Black and grey fine line anchor tattoos sit on the fingers of two clasped hands, photographed in close up.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small anchors on two clasped fingers

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

Two small anchor tattoos are shown on the fingers of hands resting together, one on each of two different fingers. The anchors have simple, even black linework with no shading, and the photograph is in black and white. The composition is a close crop centred on the clasped hands, with the tattoos sitting in the middle of the frame.

Fine line Hand Anchor Nautical

Find an artist for this

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

The last waltz at the Pavilion always started with the lights dropping one bank at a time, so nobody could say who had dimmed them. Ivy Marr stood by the cloakroom counting coats until Teddy Lowe crossed the floor in his ferry-company blues and asked her to dance, as if he had been rehearsing the words since Easter.

Keep reading

They turned slowly past the bandstand, where the trombone player was losing a fight with his spit valve. Teddy talked about his grandfather's anchor, which had hung outside a Caldmouth chandlery for forty years until a gale took the chain and the rust took the rest. "It held the boat still," he said. "That's all an anchor does. Keeps you from drifting onto the rocks." Ivy said she had always thought an anchor was for staying put, and wasn't that the same thing? He laughed and said that was the trouble with girls who never went to sea.

Afterwards, on the pier rail with the tide slapping the piles below, they made a bargain. Mr Pring above the harbour office would ink them both with his sewing-kit needles and his good black ink, one small anchor each, on the finger that would carry a ring if ever there was a ring. Ivy held out her hand and it did not shake. Teddy's was steady too, the way it always was on the gangway.

The coaster sailed for Antwerp on the Monday. Ivy kept the pier job and the dance card, and most evenings she laid her hand flat on the cloakroom counter and looked at the little anchor on her middle finger, which held nothing at all, and found she did not mind. When the ink had settled she pressed her fingers against the cold glass of the window until the reflection of her hand lined up with the one she imagined holding it, and she let the tide come in.