuss it with my parents, but I had zero intention of going.

I mentioned the conversation to an older friend as we walked home from shul. He thought it could be a positive experience for me, and somehow, I had changed my mind by the time I walked through the front door.

“Ima, guess what — I’m going to South Carolina!”

After Shabbos, I spoke to Mrs. Muller, and within hours, the Mullers had booked my flight. A couple of weeks later, I was in Columbia and ready to roll.

I had to entertain a total of six boys between the ages of eight and ten. The plan was relatively simple — start the morning with davening and learning, and then in the afternoon, play sports and maybe take them on a short trip, with some arts and crafts thrown in for good measure. The Mullers, like so many others in the neighborhood, had a large built-in pool, and these boys were like fish in the water. Me? I had learned the basics in camp ten years ago, but I don’t enjoy swimming, and while I had brought a bathing suit with me, I hadn’t actually planned to use it.

But the kids had other ideas. On Monday, our second day, they started calling, “Sholom, come in the water with us.” I didn’t have my bathing suit with me, so I had an easy out, but they insisted I bring it next time. They started in on me again the next day, and I finally agreed to join them. The kids were encouraging, and after a while, I even started enjoying myself. I realized that while I knew the strokes and could generally get from point A to point B, I didn’t have the breathing down pat, so I would hold my breath and keep going as long as I could before emerging to inhale and exhale when my head was above water.