Morse Code Signal Light in a Front Pocket That Mostly Sees Fluorescent Office Lighting
I started carrying a small flashlight years ago for reasons that made sense at the time and now feel slightly exaggerated. Power outages that never happened. Parking garages that were dim but not that dim. The idea that I might need to look under a desk without using my phone like a normal person.
Somewhere along the way, I ended up with a light that has a strobe and, buried a few clicks deep, a Morse code signal mode. It will blink out SOS on its own if you hold the button long enough. The first time I found that setting, I remember thinking, who exactly is this for?
And then I kept it in my pocket.
Not because I expect to tap out distress signals from a cubicle. My weekdays are mostly email, coffee refills, and the kind of meetings where the most urgent thing is whether the conference room TV will connect. The most dramatic lighting situation I face is a burned-out bulb in the stairwell.
Still, the idea of a Morse code signal light does something subtle to the way the flashlight feels. It shifts it from “useful tool” to “communication device,” even if that communication is almost entirely hypothetical.
I don’t know Morse code. Not really. I know SOS. Three short, three long, three short. Everyone knows that. It’s cultural background noise at this point. If the light can blink it automatically, I don’t even have to remember the pattern. The light remembers for me.
That’s part of the appeal, I think. EDC is often about outsourcing memory to objects. I carry a small notebook because I don’t trust myself to remember the hardware store measurement. I carry a pen because borrowing one feels like a small social debt. A flashlight with a Morse mode is just an extension of that logic. If something ever needed to be signaled, the option exists.
The funny part is how rarely that logic holds up under scrutiny.
I’ve used the flashlight to find a dropped screw in the garage. I’ve used it to check the fuse box. I’ve used it during a late walk when the sidewalk lighting was uneven. I have never once used the Morse code function for its intended purpose. The closest I’ve come is absentmindedly cycling through modes and accidentally triggering the SOS blink while sitting at my desk. It felt dramatic and unnecessary, like setting off a flare in a break room.
There’s a slight embarrassment built into that feature. If you’re around other people and your light starts pulsing in a clean, rhythmic pattern, it draws attention in a way a steady beam doesn’t. A normal beam says, “I need to see something.” A flashing signal says, “Something is happening.” In an office, almost nothing warrants that tone.
And yet I haven’t removed it from my rotation.
Part of carrying a Morse code signal light is admitting that EDC isn’t purely about frequency of use. If it were, half the things people carry would get cut. There are items that earn their spot by daily repetition, and others that stay because they cover an edge case so neatly that it’s hard to argue against them.
The Morse mode is an edge case inside an edge case. It’s not even the main reason to carry the light. It’s a feature attached to a feature.
What I’ve noticed, though, is that it changes how I think about light in general. When you carry a flashlight every day, you start paying attention to light sources. The uneven glow in a parking lot. The way your phone’s flashlight flattens everything. The difference between a wide spill and a tighter beam. You also start noticing how visible you are when you use it.
A steady beam is private. It illuminates what you’re looking at. A blinking signal is public. It announces you.
There’s something interesting about carrying a tool that can switch between those two modes. Most of my EDC is quiet. Wallet, keys, phone, a small multitool in a pocket organizer so it doesn’t clack against coins. Even my flashlight, ninety-nine percent of the time, is used discreetly. Quick on, quick off. No one notices.
The Morse code function is the opposite of discreet. It’s inherently outward-facing. It assumes there’s someone else out there who might see it and understand.
That assumption is what keeps it in my pocket, if I’m being honest. Not the fantasy of being stranded somewhere dramatic, but the idea of connection at a distance. A coded blink that says, “I’m here.”
Most days, my version of that is a text message or a calendar invite. Modern life has flattened signaling into screens. Carrying a light that can speak in dots and dashes feels almost analog in a way that appeals to the same part of me that likes writing things down by hand.
There’s also the small, nerdy satisfaction of knowing the pattern. Even if I never use it, I’ve found myself tapping out SOS on the kitchen counter with my finger. Three short knocks, three long, three short. It’s muscle memory for a language I don’t actually speak.
I’ve considered carrying a simpler light. Single mode. On and off. No strobe, no signaling, no hidden menu of clicks. There’s a strong argument for that. Fewer modes mean less friction. No accidental flashing. No cycling through brightness levels when all you want is a quick look under the car seat.
But every time I switch to something more stripped down, I feel a strange absence. Not because I need the Morse code feature, but because I know it’s not there. The light becomes purely utilitarian. Which is fine. Probably better, even.
Still, EDC isn’t always about better in a strict sense. It’s about what feels complete.
In the same way some people carry a bandana they rarely unfold or a small compass they don’t actively consult, a Morse code signal light occupies a psychological slot. It represents a layer of preparedness that’s less about danger and more about self-image. Not in a performative way. In a quiet, internal way. The kind where you check your pockets before leaving the house and feel a subtle click of readiness.
Phone. Wallet. Keys. Light.
That pocket check is mostly about routine. The Morse code mode is buried under that routine like a footnote. I don’t think about it every day. But I know it’s there, tucked behind a few button presses.
And that’s the thing about EDC habits. They’re full of these small redundancies and half-rational choices. We carry things for the one time they might matter, then go months without that time arriving. The object shifts from tool to reassurance.
If I’m honest, the Morse code signal light is probably overkill for my actual life. The most realistic scenario for it is a dead car battery in a dark lot where I want to make my location obvious. Even then, a steady beam would do.
But the coded blink adds a layer of intention. It’s not just light. It’s a pattern. A message, even if no one is reading it.
Sometimes I’ll take the light out at night in the backyard, just to see how visible that blinking pattern really is. It cuts through the dark more than I expect. Rhythmic. Deliberate. Hard to ignore.
Then I click it off and slip it back into my pocket, where it spends most of its life pressed against fabric, waiting for a use case that may never feel worthy of dots and dashes.
I don’t carry it because I expect to send a signal. I carry it because I like knowing I could.