Fine line black ink drawing of an anchor design with a small crescent at the top, shown on plain paper with no body part visible.

Fine line anchor design on paper

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

A single anchor drawn in fine black linework on a plain pale grey background. The vertical shank has a small crescent at its top, a crossbar with pointed ends, and a curved base with diamond-shaped tips and a solid diamond at the centre. The composition is centred and simple, with the design occupying the middle of the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Hold that lantern lower, Tomasz, the chain won't count itself. Three fathoms of it lay coiled in the bilge like a sleeping eel, and the wind had already gone north-east, which in Scarrow Bay means the swell comes round the point before the kettle's boiled. Mind the shackle. My fingers are too cold to feel yours if you pinch them.

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Why are we dropping here, Mags? The chart says sand.

The chart was drawn by a man who never set foot on this coast. Sand's a story told by people who've never been dragged across the Shelf at two in the morning. Let her go.

The iron went down with a noise like a dropped church bell, and the cutter swung and settled. Above the headland the moon hung thin as a paring, its curve turned up like a cup held out to be filled, and Mags watched it while the chain ran out. Her husband Eli used to say a moon that gives you only half its face is keeping the other half for someone else. She never decided whether he was joking.

They waited for the flukes to bite. At first light the chain came hand over hand, weed-slick and groaning, and the anchor broke the surface with a rusted float snagged on its arm. It was a red buoy with EIL painted on it in white, the letters half gone. Tomasz gaped. Mags only laughed, low and short, and reached for the mallet. She shackled the float back to the rail, let the gulls have the rest of the morning, and set course for home with the moon still up in the west, pale and certain.

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