White ink anchor tattoo with a rope wrapped around the shank, shown on the top of a bare foot.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

White ink anchor with rope on a foot

Other · Black and grey · Photo

A white ink anchor with a rope coiled around its shank sits on the top of a foot, with the ring and flukes outlined in fine lines. The white ink shows as a pale outline with light shading against the skin, and the colour is a single light tone rather than coloured ink. The foot fills the frame against a dark wooden floor, with the anchor centred on the upper foot.

Other Anchor Rope

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The petrol gauge had been dead since Tarrant Wells, so Mo Okafor watched the white shoulder of the road instead, counting the cracked salt plates as they slid beneath the bonnet. Her father had sworn the sea once came right up to this stretch of tarmac, that the first fishermen tied their boats to iron rings bolted into a harbour wall now three miles from anything wet. She had always assumed he made it up to keep her quiet in the cab.

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At the sign for Saltmarsh Cross she slowed, because a woman stood by the crash barrier in a long grey coat, drawing in the crust with the end of a stick. Mo wound the window down. The woman had made an anchor, its ring and flukes traced in a line so fine it looked like frost, and was now wrapping a rope around the shank with the patience of someone tying a knot she meant to keep.

"It won't last out here," Mo said.

"Nothing does. That's rather the point." The woman straightened and shaded her eyes against the glare. "Your father told you about the harbour, didn't he? He used to draw this on the mud for me when the tide was out, which was always." Mo's throat tightened. Her father had died in February, and the only things he had left in the cab were a pencil stub and an anchor sketched on the back of a fuel receipt.

Mo put the car in gear without answering. In the mirror the woman was already smoothing the rope with the side of her boot, and the pale mark held its shape for a long moment after the road had carried Mo away from it, the way the old sea must once have held its boats.