Passing the exam felt like breaking the surface of the water after holding my breath for a very long time. I walked out of that community center feeling lighter than I had in months. Samuel and I exchanged a rare, genuine smile of shared victory. He had missed one question. I had missed two. He couldn't resist pointing it out, but there was no real malice in it.
"Next up is the General license," he said, already focused on the next mountain to climb. "That's where you get the real HF privileges."
"Let me enjoy this one for a minute, will you?" I shot back, but I was grinning.
The next ten days were a strange kind of limbo. I had passed the test, but I wasn't officially a ham yet. My information had to be processed by the FCC, and I had to wait for my official callsign to be issued and appear in the online database. It was an exercise in patience.
Every day, I would check the FCC's Universal Licensing System (ULS) database online, typing in my name, hoping to see it pop up. Every day, it came back with "No Matching Records."
During the wait, Gregory invited me back to the shack. "Time to pick out your first rig," he announced.
"My first... rig?" I asked.
"Your radio," he clarified with a chuckle. "Your transceiver. You can't very well talk to people without one."
I had assumed I'd just buy a little handheld radio like the one he'd shown me. They were relatively inexpensive, and I'd saved up some money from my part-time job. But Gregory had other ideas.
"Handhelds are great for talking through local repeaters, and you'll definitely want one," he said. "But your Technician license gives you privileges on the 'shortwave' bands too. Specifically, on the 10-meter band. You can talk around the world on 10 meters when the band is open. For that, you need an HF rig."
He pointed to the array of radios on his bench. "New ones can be expensive. A top-of-the-line rig can cost more than a used car. But the great thing about this hobby is that there's always good, used equipment floating around. Hams are always upgrading, and they take good care of their gear."
He had laid out three older, well-maintained HF radios on his workbench. They were solid, metal boxes covered in knobs, buttons, and meters. They looked serious and complicated.
"Now, don't be intimidated," he said, seeing the look on my face. "They all do the same basic things. This big knob changes the frequency. This one is the volume. This button changes the mode-from voice to Morse code, for example. You'll learn what they all do in time."
He walked me through the pros and cons of each one. One was known for its great audio quality, another for its excellent receiver that could pull in weak signals. He let me turn the knobs, feel the weight of them. He explained that a radio was only part of the system. I would also need a power supply to run it and, most importantly, an antenna.
"The best radio in the world is useless without a good antenna," he said, repeating a common ham radio mantra. "The antenna is what actually sends your signal out and brings the other signals in. It's the most critical part of your station."
He suggested we start with a simple dipole antenna for the 10-meter band. It was basically just a specific length of wire, cut to resonate at the right frequency. "We can build one ourselves," he said. "It's easy, and it's a great way to learn."
The idea of building my own antenna was thrilling. It was like forging my own key to this new world.
A few days later, my callsign appeared in the database. I was officially 9W8ABC. I wrote it down on a piece of paper and stared at it. It was real. My name on the airwaves.
The Saturday after my callsign was issued, our group gathered in Gregory's backyard for "Antenna Day." Under his guidance, Samuel and I measured and cut the copper wire to the precise length. He showed me how to solder the connections, the hot metal and melting solder smelling like victory. Azhar helped me figure out the best way to string it up, high in the air between my house and a tall oak tree in my backyard.
With the antenna in place, we set up my "shack"—a small corner of my bedroom desk. We hooked up the radio, a handsome used Kenwood I'd bought from Gregory, and connected the power supply and the new antenna. The moment of truth.
I switched it on. The display lit up, and the speaker hissed with the sound of the world.
"Okay, 9W8ABC," Gregory said, standing behind me. "Turn the big knob. See who's out there."
I slowly turned the dial. The static rose and fell. Then, through the noise, a voice, speaking Spanish. "That's DX," Azhar whispered. "A distant station. Maybe South America." My eyes went wide. His voice was traveling thousands of miles and landing on a wire in my backyard. It was pure magic.
"Your turn," Samuel said, nudging my shoulder. "You have to transmit. Make your first contact."
My hand was shaking as I grabbed the microphone. This was real. Official. "CQ, CQ, CQ," I said, my voice cracking a little. "This is Nine Whiskey Eight Alpha Bravo Charlie, calling CQ and standing by."
I let go of the transmit button. The speaker hissed. Nothing.
"Try again," Gregory said gently. "Confidence."
I took a deep breath. "CQ, CQ. This is 9W8ABC, Nine Whiskey Eight Alpha Bravo Charlie, calling for my first contact."
A pause. Then a voice erupted from the speaker, loud and clear. "Nine Whiskey Eight Alpha Bravo Charlie, you've got Whiskey Nine Alpha Victor Charlie here in Illinois. Welcome to the bands, you sound great!"
Illinois. A thousand miles away. A huge, goofy grin spread across my face. I looked back at my friends, my eyes shining. They were all beaming. I keyed the mic again, my voice full of a joy I hadn't felt in forever. "Thanks for the call! The name is Haruka. And you're my very first contact."