Two small black fine line anchor tattoos on the wrists of two people whose hands are clasped over a restaurant table.

Matching anchor tattoos on two wrists

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two small anchor tattoos sit on the wrists of two people whose hands are clasped together. The linework is thin and uniform in dark ink, with no visible shading. The warm, softly blurred background of a table with glassware and a salt shaker keeps the focus on the wrists.

Fine line Forearm Anchor Wrist Hand Matching tattoo Couple

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The chain came up off the slipway at half past four, streaming and black, and Dorrie Lusk said it was the wrong anchor before anyone had looked at it properly. She was right. It was the Marigold's kedge, the little one we kept for shallow water, and the Marigold had put out the previous Tuesday with the big iron still lashed to her bow. Nobody in Staithe Bay said the arithmetic aloud, but we all did it, working out how far a boat would drift on the ebb with nothing in the bottom to hold her.

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Ruth came down the lane with two mugs of tea and her coat buttoned wrong. Her brother Callum had been skipper of the Marigold for eleven years, and she had spent three days refusing the coastguard's careful sentences. She set one mug on the bollard and took my hand, turning it over under the lamp as if the answer might be written on the inside of the wrist. "We get them done," she said. "Both of us. He always told me an anchor was a promise to come back to the same place."

Mr Abney cut them at his kitchen table above the ropeworks, one afternoon with the door open to the smell of tar. Ruth wanted the lines thin and even, like something a navigator would pencil onto a chart, so he used a single needle and no shading at all. It took less time than the tea took to go cold. Afterwards we sat on the harbour wall with our sleeves pushed back and the gulls quarrelling over the fish boxes.

Two days later the kedge was returned to us with a strip of sailcloth still knotted round the crown, tied the way Callum tied everything, in a bowline he could have done in the dark. It told the coastguard nothing and told us everything: he had cut the boat loose on purpose, shifting her out of the lee before the squall hit, and then he had let go of the rope himself. Ruth pressed her wrist against mine until the two small anchors touched. "Hold," she said, and I did.