Two small black fine line anchor tattoos on the fingers of two hands linked together, one on each hand.

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Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

Two hands are linked by their fingers against a soft, blurred green-grey background. Each of the two visible fingers carries a small black anchor tattoo drawn in thin, even linework with no shading. The shot is shallow in focus, with the tattoos sharp and the gold ring and black wristwatch secondary details.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The sea kale came up through the gravel the spring after the boat went off its mooring for good, and Dad called it a weed and pulled at it with his boot. I told him it was ours. It had always been ours, the same way the rusted chain running under the back bed was ours, its length sunk there years ago to hold the shed down in a gale.

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Sam and I had the anchors done the summer we turned seventeen, at a kitchen table above the chip shop on Fore Street, by a man who did the crews' knuckles and forearms and took cash. He used a steel pin dipped in Indian ink. It hurt less than we'd promised each other it would and took about as long as boiling a kettle. "Thin lines, no shading," he said. "They'll go soft on you, but they'll last." We held our hands out flat on the oilcloth and laughed at how small they looked.

Sam signed on a trawler out of Newlyn that winter and sent postcards with the weather written on the back in capitals. The last one came in October. The boat came home without him, and the skipper stood at the bottom of our steps with his cap in both hands and couldn't find the right words, so I found them for him and then wished I hadn't.

Now the kale is thick and grey-leaved along the chain, and I cut it back in March before the flowers open. This morning I knelt in the wet and pushed my finger into the soil until I felt the first iron link, cold as a coin, and held on to it until the tide came up the wall to tell me it was time to go in.

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