Fine line black tattoo on the inner wrist showing an infinity loop with the words life and hope in script, with a small anchor hanging below.

Infinity loop with anchor and script words on wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A fine line tattoo on the inner wrist forms an infinity loop, with the word life in script on the left loop and hope in script on the right. A thin line runs down from the loop to a small black anchor with a ring at its top. The linework is even and crisp, all in black ink against plain, lightly lit skin, with the design centred on the wrist.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Infinity Anchor Life Hope Script Word

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit nearer, the pair of you, because the wind off Scarrow Point takes half of every sentence if you let it. There was a keeper out there called Dorrie Vane who climbed the Sallow Rock light every dusk for thirty-one years, and she never once let the lamp go cold. Not the winter the glass cracked, not the night her husband Tom took the lifeboat out into the black and did not bring it home.

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The sea gave nothing back for a fortnight, and Dorrie kept on. She wound the clockwork by lantern, polished the brass, and each evening she sat at the kitchen table with a stub of pencil and wrote two words on the back of a tide table. She joined them with a line she drew round and round like a coil of rope. Life on the left, because the living still had to be fed. Hope on the right, because she did not yet know what else to call the thing that kept her climbing those stairs.

The turn came in March, when a boy from the village rowed out to the rock with a bottle he had found on the strand. Inside was a scrap of paper in Tom's hand. The lifeboat had drifted onto the Carrack shoals, and the crew were clinging to the upturned hull, waiting for a light to steer by. Dorrie read it twice, then took the stairs two at a time.

She burned that lamp until the glass sang. Come morning, the boat limped in with its crew shaking and swearing into their collars, and Tom at the tiller with a grin that did not fit his face. Dorrie still keeps that light, they say. On a clear dusk, sail past the rock and you will see the beam sweep out in a long figure of eight, the way she drew it on the tide table, and the anchor ring on the old hook by her door never once has to move.