My grandfather had two good digits on his left hand, the thumb and pinky. The other three were sliced off just above the cuticles. A narrow sliver of fingernail wrapped partially around the tip of each stub like a ragged crescent moon.
According to family lore, a lawnmower blade was the cause, and given our family history for mechanical prowess (very little) and profound inattention (plenty), I don’t doubt the story.
I can imagine Daddy Nick adding in his head the day’s receipts from the drive-in while he tugged on a kudzu vine stuck in the blade. Scarred by the Great Depression, he and my grandmother tracked every penny going in and out of their two-screen theater.
The lack of fingertips didn’t interfere with his most cherished routine. He could still use the crimped fingers to toss a tennis ball above his head for the serve, a wicked slice that often sent me sprawling on the court.
Worse off was my sailing pal Tim Flynn—grandson of Ed, the New York political boss who spawned the term “in like Flynn.” For better or worse, Tim introduced me to Wednesday night round-the-buoy racing in Newport, RI. Paralyzed in a car accident from the chest down (“nipples down,” as he liked to say), Tim was left with two semi-operable fingers and a thumb on his right hand. This was enough for him to flick a cigarette lighter, which he did with an intensity reserved only for the highest order of nicotine addicts.
I was the “able seaman” in the fleet of paralyzed sailors who had more ably mastered what mattered in life better than I ever would. Tim gave me just two jobs aboard our heavily ballasted Pearson that was specifically built for therapeutic sailing (a term that I think should apply to all sailing).
Job number one was to duct tape Tim’s good hand to the tiller; he didn’t have the grip to hold it alone. Job two was to produce a cigarette at regular intervals and light it as Tim held it in his lips. Since Tim rarely stopped cursing the competition, the cigarette bobbed like a conductor’s wand. As we bucked and heaved in the tidal chop near Goat Island, each ignition required speed and precision, and my thumb knuckle was often singed in the process.
My more recent adventures with hands and boats—including one painfully bruised index finger—remind me that distractible types can’t afford to ignore the advice of wiser, more focused souls. And like you, I’m fortunate to have one such advisor close by to steer me away of trouble.
A few months ago, after I spent a few hours fruitlessly scrubbing polyurethane paint on my fingers where the wrong glove had dissolved during use, I contacted PS Technical Editor Drew Frye about reporting on work gloves. During the past decades we’ve tested all kinds of sailing gloves (search “gloves” on the PS website, and you’ll find the reports), but to my surprise, our past advice on work gloves is sparse.
The result of Drew’s research is the buyer’s guide starting on page 6. I hope you learn as much as I did. Not only am I well equipped for my next grudge match with a paint brush, I believe I found a tight fitting glove that will protect my thumb knuckle when Tim and I race again.
I’ve also stocked my own small sloop with various gloves I’ll need for typical onboard tasks. It’s a varied collection that should carry me through the next couple years with my digits intact—
although I’d trust none of them to my grandfather’s lawnmower test.
