Righty Tighty, Lefty Loosey
I’ve spent the past three decades focusing on the non-tactile: relationships, spiritual matters, words and meanings, stories, emotions, theology. Using my hands in a normal day likely consisted of turning pages or moving paperwork on a desk, typing on a keyboard, making interpretive motions during a ritual or sermon, or offering handshakes and hugs at the sanctuary door.
It was many years ago, although I was already an adult, when I first learned the helpful and practical phrase “righty tighty, lefty loosey.” Since then I’ve only called it to mind occasionally, for instance a few times each summer when twisting the hose pipe spigot handle when wanting to water some plants. Other than that, "righty tighty” has mainly been a concept, a cute play on words. (Or perhaps an unspoken criticism of extreme conservative points of view, as I tend to consider myself more of a “lefty Lucy.”)
But life aboard brings many practical opportunities for using this guiding concept. Say it has begun to rain, and we rush around closing the porthole windows by tightening the wing nuts across the bottom edge. Or after the rain, we want to catch a breeze, so we hold a towel under the porthole and loosen the wing nuts, catching the bit of rainwater that is resting on the lower sill of the window as it opens.
Or it is time to refill the water tanks, at one of the various deck fill openings. I grab a tool with a dull blade that fits in the groove on the lid and pause to recite the poem to myself so I know which way to twist and open it.
Whenever I trust in my own intuition and forgo that pause and conscious effort, I am likely to find myself crying with exasperation, “Why won’t this open?” as I am “righty-tightening” with all my might.
As David prepared Kotona for our adventure, one of the items he completed was to hang a small hammock on either wall of the v-berth, where we planned to store our clean clothes. Not surprisingly, I then brought about twice as much clothing on board than he did, and my hammock overflowed. So we ordered a second one for my side. I had just come in from a laundry run late one hot afternoon when I found the hammock had finally made its way to us. I was determined to hang it myself, particularly because I knew just how I wanted it.
I found a little Phillips-head screwdriver and sat on the v-shaped cushions, taking stock of how I would position the two of them where formerly there had been only one. David had attached the hammocks to the screws that hold the bead board paneling overhead, so all I had to do was lefty-loosen some to reposition and righty-tighten others for the new arrangement. I say “some” and “others”, but actually it took a long while in that small, seemingly airless cabin. I knew just how I wanted it, but my hands were not very practiced at making it just so.
I am taking note of many physical, tactile aspects of our new life:
When I am unable to reach a small item deep in the refrigerator under the galley counter, or to slide the companionway hatch closed, I am thankful for David’s long man-arms. When I am preparing to catch rainwater and struggling to undo the port’s wing-nuts, I am often frustrated that he closes them with a vise-like grip.
I have a black spot under a fingernail on my right hand from one finger-smashing and a new red polka dot on my left thumb from another one. When I see these I smile, thinking I am just like a real sailor whose hands sometimes get caught up in the rigging.
We spend a lot of time outdoors, of course. The other day I noticed that we both have half-tanned feet. We have to wear our shoes when on deck because the surfaces are always too darn hot for this to be a barefoot cruise experience.
Anchored out the other night, as we sat on the cabin top catching the evening breezes, I hugged my knees to my chest and felt like a completely different person than who I was six weeks ago. I liked to consider myself the resident (supposedly) holy woman who walked about ten yards between the church and the parsonage each day with hands empty and a head full of intangibles. Now with hands and heart full on the wide water and under the open sky, I am feeling transformation.
