Black fine line tattoo of latitude and longitude coordinates, reading 36 degrees 17 minutes 53 seconds N and 92 degrees 20 minutes 21 seconds W, set on pale skin.

Coordinates tattoo in fine line script

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo is two lines of numerals and symbols reading 36° 17' 53" N above 92° 20' 21" W, using thin, even, single-weight linework. The text is set left to right in a clean sans-serif style with generous spacing, and the ink is solid black with no shading. The photograph is black and white, with the small block of text placed off-centre on a broad area of skin.

Fine line Other Coordinates Number Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The brass disc had gone green at the rim, and the stamped numbers were worn soft under the leaf litter, so Mabel Arkwright tilted her head and read them off the way she had read the figures on the back of her father's field log. Thirty-six degrees, seventeen minutes, fifty-three seconds north. Ninety-two degrees, twenty minutes, twenty-one seconds west. She had driven four hours on a county road that ended in a gravel turnaround, and the dog had already gone ahead through the bracken without being asked.

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Her father had never once told her where the marker was. He had left the log in the glovebox of the old Ford with a note in his square capitals: THE LAST ONE I DID ALONE. For eleven summers he had sighted across these valleys with a theodolite, while a boy held a red pole at the far end of the chain and shouted the readings back through the heat. He wrote down every fixed point as though the hills might forget them.

Her phone insisted she was several hundred yards from the spot, which was the trouble with phones and with a survey the county had drawn before anyone owned a satellite. She walked the line anyway, counting paces the way the log instructed, past a rotten fence post and a sumac that had colonised the old pasture. The dog gave up on the path and went on nose down, the way a dog does when it has been told there is something worth finding.

The disc sat flush with the limestone under a skin of leaves. She brushed it clean with her sleeve, and the numbers matched the log to the second. Beneath his last entry she took out a pencil and wrote them again in her own careful hand, so that whoever came up the gravel road next would have to look twice.