Close photograph of a small fine line black number 7 tattoo on the inner wrist, with a hand raised against a dark wooden background.

Small number seven on the wrist

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A raised hand and forearm are photographed against a dark wooden panel. A small black numeral 7 sits on the inner wrist, drawn in a thin, even outline with no shading. The subject is kept centred and the background is dark and uncluttered.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ink log went over the side with the second mate's chest in the first gale off Finisterre, so the count was yours after that. Mr Okonedo, who had crossed to Montevideo twice and trusted nothing he could not lash down, showed you how to dip a sail needle in lamp soot and prick the days onto the inside of your wrist. Six dots for six watches, then a single slanted seven for the week, and the cook owed you a biscuit.

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You kept it through the doldrums, where the sea lay flat as a pewter tray and the men swore at the sky, and through the three nights the foresail split and had to be stitched on the heaving deck. The dots smudged. Past the Cape Verdes you started pressing the seven slower, until the skin complained, because the crew argued over what it meant. Some said the seventh day was when the ship turned for home. Others said it was just a Sunday with nothing on the rota.

Off the Azores the wind died and the lamps of Ponta Delgada came up like a string of beads. Okonedo took your wrist, looked at the row of marks, and said nothing for a long while. Then he handed you the needle. "Go on," he said. "Your count's the only one left aboard." You bent over the rail in the dusk and traced the seven again, over and over, until the line held.

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