Colour Japanese-style tattoo of a rising sun over teal waves and pine trees, with grey clouds on the shoulder, shown on an upper arm from three angles.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Sun, waves and clouds on an upper arm

Japanese · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A three-panel photograph shows a large tattoo covering the upper arm and shoulder of a man, photographed from the front, side and rear. The design shows a rising sun with bold red, orange and yellow rays above a pale disc, layered over turquoise and blue waves and green pine foliage. Grey clouds sit at the top of the shoulder, and the bright colour is set against the lighter tones of the skin.

Japanese Upper arm Shoulder Sun Wave Cloud Foliage Ray

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You learn the sea at Scarrow by its voice. Below the lighthouse the swell hits the black shelf with a sound like a door shutting slowly, and by the time you are twelve your father can tell from that alone whether the boats will come in before the weather or after it. He teaches you the tide tables in pencil on the back of a tea tin, and you learn the rest by standing at the rail with salt in your hair while he counts the gannets diving into the water.

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Behind the cottage the old pines lean inland, bent by sixty winters of wind off the Atlantic, and every morning the sun climbs out of the sea beyond them in bands of red and orange, as if someone were raising a blind one slat at a time. The pale disc comes last, slow and yellow, and the waves below turn from slate to the colour of a kingfisher's back. Your father says that is the hour the lamp is least needed and most missed.

In October the fog came in on a Tuesday and stayed. At half past four a voice rose out of the white, thin and furious, calling for the Morag, and you realised the Morag had been out since noon with one oar and a boy named Tam who could not swim. You climbed the 212 steps two at a time, wound the clockwork, and swung the great lens until its beam cut the cloud like a blade through paper. Then you pulled the horn cord until your palms burned, and kept pulling until a grey hull nosed past the shelf.

Dawn came up clean the next morning, the sea flat as a plate. Tam sat on the wall with a blanket round his shoulders, eating the bread you had buttered for him, and you watched the sun pull itself free of the water, its rays spreading like the spokes of a wheel. Your father climbed the stairs with the kettle, looked at the glass, and switched the lamp off himself. Some mornings the sun does the work, he said, and you let him have the last word.