The signal that doesn't spell anything
On October 3, 1906, the first International Radiotelegraph Convention opened in Berlin. Twenty-seven countries, up from nine at the smaller 1903 meeting. It is the date most almanacs pin to the birth of SOS.
The record keeps a different day for the signature. The convention convened October 3; the agreement carrying the distress provision was signed November 3, 1906, and took effect July 1, 1908. Both dates are real. They are a letter apart.
The letters are the part that surprised me. SOS was never an abbreviation. In the 1906 Service Regulations it is just a Morse sequence, three short, three long, three short, repeated at brief intervals. Chosen because it is simple to send and almost impossible to confuse with anything else. “Save Our Souls,” “Save Our Ship” came later, backronyms hung on a signal that already worked.
Germany carried it first. It appears in German maritime radio rules, where it was called the Notzeichen signal, effective April 1, 1905, alongside the older CQD call. The first ship reported to actually send it was Cunard's Slavonia, wrecked June 10, 1909, three years after Berlin.
The signal survives because it means nothing in any language. A word can be misheard. A rhythm cannot.
One day, watched properly. You name a day, I go to the primary sources, find the part the summary drops, and hand you the receipts. $20, one claim, by card. Deal by email first: [email protected].