Chapter 20: The Call Home

The day I left for college was a whirlwind of tearful goodbyes and last-minute packing. My little corner shack was the last thing I dismantled. I carefully wrapped my Kenwood transceiver in bubble wrap. It felt strange to see the desk empty, the antenna cable coiled up by the window. That corner had been my portal to the world, my classroom, my sanctuary.

My friends threw me a farewell party in Gregory's garage. It felt like the end of an era. Azhar had graduated and taken a job on the other side of the country. Samuel and Doretha were going to a local university, their SDR project having earned them both scholarships. We promised to keep in touch, of course. We set up a weekly schedule on the local repeater, and a monthly one on HF. We were hams. Distance was just a number.

My dorm room was small and sterile. But as I unpacked, it started to feel like home. I set up a small desk by the window. And on that desk, I placed my radio. I couldn't put up a big wire antenna like I had at home, but I had come prepared. I ran a thin, nearly invisible wire out the window and up to the roofline-a "stealth" antenna. It wasn't perfect, but it would work.

College was a shock to the system. The classes were hard, the campus was huge, and I was surrounded by strangers. There were moments of intense loneliness, moments when the silence felt a little too familiar. In those moments, I would retreat to my desk, switch on my radio, and put on my headphones.

The hiss of the static was the sound of home. It was the sound of connection. I'd spin the dial and hear the familiar rhythms of the airwaves-the rapid-fire exchanges of a contest, the slow, musical whisper of a CW conversation, the friendly chatter of a local net a thousand miles away. I wasn't alone. I was part of a vast, invisible community. My community.

One evening, feeling particularly homesick, I tuned to the 40-meter band. I heard a familiar voice, his Morse code sending as distinctive as a fingerprint. It was Gregory.

My heart leaped. I grabbed my key and sent out a short call. "DE 9W8ABC K"

His reply was immediate. "HARUKA? IS THAT YOU? UR 599 HERE. WELCOME TO COLLEGE."

My fingers flew across the key, the dits and dahs a language more natural to me now than speech. We talked for half an hour. He told me the club news. I told him about my classes. It wasn't just a conversation. It was a lifeline. It was a reminder of where I came from, and of the family I had waiting for me.

My journey started in silence, born from a tragedy I thought would define me forever. I was a sixteen-year-old girl lost in a quiet, lonely forest. But the silence didn't break me. It pushed me. It pushed me to find a new voice, not just for myself, but for others. It pushed me to learn, to grow, and to connect.

Amateur radio is a strange and wonderful thing. For the young, it's a gateway to science, technology, and a global community. For the old, it's a way to stay sharp, to keep learning, and to connect with friends both new and old. In an emergency, it's a public service, a backup plan for civilization. In a quiet dorm room far from home, it's the sound of family.

It's a hobby that teaches you to listen-not just to the signals, but to the people behind them. It bridges oceans, cultures, and generations. It turns strangers into friends and friends into family. It takes the vast, empty spaces-between continents, between people, between a tragic past and a hopeful future-and fills them with a clear, steady signal.

I let go of the key, the last of Gregory's message still echoing in my headphones. I looked out my window at the sprawling, unfamiliar campus. I wasn't scared. I wasn't alone. I had my license. I had my radio. I had my voice. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that no matter where I went, I would always be able to find my way home.