Chapter 8: Chasing the Horizon

Doretha and I passed our General class exam on the same day. Samuel, of course, had gotten his a month earlier and was already studying for the highest class, Amateur Extra. The General license was like being handed the keys to the kingdom. It opened up massive sections of the "shortwave" bands—the interstates of global communication.

This was the realm of "DX," the hunt for distant stations. It was a global treasure hunt, and I was hooked.

My first real DX contact was a station in London, England. Hearing his polite British accent come back to me from my little bedroom felt more magical than any fantasy novel. I had crossed an ocean with my voice. My logbook began to look like a United Nations roster: Germany, Brazil, Japan, South Africa.

But the real challenge, the real sport, was the "pileup." When a ham from a rare country—like a tiny Pacific island or a research station in the arctic—gets on the air, it's like a frenzy. Hundreds of stations from all over the world try to call them at the same time. The sound is a roaring, chaotic wall of noise. Breaking through a pileup is an art form.

Samuel was a pileup artist. He was a surgeon, listening patiently, waiting for a fractional-second opening, and zipping his callsign in and out before anyone knew what happened. My first few attempts were a disaster. I'd just yell my callsign into the noise and get nothing. It was frustrating, and I was ready to give up.

"Patience, Haruka," Gregory advised me one Saturday. "The loudest signal doesn't always win. The best ears do. Listen to the other guy's rhythm. Figure out his pattern. Listen more than you transmit."

I took his advice. The next time I heard a massive pileup for a station in New Zealand, I didn't just jump in. I listened for ten solid minutes. I learned his rhythm. He would finish a contact, take a short breath, and then listen for the next call. The key was to call in that tiny, silent gap.

I took a deep breath, timed it perfectly, and sent my callsign.

And he came back to me. "Nine Whiskey Eight Alpha Bravo Charlie, good morning from New Zealand!"

The thrill was ten times better than the London contact. I hadn't been lucky; I had been skillful. I had listened, learned, and cut through the chaos. My bedroom wall, once a memorial of old posters, started to become a colorful map of the world, told one QSL confirmation postcard at a time. I was no longer just talking to the world; I was chasing it down.