How did sailors wipe their bottoms

For centuries, sailors had this weird, specific problem nobody really talks about — how to wipe your ass after using the ship's toilet. The "head," they called it. And the answer? Honestly, it's a wild mix of cleverness, desperation, and just making do. No modern plumbing, no soft toilet paper. You worked with whatever the hell was on hand. Canvas, old rope, sometimes moss. Whatever didn't fall apart in the salt spray.

The go-to was this thing called a "tow rag" or "seaman's wipe." Basically a strip of tarred canvas or frayed rope. You used it, rinsed it in the ocean, hung it up to dry. Then used it again. Because paper? Too expensive, too scarce, and it'd turn to mush in seconds on a damp ship. The tar was rough on your skin — like, really rough — but it sorta worked as a mild antiseptic. Painful but practical. That was sailor life in a nutshell.

What materials did sailors use for toilet paper?

Beyond that standard rag, sailors got creative. Depended on your rank, where the ship was, what was lying around.

• Old rope and canvas: The everyday choice. Frayed scraps in a bucket near the head. The tar stung but kept infections away. Or so they thought.
• Moss and leaves: When the ship docked or passed near land, guys would grab soft moss, big leaves, grass. Anything softer than tarred hell. A real treat.
• Sponges and sticks: In warmer waters, some used a sea sponge tied to a stick — a "tersorium." Rinse and repeat. Others just grabbed a stick, used it, tossed it.
• Wool and cloth scraps: Officers or lucky guys with old uniform scraps got a softer wipe. But wool was precious. Used sparingly, if at all.
• Sand and grit: Last resort. When there was nothing else, you grabbed sand from the ballast. Abrasive. Uncomfortable. You really didn't want to be in that position.

How did the ship's "head" work?

The head wasn't fancy. A wooden seat or just a hole in a plank, hanging over the side. Usually at the front of the ship — the bow — hence the name. You sat there, did your business, and it dropped straight into the ocean. No privacy. Cold. Wet. Terrifying in rough seas. One bad lurch and you could end up overboard. Happened more than you'd think.

No flushing. Just a hole in the deck. You either sat on a bench with a hole cut out, or squatted over a gap. Seawater sprayed up constantly, so everything was slick and slippery. Your wiping material? It'd get soaked in seconds if you weren't careful. Made the choice of what to use even more critical. Paper was useless. Cloth was a gamble. You learned fast.

What did sailors do before toilet paper?

Before commercial toilet paper showed up in the 19th century, sailors by "waste not, want not." Everything got reused or tossed overboard.

• Reusable rags: The main thing. A dedicated rag in a bucket. Use it, rinse it over the side, back in the bucket. Communal, but some guys had their own personal ones.
• Sea water: In warmer climates, some just used seawater and their hands. Rinse off, done. Simple, no materials needed. But try that in the North Atlantic in winter. Not happening.
• Discarded items: Old letters, book pages, bits of wood. Whatever was lying around. Tossed overboard after. The ocean was basically their trash can.
• Corn cobs and husks: If the ship carried food supplies, corn cobs or husks worked. Biodegradable. Natural. But not always around.

Was there a specific tool for wiping?

Yeah, actually. Some sailors used a tersorium — a sponge on a stick. Rinsed in a bucket of seawater or vinegar after each use. Shared among the crew, which is kinda gross by today's standards. But resources were limited. Romans used the same thing in public latrines, and sailors just borrowed the idea.

Another tool was the "wiper." A stick with cloth tied to the end. More personal than the shared sponge. You could replace the cloth when it got too nasty. These sat in a bucket near the head, common on 17th and 18th century ships. Not glamorous, but it got the job done.

"The sailor's life was one of constant adaptation. The simple act of wiping one's bottom required ingenuity, resilience, and a tolerance for discomfort. The tow rag was a symbol of that life—a humble, essential tool that told a story of survival at sea." — Dr. Eleanor Vance, Maritime Historian