Black and grey geometric tattoo on the thigh showing latitude and longitude numbers, a boxed 12.31 and 12, two chevrons and a dot.

Coordinates and chevrons on a thigh

Geometric · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A black ink tattoo runs vertically down the outer thigh. It shows two lines of latitude and longitude figures, a boxed 12.31 and 12 beside a large N, and a chevron above and below the numbers with a single dot at the bottom. The lines are solid and even with no shading, and the photograph is black and white against a plain pale background.

Geometric Lettering Thigh Coordinates Number Chevron Dot Geometric shape Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Ada Marlow had been feeling her way through fog since noon, and Tom Keel sat on the cabin roof with a slate across his knees, copying figures off the wheelhouse door by lamplight. The door was covered in them. Old Hanna Vosse had chalked them there the winter before she died, one set under another, because she could not read a word of print but could read a number faster than the river could move a barge.

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"A river is only a line of numbers that doesn't know it," she had told him, tapping the door with her pipe. "Write them down and it has to behave."

Tom wrote them down. Thirty-seven, forty-five, twenty-eight point thirty-nine. Then the long set for the west, and below that the square she had boxed in red: twelve, thirty-one, and the twelve by itself, which she said marked the bend where the old mill wall still stood under the water. He had no idea what a mill had to do with fog, only that the bank lights had gone an hour ago and the bell buoy had fallen silent.

He cut the engine and let the barge drift. The water knocked against the hull. Somewhere ahead a weir was pouring, a steady grey roar, and he could not tell if it lay left or right. He put his palm flat on the door and the chalk came away on his skin, numbers and all.

Then he heard it: a single drip from the post with the chevrons cut into its top, the place Hanna always said to stop and listen. He tied off to the iron ring, sat down, and pressed a pencil dot at the foot of the slate where the figures ended. The barge bumped gently against the stones. Morning would come up through the fog, and he would know exactly where they were.