Painterly brushstroke sleeve tattoo

The Morwenna came in on Tuesday with her hull scraped to bare wood and the starboard side still wearing last winter's blue. Dad would have sworn at the state of it. I spent three days with a loaded brush and a tin of red lead, mixing the orange by eye because the chandler in Newlyn sent the wrong pigment again, and by Thursday her name stood proud on the bow as if it had never been away.

Mrs Kerrow came down to the slip to watch, which she has never once done in twenty years of me painting her husband's boats. She stood with her hands deep in her coat and said the strokes looked like the sea had been caught mid-turn. I said it was only a sweep of the brush, the way Dad taught me: one long pull from the shoulder, never stop, never go back. She said that was what the sea did too, and went up the hill before I could argue.

The Morwenna sails at four on the morning tide, and I'm told Kerrow's boy has the wheel. I walked the quay tonight and laid my palm flat on the wet paint, which was a stupid thing to do, and came away with a thumbprint of teal on my wrist.

Come home when the weather turns. The lettering still needs its black edge, and I can't manage the curl of the R without you holding the other end of the rule.

Love, Nell