Anchor and script on inner forearm
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A small black tattoo of an anchor with its rope-like shank and crossbar, with cursive script lettering curving around and beside it. The linework is thin and even, and the ink is solid black with no shading or colour. The tattoo sits centrally on the inner forearm near the wrist, against a dim background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Pass that pan over, Dougie, and mind the grease, because I'm not telling this twice to a boy who can't hold a ladle. You want to know why the Maren Lass never sails without a spare hawser coiled by the galley door? Then listen. Her first cook was a man called Ruadh Keir, and he had a wife in Scalloway who could read the sea in her tea leaves better than any skipper on the coast.
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The winter Ruadh shipped out, she gave him a length of tarred line and a bent iron hook she'd pulled from the harbour wall. Tie it on, she said, and you'll never be adrift. He laughed at her. Two months later a squall took the foremast and most of the crew's sense with it, and the Lass went drifting toward the Skerries with the engine dead and the tide running hard. Ruadh was below with the stove and nobody else who knew a hook from a hinge. He lashed the line to the stern, dropped the iron over the side, and sat on the galley floor holding the rope with both hands while the boat swung and swore.
The hook bit. It caught on a rock the chart had never mentioned, and it held through the whole night. By morning there was a gull on the rail looking at us as if we'd cheated it of breakfast. Ruadh came up the ladder with his palms rubbed raw and his hair full of salt. When the skipper asked why he hadn't stayed warm in the galley, he said his wife had promised he'd never be adrift, and he'd not wanted to disappoint a woman who could see the weather in a cup.
So the rope stays coiled by the door. Now eat your mackerel before it goes cold.
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