Atlantic

Atlantic: (n) short for Atlantic Oceandictionary with letter A

I was 22 years old before I ever got the opportunity to see an ocean. Living in Central Ohio, there were not many nearby.

When I asked my parents about whether they would take me so I could see…well, the sea…they told me it was no different from Hoover Lake down the road, where we fished.

“It’s just water, with shorelines, and maybe a little bit more sandy.”

Being a kid, I bought into their version and settled for my nearby body of water.

But when I was 22 years of age and arrived in Jacksonville, Florida, I had a couple of extra hours on my hands. I drove down to the beach, parked my car, got out and started to trudge across the sand. In a matter of seconds I came up over a rise and there it was.

The Atlantic Ocean in all of its glory.

Not only were the beaches much more than mere piles of sand, but the ocean was magnificent–nearly angry. It pelted the land with its waves, foaming at its mouth, eager to express its supremacy. And when I kicked my shoes off and went down into the water, I was astounded at the vigor and energy with which the waves struck my body.

As I found out with many things during my life, my parents’ definitions and interpretations were often flawed.

The Atlantic Ocean was much more interesting than Hoover Lake.

 

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Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix

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.