An unloved, unwanted crop

The Disease Called Cruising

5. Hair, Hair, Every-Bloody-Where

HAIR IS EVERYWHERE on cruising yachts. You seem to notice it most when you’re at sea. Only yesterday I had to ask my wife to start brushing her hair outside, in the cockpit. I’m tired of lifting the cabin floorboards to clear the limber holes in the bilge. Know what clogs them? Hair. Long blonde hair. Well, blondish, anyway.

So I jiggle the chain running through the limber holes and the water drains into the bilge sump. Great. So the sump is now full and I can pump it out. But guess what. The pump strainer is clogged. With hair.

And now, every couple of days, I’ll have to lift the cockpit grating and flush away sickening globs of matted hair and goo.

There’s hair everywhere. It’s in the cabin carpet, it’s in the chart drawer. There are hairs, long hairs, twisted into strands, on the face of the compass. It’s enough to drive you crazy.

Last week I emptied the chain from the anchor locker to find out what was blocking the drain hole through to the bilge. Hair, of course. How the hell does hair get in there?

“Underarm hair,” says June. “You should shave under your arms. While you’re working the anchor winch, the hair falls down the hole with the chain.”

This is ridiculous. I examine the hair. It’s not my hair. It’s blondish. I show it to June triumphantly. “Who is the one with blondish hair, then?” I crow.

“It’s not blondish,” she points out. “It’s grey.  Who is the one with the grey beard then?” she mimics, breaking into that irritating, smug, tight-lipped smile of hers.

Did I mention the binoculars? No? Well, gigantic hair, blurred and thick as ropes, lives on the front lenses, obscuring everything you want to see. Probably breeds there. 

Bloody hair. The damn stuff doesn’t seem to rot. It’s not biodegradable. It’s indestructible. I bet it’s choking fish everywhere. One of these days the world is going to disappear under a thick mat of it, you mark my words.

Depilatories? Don’t think I haven’t considered them. Maybe compulsory all-over shaving would be the answer. Or plucking. Or even singeing. Yes, that could be the quickest way at sea. A swift singe of the whole body once a day, maybe.

Okay, we’ll be in port in a few days. I’m gonna get me a kerosene blowtorch.  I could fix June in three minutes flat. A swift flash all over. It wouldn’t hurt a bit. Too quick to hurt.  Just a bad smell for a while, that’s all.

Anything would help. Ten days at sea and we’re awash in blasted hair.  I’m a reasonable man, calm and sane, but . . . damn it all, there’s only a certain amount of hair a man can put up with.

Today’s Thought

Interest in hair today has grown to the proportions of a fetish. Think of the many loving ways in which advertisements refer to scalp hair—satiny, glowing, shimmering, breathing, living. Living indeed! It is as dead as rope.

— Dr William Montagna, dermatological researcher, Brown University

Tailpiece

“Why is that police officer wearing a white suit with little black squares all over it?”

“Oh, it’s just a routine check.”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)

Mobile hair factories

ANYONE WHO HAS LIVED ON A BOAT for any length of time knows about hair. Hair is everywhere, inside and out. It’s all over the saloon floor. It gets stuck in your toes as you walk. Long strands of hair drape themselves with casual cockiness over your saucepans and newly washed plates in the galley. You’ll find it on faucets, mirrors, the toilet seat, in the bilge, everywhere. Hair is even a safety issue because it clogs drains and bilge pumps, and it never seems to rot or fade away into dust.

Let’s face it, people are mobile hair factories. The stuff just keeps growing, and as fast as it grows it falls out. Frankly, I have never understood why humans grow hair in the first place. It must be a manufacturing defect. I mean, what use is it? Why do we have pubic hair, for instance? Surely our pubes can survive well enough without hair? What use is underarm hair? It’s hot and sweaty enough already under there. Why do I have hair on the back of my knuckles, for goodness’ sake? Yes, I can understand the need for hair on the head to prevent sunburn, but how do you account for the fact that as we age (and need even more sunburn protection) the damned hair falls off our heads and starts growing out of our ears and nostrils. Whaaat?

I can remember looking at the compass one dark night in mid-ocean and thinking I was hallucinating. It was a domed compass, saltwater-damp and glowing faint red, but with puzzling streaks all over, so that the white lubber line looked like a jagged thunderbolt. I ran a finger over it and the streaks gathered together into a thick string of hair.

And then, when I first got my Cape Dory 27, she had a beautiful cockpit grating made of teak. It was first-class workmanship, a wonderful piece of furniture, and probably worth as much as many boats. But the first time I lifted it up (because the cockpit drains didn’t seem to be working fast enough) I was astonished at what was trapped underneath. The bottom of each little hole was matted with clumps of hair — hair that had trapped and nurtured foul-smelling globs of gelatinous goo of such a virulent nature that it almost snarled at me.

So if I had my way (at least until there is a general recall of humans to redress our tonsorial defect) anyone coming aboard a boat of mine would either have to wear a hairnet or be shaved all over. Long hair, short hair, all gone, if you please. Some supporters of hirsuteness may well believe that hair has its place, but that place isn’t on any boat of mine.

Today’s Thought
Interest in hair today has grown to the proportions of a fetish. Think of the many loving ways in which advertisements refer to scalp hair—satiny, glowing, shimmering, breathing, living. Living, indeed! It is as dead as rope.
— Dr. William Montagna, Brown University

Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #126
The jumping light. Most people who have sailed at night have experienced the phenomenon of a fixed or flashing point of light that appears to jump around the horizon. Psychologists call it the autokinetic illusion. After we stare fixedly at one point for too long, the light reappears some distance left or right of where we expect it. Some say it comes about through imperceptible movements or strain in the eye muscles. The rest of us just accept it as a fact of life afloat, and sweep our eyes from side to side while waiting for the light to appear again.

Tailpiece
“And how’s the patient this morning, nurse?”
“Much better, doctor. He tried to blow the foam off his medicine.”