Black and grey photo of a small fine line anchor tattoo on the inner wrist, worn beside a jewelled bracelet and a charm bracelet with a feather pendant.

Small anchor on the inner wrist

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A small black anchor with a ring at the top and curved flukes sits on the inner wrist, drawn in thin, even linework with solid black ink. The photograph is monochrome and shallow in focus, with the wrist and hand in the foreground and the background blurred. Two bracelets lie across the wrist below the tattoo, one with oval stones and the other a chain with a feather charm.

Fine line Hand Anchor Bracelet Feather Jewellery Wrist

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Margaret Ellen had not come round the breakwater by the top of the tide, and Ruth Pellow kept working the same knot in the herring net so she would not have to look at the harbour mouth. The gulls had gone quiet over the quay. Behind her the chandler's shutter rattled up and Colin Starling, the harbourmaster, came out with his cap in his hand, already talking about the squall that had blown through before dawn and how the boats were being counted off on the radio, one name at a time.

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Her father had drawn anchors all his life. He drew them in the margins of tide tables, on the backs of invoices, on the steamed-up glass of the wheelhouse when the heater was on. They were always small and black, with a ring at the top for the rope and flukes that curled as if they were listening for the sea floor. Ruth had his steel nib in the drawer of the net loft, and a pot of ink gone thick with age. She took a sheet from the tide book and drew one without thinking, then looked at it for a long while, the way you would look at a hand you had been told to hold.

The feather came loose from the gull's wing caught in the mesh as she tugged the knot tight. She tied it to the bow rope of the nearest skiff, where anyone coming in would see it first, and then she heard the engine. It coughed twice, then ran rough and steady past the lighthouse. Ned was standing in the bow with a lamp he had no use for in daylight, waving it anyway.

She folded the drawing into her apron pocket. The anchor on it had held nothing but a bit of ink and a steady hand, and she thought that was enough for one morning.