Small black fine line wave tattoo on a person's hip, just above the waistband of black underwear.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small wave tattoo on a hip

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A close-up of a small, single black wave motif sitting on the side of a hip. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the ink appears solid black. The tanned skin and black underwear fill most of the frame, with a tiled floor visible in the background.

Fine line Other Wave

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mr Ellery wanted the name of his new trawler picked out in gold leaf, but Father said the boards were too damp for gold, so I sat on the upturned crab pots at the back of the chandlery with a sable brush and a tin of black enamel, practising the one thing he had taught me that nobody else in Polwenna could do. A single wave. One stroke that lifts, curls at the top and falls back to meet itself. He said a sign painter who could not make water move was only ever painting boards.

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Mrs Tremayne came in on the Thursday with her husband's tackle box under one arm. The sea had taken Walter in March, off the Gunner's Rock, and she had not been able to look at the box since. She wanted something on the lid so it would not be just a box any more. She didn't say what. She stood by the stove with her gloves in her hands and watched me the way you watch a kettle you don't trust, and when I asked her what he used to say about the weather, she laughed and said, he never once said it would be fine.

I drew the wave small, no bigger than a hand, and left it a little untidy at the crest because that was how Walter's own boat had looked on the transom before she went to the breakers. Mrs Tremayne ran her thumb along the wet enamel and nodded once. She paid in coppers, counted out on the counter, and took the box home under her arm the way she had brought it.

A fortnight later the tide came in strange, and a tackle box with a black wave on its lid rolled up onto the slip below the chandlery with its catch still closed. Father fetched it up the steps and set it on the counter between us. The paint had not chipped at all. We both looked at it for a long while before he said, well, that's the sea giving something back, and went out to see about the trawler.