There are days when I feel as though I’m flying a full signal hoist, desperate to be read. I raise my flags—gestures, words, silences—into the air like semaphore, trying to convey meaning in a code I hope others understand. But sometimes, the wind shifts. The angles change. The lines tangle. And the message, once clear in my own mind, flutters into obscurity or is misread altogether. This is the paradox of human communication: to say what we mean is never a guarantee that we’ll be understood.
I return again and again to Edoardo De Martino’s painting Arrival of the Frigate Constitution in Rio de Janeiro. It’s not the battle or the smoke that arrests me, though those elements are rendered with dramatic flair. What draws me in are the flags—dozens of them—adorning every spar, yard, and halyard of the ships at harbor. It’s a cacophony of visual speech, each ensign, pennant, and signal flag whispering or shouting some intention, status, or salutation across the sea. The Constitution, America’s beloved “Old Ironsides,” is arrayed in full dress, signaling both diplomatic courtesy and naval pride as it enters Rio’s harbor. This is not just spectacle—it’s dialogue.
Naval flags are more than decoration. They are a sophisticated language known as flaghoist signaling, a centuries-old communication system that allowed ships to transmit complex messages long before the advent of radio. In the 19th century, the use of signal books—such as the British Naval Code or the United States Navy’s General Signal Book—enabled ships to communicate entire sentences by combining specific flag patterns. A single hoist might mean “prepare to anchor,” “enemy in sight,” or “I am on fire.” The act of communication became a ritual of precision and trust. “Flags must be hoisted smartly, kept taut, and displayed distinctly,” warned the British Naval Manual of 1857. “Confusion in signals can mean disaster.”
And disaster could arrive under a single color.
The red flag, in particular, has always carried potent symbolism. In maritime signaling, it could denote danger, signify quarantine, or issue a command such as “stop immediately.” In battle, a raised red flag was often the declaration of no quarter given—a grim message that no mercy would be shown. Today, we still speak of “red flags” in relationships and communication—subtle signs that something is wrong, unhealthy, or potentially harmful. The phrase has entered our collective emotional vocabulary. A missed call, a shift in tone, a silence too long—all can become modern red flags, signals we fear or fail to interpret.
In psychology, this language of warning is deeply rooted in our cognition. Our brains are wired to seek patterns and assign meaning. According to communication theorist Paul Watzlawick, “One cannot not communicate.” Even in silence, we are sending messages—through facial expression, posture, delay, withdrawal. The trouble arises not in the lack of communication, but in the gap between what is intended and what is perceived. Cognitive psychologist Steven Pinker notes that “language is a window into human nature,” but windows can become mirrors when misread. We see only our own fears reflected back at us.
This is why communication is as much about listening and interpretation as it is about transmission. We bring to every conversation our own emotional signal book—coded through trauma, culture, upbringing, and experience. We might be signaling peace, while someone else sees a threat. We might be raising a red flag for help, while another sees only defiance.
I’ve felt this in my own life: moments where my words fell flat, where my tone betrayed me, where what I meant as connection came across as retreat. I’ve watched red flags appear in others, and questioned whether I was seeing clearly or projecting my own alarms. We are all, in some way, amateur signal officers—trying to read the skies of others while keeping our own rigging from collapsing.
And yet, there’s something deeply human—perhaps even noble—in the act of trying. To raise a flag, any flag, is to believe that someone might be watching. The entire tradition of naval signaling, intricate and beautiful as it is, rests on that fragile hope: that someone will see you, decode you, respond.
De Martino’s painting captures this tension perfectly. Though majestic and orderly, the harbor is also charged with the possibility of misstep. The Constitution enters as a guest, but a misread flag could quickly become a provocation. The painting is both pageantry and parley, a reminder that even the most structured languages—flaghoists, Morse code, speech—require mutual understanding to avoid collapse.
And what of the code pennant? In naval practice, it is flown above other signal flags to indicate that the message should be interpreted according to a specific system—an acknowledgment that context matters. I wish life came with code pennants. I wish I could say, “Please read this message according to my intentions, not my tone. Please decode this silence as exhaustion, not anger.” But the world doesn’t grant us that luxury. We must become fluent in each other’s codes, or risk sailing past one another in silence and suspicion.
Still, we hoist the flags.
Still, we try.
Because communication, for all its limitations, is the lifeline between isolated selves. The Constitution arrived not only as a vessel of war but as a vessel of intention, bearing the language of flags, the grammar of diplomacy, and the hope of mutual recognition. In this way, every ship on the sea is a metaphor: vulnerable yet brave, signaling into the storm, waiting to be seen.