Woman seen from behind on a beach, with a vertical row of small silver triangles down her upper back and a silver chevron band on her upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Triangle and chevron designs on a back and arm

Geometric · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A woman with long wavy blonde hair is photographed from behind on a sandy beach, wearing a striped blue, turquoise and lilac bikini top. A vertical line of small silver triangles runs down the centre of her upper back, and a silver chevron band sits on her upper arm, both appearing to be metallic temporary designs. A small black geometric design is partly visible at the lower left of her back, and the sea and sky fill the background.

Geometric Back Upper arm Triangle Chevron Geometric pattern Bikini Beach Long hair Bracelet

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mr Tregenza has been dead nine days and the loft still smells of tar and lanolin, so you keep the window open while you chalk the panels. The gaff cutter is due at the slip on Thursday, and her owner wants a mainsail that will not embarrass her at the regatta. You lay the canvas flat, weight the corners with sandbags and mark the cloth in a long, patient fall of triangles, each one measured against the batten he carved in March.

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The chevrons are the hard part. They run along the leech where the wind pulls hardest, a band of stitching that doubles back on itself like a row of gulls on a wire. Your hands know the rhythm now. Palm, needle, pull, the thread waxed until it squeaks. Outside, the tide turns over the shingle and someone's dog barks at the lifeboat siren test, and you find you have stopped counting.

When the sail is folded into its bag, there are offcuts in the bin: a drift of pale triangles, dozens of them, each as long as your finger. You sweep them into a jam jar meaning to throw them out. Instead you thread them on fishing line, knot by knot, and hang the line from the rafter where Mr Tregenza used to keep his pipe. On Thursday the cutter goes down the slip under her new sail. From the lane you watch the sun catch that little pennant line in the loft window, and you think the old man would have called it a waste of good canvas. Then you go back in and cut another.