How Can Fiction Portray Distress Signals Accurately In Novels?

Rescue work at sea is like watching a well-rehearsed orchestra where each instrument—flare, radio, satellite, radar—has its cue. I love how methodical it is: an EPIRB (emergency position-indicating radio beacon) transmits on 406 MHz to the COSPAS‑SARSAT satellite system and almost instantly tells rescuers who you are if you registered the beacon, and often where you are if the beacon has GPS built in. That initial satellite ping gets routed to a Rescue Coordination Center, which is what then kicks off boats, helicopters, and aircraft. Close-range tools are just as cinematic. A VHF radio distress on channel 16, especially using DSC, sends a digital packet with your MMSI and position if your radio is hooked to GPS. A SART (search-and-rescue transponder) paints your location on rescuers’ radar as a cluster of dots, while AIS-SART will pop up as a target on modern ships. Visual pyrotechnics—parachute flares, orange smoke, signal mirrors—and sound signals like continuous horn blasts still matter, especially when electronic fixes are ambiguous. I’ve stood on deck watching a red parachute flare and felt the absolute clarity of being seen; it never fails to give me goosebumps and huge respect for how these systems all slot together.

You'd be surprised how ritualized distress signals are once you get into the rules — the sea isn’t forgiving of ambiguity. I’ve spent enough nights watching radios and prepping gear to know that international law and maritime best practice line up tightly: if you’re in danger, use every recognized channel and signal available and authorities and nearby vessels are legally obliged to respond where possible. Legally, the backbone is SOLAS (the Safety of Life at Sea Convention), the GMDSS provisions, the COLREGs (which include the list of recognized visual and sound distress signals), and the SAR Convention (Search and Rescue). Practically this means: make a VHF distress call on Channel 16 saying ‘Mayday’ three times, give your vessel name, position, nature of distress, number of people onboard and any injuries. Use Digital Selective Calling (DSC) to send an automated distress alert if your radio has it. Activate a 406 MHz EPIRB (or a PLB/406 device) — that’s tied into COSPAS-SARSAT satellite rescue, and registration of the beacon is legally required and crucial for quick identification. SARTs (Search and Rescue Transponders) and AIS-SARTs help rescuers home in visually and electronically. COLREG Rule 37 and related guidance lists accepted visual and sound distress signals: continuous sounding of a foghorn, gun shots fired at intervals, flames on the vessel, rockets or shells throwing stars (parachute flares), SOS in Morse code by light, orange smoke signals by day, and red hand-held flares. Many national rules also require recreational boats to carry specified visual distress signals if operating in coastal waters. Importantly, misuse of these signals — knowingly raising a false alarm — is a criminal offence in most jurisdictions and can lead to heavy fines or imprisonment; false alerts waste rescue resources and endanger others. Beyond gear and signals, there’s the legal duty placed on masters and crews: ships are required to assist persons in distress at sea, rendering assistance while considering their own safety, and to notify rescue coordination centers. Practically, this means keeping a constant radio watch where required, keeping EPIRB registrations current, testing equipment responsibly (don’t trigger real alerts), and having a plan to broadcast clear, repeatable information during a Mayday. I always sleep better knowing my EPIRB is registered and my crew can call a proper Mayday — the rules exist because they work, and respecting them matters more than pride out on the water.

I’ve heard this idea pop up in thrillers and crime dramas, where characters blink twice to signal they’re in trouble without alerting their captors. It’s a clever trope, but in real life, I’m skeptical. Most official distress signals—like SOS in Morse code or hand signals in aviation—are standardized for clarity. Blinking twice could easily be missed or misinterpreted as a nervous tic or dryness. That said, pop culture loves it because it’s cinematic. Think of 'The Flight Attendant' or 'Gone Girl,' where subtle cues ratchet up tension. If someone tried blinking twice at me, I’d probably ask if they had allergies before realizing they needed help. Still, the concept taps into something universal: the need for covert communication in dangerous situations. Human trafficking awareness campaigns sometimes suggest subtle gestures, like tapping a fist on a car window, but these are widely publicized. Blinking twice hasn’t reached that level of recognition. It’s more of a narrative shorthand—a way to show characters being resourceful under pressure. Fun to watch, but I wouldn’t rely on it in an emergency.

The psychology is often where they fail. A realistic portrayal isn't just about the mechanics of building a shelter; it's about the cognitive decline from constant fear and hunger, the paranoia, the irrational decisions that get people killed.

When a late-night call or a terse text appears on the page, it’s rarely just logistics — it’s a miniature earthquake that reshapes a character. I love how novelists use emergency contact moments to pry open closets: a name on a hospital form can reveal estrangement, a concealed relationship, or a past the protagonist swore was buried. I’ve seen entire arcs hinge on that one bureaucratic detail. One scene might have a protagonist staring at a form and deciding whether to put an ex’s name down; that quiet decision ripples into choices about trust, caregiving, and identity later on. On a structural level, emergency-contact incidents are fantastic for accelerating stakes without heavy exposition. An unexpected phone call — a death, an accident, a frantic hospital plea — thrusts characters into active decision-making, forcing them to reconcile with old wounds or discover hidden strengths. Authors can use this to reveal backstory through action rather than flashback: how a character reacts under pressure tells you far more than a paragraph of description. Emotionally, those scenes test loyalties. Who shows up? Who answers the call? Sometimes the listed contact is a liar or stranger, and that twist can spin a redemption arc or a descent into paranoia. I always get drawn in when a seemingly small administrative detail becomes the key to unlocking a character’s past and future — it’s low-tech dramaturgy with high emotional pay, and it’s one of my favorite tools for watching people change on the page.

On a foggy night off the coast, the way a horn slices through the haze taught me why ships never rely on just one kind of distress signal. I’ve spent enough hours watching the horizon to see how light and sound behave like two different languages at sea: light travels straight and can be blocked by waves or curvature of the Earth, while sound bounces, bends, and can carry around obstacles in ways light can’t. Because of that, mariners use both to cover as many scenarios as possible — day or night, clear or foggy, close or far. There’s also the human side. Visual signals — handheld flares, rocket parachute flares, SOS in Morse with a signal lamp — are instantly obvious at night and give rescuers a precise direction to head toward. But during heavy fog, strong winds, or when visibility is near zero, a bright flare might never be seen. That’s where sound (ship’s whistle, air horn, or even a recorded distress signal) comes in: it can warn nearby vessels, attract ships that are out of sight, and cut through the sensory confusion that happens in emergencies. Add in the fact that equipment fails and people get injured or separated; redundancy matters. Having both types increases the chance someone will notice and react. On top of physics and human factors, there are practical and regulatory reasons. International maritime practice and safety conventions push for multiple, standardized signals so crews and rescuers share a common vocabulary — whether that’s 'SOS' in Morse, visual rockets, or prolonged blasts on the horn. Technology like EPIRBs and radio provide remote alerts, but they don’t replace the immediate, local warning value of a flare or a whistle: a flare gets people looking, a horn gets people listening, and together they create situational awareness that radios alone can’t always provide. After watching a small rescue where a flare drew attention and repeated horn blasts helped guide a lifeboat in, I truly appreciate how layered those systems are — it’s like having several lifelines working at once, and that makes me a lot calmer heading out on longer trips.