Tag Archives: Hoover Lake

Chandler

Chandler: (n) a dealer in supplies and equipment for ships and boats.

Looking back, I realize my oldest brother was a chandler. He was only in his twenties when he decided to open a marina. He sold boats, fixed boats, tied boats, and also sold boating equipment.

I remember as a young man, being very impressed, surprised and intimidated by his success. (My greatest success at that time was getting two A’s in a row in
 chemistry–neither of which I deserved.)

My oldest brother was a chandler. I do not know if he loved boats or not. I don’t recall him talking incessantly about watercraft. He did like to fish.

But what prompted him to take the big leap of faith in his youthful years, to establish such a business for the folks who wanted to sail the waters of Hoover Lake, near Columbus, Ohio? (We called it a lake–actually, it was a reservoir.)

My brother ran his business for several years, and then a bigshot came to town with more boats, more equipment, more floor space, more advertising, and more of whatever more will buy. My brother could not keep up. He lost his business.

He was a determined man of discipline and taut feelings. If he was truly devastated, he never let anyone know–at least, not me.

But he never quite found anything to replace his marina. Perhaps it was a chandler he was intended to be–and by intended, I mean desired. Once that was gone, he found himself selecting from Column B.

Yes, perhaps that’s where we all lose our zest for life–wearily thumbing through Column B to try to find something that comes anywhere close to what we once had in Column A.

Yet it feels good, now that my brother has passed on, to write this small article and tout him as the chandler he was.

I think he would like that.

 

 

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Anchor

dictionary with letter A

Anchor: (n) a heavy object attached to a rope or chain and used to moor a vessel to the bottom.

It was made of aluminum, about twelve feet long, with three wooden, bench seats inside, one of the perches broken.

It was my dad’s boat.

It more resembled a canoe with a thyroid problem.

But whenever my dad launched his vessel onto the great and mighty waters of Hoover Lake, he suddenly transformed into some sort of John Paul Jones, which to me as a boy, appeared as a nautical monster.

He began using the lingo of the sea and was perpetually angry with his crew–embodied solely in myself.

He explained that the best way to fish was to find a quiet, deep lagoon and drop your anchor so your boat wouldn’t move, and you would be present with your bait, to lure in the schools of fish. (Often we often must have arrived during some sort of fish holiday–because the schools were usually out.)

Nevertheless, he yelled at me to drop anchor, which was a forty pound cube of cement block, which he had put together by pouring it into a plastic bucket and then destroying the bucket to free the cement once it had hardened. Attached to this heavy clump was a rope.

Now, you must realize–we only had twenty-five feet of rope on our anchor–which is fine is you happen to be perched in twenty-three feet of water. But as I lifted the huge mass over the side of the boat and dropped it into the water, I was never sure if it actually hit the bottom.

So after an hour or so, my dad would look up from his fishing pole, where he had frozen his eyes intently, and realize that we had floated far from our desired spot.

This initiated a whole new tirade of “captain-to-deck-swab” complaints. I tried to defend myself by explaining that we did not have enough rope to reach the bottom of the lake, but he never seemed to quite comprehend that if the anchor doesn’t land on the bottom, it really doesn’t keep you in place.

What great symbolism.

After all, if our anchor is floating along with society’s ideas and standards instead of landing firmly on solid ground, we, too, tend to drift from our preferred placement.

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Alcove

Words from Dic(tionary)

dictionary with letter A

Alcove: (n) a recess typically in the wall of a room or garden.

What an interesting definition. I always thought an alcove was more like a little chunk out of the mainland, where water creeps its way in, creating a still, calm environment.

Far be it from me to disagree with Mr. Webster–but since you have his definition, let me talk about mine.

I thought it was magical. Out on Hoover Lake, near Columbus, Ohio, there was this place. Maybe I’d better call it a spot. It was just an area of water near the shoreline, indented–about the size of two swimming pools–where we used to go fishing. We found it every time. After all, we thought it was magical.

There was a tree sticking up out of the lake, rocks along the shoreline, and the water was not terribly deep, so it was perfect for catching fish. I always believed it was kind of like a “resort area” for the little swimmers to go to–not suspecting there would be wise fishing souls like myself, to catch them on a hook.

I don’t really know if the fishing was better in that particular alcove. But I convinced myself it was. Matter of fact, I learned that the true magic in life is often in convincing yourself of something pretty good, so you can bring your heart and soul to the mission.

Catfish were in that alcove. I loved to catch ’em. I was a little squeamish about taking the hook out of their mouths because they have those barbs that can stick you. Often we used bread dough or a corn muffin as bait, because the catfish weren’t picky.

And it was easy to row over to the shoreline, get out of the boat, stretch your legs, take a good pee, and in just a minute, be back to the business of fishing.

I do remember being disappointed one afternoon when another boat came into our sacred turf. It felt defiling. How could it be special if other people discovered it?

But fortunately, they didn’t stay long. Completely missed out on the magic.

Isn’t that like life? One man’s alcove is another man’s disappointment.

So I apologize to Mr. Webster if I have misused the definition. But I’m afraid, considering my age, that I will continue to believe that my magical alcove on Hoover Lake is the vacation home of many a fishy possibility.

Aboard

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Aboard:  1. prep. on or into (a ship, aircraft, train or other vehicle) 2. adv. onto a horse: with Miguel aboard, the race was won. 3. into an organization or team: coming aboard as IBM‘s new CFO.

Considering I was twelve years old, the prospect of going on a boat trip with my best friend’s dad on a lake was nearly mind-numbing–exhilarating to the point of having every one of my pores pop forth with liquid joy. It sounded so cool.

My friend’s dad owned a cabin cruiser–one of those ships that have a place where you can go down below, open up a small refrigerator to get a snack, lounge on the bed or watch television. It was crazy.

The night before our sea voyage, I couldn’t sleep. Arriving at the dock, I danced around with my friend like a little girl discovering that a new Barbie was about to be released into the toy market.

We climbed onto the boat, pushed off from shore, and motored our way out into the middle of the lake, where engines were turned off, fishing lines dropped into the water–and we waited. And we waited.

Did I mention we waited?

What I soon discovered was that the thrill of a boat trip is in planning it, getting out  to the water and eventually coming back in. Because once you’re aboard a ship, there is nothing around you except water.

I discovered you can only go downstairs so many times before your friend’s father will complain about you emptying the fridge. I also soon realized that trying to take a nap on the bed while the boat was rocking back and forth was the best way to become seasick. We were only on our little excursion for about two hours but it seemed like one hundred and fifty-three.

I learned something that day. You must be careful about what you get aboard, because there may not be an immediate escape. And if it’s a cabin cruiser in the middle of Hoover Lake, you might find that being aboard really makes you a bored.