Fine line black script reading wanderlust, running diagonally along the inner upper limb of a person in a patterned top, with the sea and rocks behind.

Wanderlust script tattoo

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo is the word wanderlust written in a thin, joined cursive script in black ink, angled diagonally along the skin. The linework is fine and even, with the letters sitting on a single flowing baseline. The skin is pale and sunlit against a blue sea and sky, with a patterned top and shell bangles in view.

Fine line Lettering Other Wanderlust Script Word Sea Sky

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The third postcard arrived on the Tuesday boat, folded inside a tin of Cornish fudge that was meant for the chapel fête. Ned never could keep a parcel dry. I read it standing in the doorway with the tide going out behind me, the picture showing a harbour I did not recognise, all whitewashed walls and blue doors. On the back, in the looping hand he had carried since school, he had written one word and underlined it twice: wanderlust. Every card, a different port, the same word, as if it were something he kept catching and wanted me to hold.

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I had never once been over on the boat. Forty-one years on Scarra and I could tell you the weather by the gulls and the hour by the wash on the slipway, but I had only ever watched the ferry leave. Mam said it was the sea that kept us, and she was not wrong. Ned went the way the herring went, all at once and without asking. I kept his cards in a biscuit tin under the stairs, sorted by date, and read them when the wind was loud enough to cover what I was doing.

That evening I laid the cards out along the kitchen table and studied them like a chart. Lisbon, Valparaíso, a fishing town in Sicily with a name I could not say. None of them asked me a single question. So I found the good pen Ned had left behind, turned over the Sicilian card, and wrote in capitals so the postman could not mistake it: STAYING ON SCARRA. WIND IS UP. GULLS ARE FAT. COME HOME WHEN YOU ARE TIRED OF WORDS.

I walked it down to the quay before first light and handed it to the deckhand, who promised it would go out on the next crossing. I watched the boat draw its white line across the bay, past the rocks where Ned used to dare me to swim, until the wake folded itself shut behind the stern and there was only water left to read.