Close-up of a fine line black script tattoo reading I refuse to sink with a small anchor, on the inner forearm of a person wearing a lace top and dark jeans.

I refuse to sink script with anchor on forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black script tattoo reads I refuse to sink in a slanted, joined-up hand, with a small anchor drawn at the start of the line. The linework is thin and even, and the ink is solid black with no shading or colour. The photo is framed from the waist up, with the tattooed forearm running diagonally across the right side of the frame against a pale background.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Anchor Script Quote Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lights at the Marine Ballroom flickered twice at half past ten, which Mr Pellow took as a sign to put on the slow numbers. I was minding the cloakroom hatch, counting coats against tickets, when Dad came through the side door with his cap dripping and said the Ellen Rose was overdue off the point.

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Nobody danced after that, not properly. Women stood in pairs by the radiators with their hands wrapped round their glasses, and the band kept playing Moonlight Bay because nobody had told them to stop. Mum sat by the stage with one hand flat on the piano lid as though the instrument might tip. I kept thinking of the words Grandad had used in the boathouse when the sea got up, the ones the men said to each other like a password: I refuse to sink. He had said them to me once, pressing his thumb to the inside of my wrist, as though the sentence were a rope he was tying there.

Near midnight the doors banged open and the wind came in with the sea in it. Dad's voice rose from the back, then a shout, then a figure in oilskins was steered across the floor by two men, shedding water onto the parquet. It was Ted Cargill, who had never once asked me to dance. He looked at me, I looked at the empty floor, and the band, having nothing else to offer, struck up a waltz.

So I took his cold hand and we went round slowly, leaving a trail of salt on the boards while the rest of the hall watched the door. When the Ellen Rose came in an hour later, every one of her crew was walking. Nobody mentioned the waltz, but Dad never again called the cloakroom a waste of my time.