Small blue sailboat tattoo with wavy lines beneath it, placed on the inner wrist of a raised hand.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Sailboat on the inner wrist

Forearm · Colour · Photo

A small sailboat sits above three wavy lines on the inner wrist. The boat is filled in solid blue with white sail detail, and the waves are drawn in thin blue lines. The plain cream background keeps the focus on the small, centred design.

Forearm Sailboat Boat Wave Sea

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The tiller kicked under my palm the moment we cleared the breakwater at Oban, and Aunt Morag said nothing, which told me more than any shout would have. Her boat was the Wren, twelve feet of tarred clinker planking she had rebuilt board by board after her husband went over the side off Lismore. Nobody in the harbour bar had expected her to take it out again, least of all in a north-westerly with the sky the colour of wet slate.

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We ran for the lee of Kerrera with the sail reefed to a rag. The swell came in three long lines, always three, and between them the water lay flat and grey as pewter. Morag counted them under her breath. Every seventh wave was the big one, she said, and the seventh was the one that had taken Ewan. I bailed with a biscuit tin while spray came over the gunwale in sheets, and I watched her hands on the tiller, steady as a hymn.

The seventh wave lifted us like a lid and laid us over. The mast touched water, the tin went skittering into the bilge, and for a long moment the Wren hung there with the sea pouring off her sail. Then she came upright with a groan of timber. Morag wiped her face with the back of her hand and said, "Well. He was never one for counting past six."

We limped into the slip at dusk, and next morning she was out on the shingle chalking a boat onto the old stone wall: a small hull, a triangle of sail, and three wavy lines beneath. "Pass me the rag," she said. I did, and she rubbed out the waves and drew them again, a fraction higher, so the sea would know where to stop.