Inked. My tattoo story.

When my son was still a teenager, his friend’s girlfriend did a tattoo on his arm. She was learning and so it was free. It looked like it. For a couple of weeks, he went around wearing long sleeves until he couldn’t hide it from us anymore. It’s his body and he had to live with it, so my reaction was just to say if you’re going to get another then think about it carefully, go somewhere professional and find a good artist. He did. He has. And mostly he has taken my advice to heart. He likes to get ones when he travels somewhere new.

For my sixtieth birthday he had a friend at his favourite shop do up some flash with a couple of salmon flies done in an old-school “Sailor Jerry” style. He used the tradition black, red, yellow and some blue. They were beautiful and he offered to go with me for “support” if I wanted to get one done.

I didn’t take him on the offer until sometime later, and as much as I loved the flies, I had another reason for getting a tattoo. One that would serve as a memory of a close pal who had passed away and a visible reminder to keep making time for the things that bring you happiness. Our friendship had been built around flyfishing and the trip I would miss the most was our annual pilgrimage to Cape Cod for striped bass. He was also a beekeeper, and I always returned home after these trips with a couple of jars of honey in my luggage.

Settling on a fine line style, I found an artist and booked a time. Darren agreed to go with me. I liked her right away. Her name was Anastasiia, she had recently moved to Canada from the Ukraine where she had studied academic art. Showing her the reference images I brought with me, I said it was important to me that the fish be accurate. The correct number of stripes running along the scale rows and the spines in the dorsal fin had to be right.

She took the images and printed them out in different sizes, trying them for placement The fish is swimming towards me which just seemed appropriate. Having settled on the layout, my arm was prepped, shaved and ready for the transfer. Then the work began. She started with the bee first. Maybe she thought if I couldn’t tolerate the pain, then it would at least be possible to finish it because it was smaller.

The whole session took a while, and by the time she finished I could feel the mild sting of the needle more sharply. I had a new respect for people who sit for hours and have a coloured sleeve done.

I’m happy to have done it. It’s personal and the meaning behind it deliberately isn’t obvious. There’s a school of thought that after you get your first tattoo you want to get more. I have a few ideas.