Fine line black wave tattoo on the inner wrist, with a blurred beach and sunset in the background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small wave tattoo on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small black tattoo of three connected waves sits on the inner wrist of a light-skinned arm, raised towards the top of the frame. The linework is thin and even, with the curves rendered as solid ink rather than shading. The background is a soft, out-of-focus beach at sunset with calm water and sand, which keeps the focus on the tattoo.

Fine line Forearm Wave Sea Ocean

Find an artist for this

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

The rings were in my waistcoat pocket when the wind tore the marquee flap off its pegs, and by the time I had wrestled it down, Aunt Maud was shouting that the tide had turned early. Nobody had told the tide about the wedding. We had walked the vows down to the shingle at Penhallow Cove because Jenny said she would not marry anyone under a roof, and Tom agreed, and so did I, because I have never once won an argument with my sister.

Keep reading

The vicar, a tall man called Gerald Pike who had done three christenings that month and looked it, began the service into the gusts. Tom was grinning at Jenny with his shoes full of sand. Then the first wave came in low and quiet and soaked the hem of her dress, the second came higher, and the third reached Tom's knees and he yelped like a schoolboy. I was watching the ring box in my hand. It had slipped open, and Jenny's ring had rolled out across the wet sand towards the water.

I went after it without thinking, shoes and all. The sea took my ankles, then my shins, cold enough to stop my breath. Three waves came and went, each one curling up and falling over itself, and on the crest of the third I saw the gold catch the last of the light. I lunged, came up with a fistful of weed and salt, and felt the metal edge in my palm.

When I staggered back up the beach, dripping, Jenny was laughing so hard she had to hold on to Tom. Gerald Pike announced, with great dignity, that he had married four couples and never once seen a ring rescued by a best man. We said the vows again, shorter this time, the band gritty with sand. The sun slid behind the groyne, and I still have the hem Jenny gave me, stiff and grey with salt, folded in my drawer.