Chapter 39: The Operator's Chair

The headquarters of the Japan Amateur Radio League, JA1RL, is located in a quiet, unassuming building in Tokyo. But inside, it is a shrine to the hobby. The walls are lined with awards, historic photos, and glass cases filled with rare and beautiful radios. The centerpiece of the building is the station itself: a large, soundproofed room that looks like the bridge of a starship. It is the command center of Japanese amateur radio.

The main operating position is dominated by a massive desk, upon which sits the flagship transceiver from a major Japanese manufacturer, surrounded by amplifiers, antenna rotators, and multiple computer monitors. But my eyes are drawn to the wall behind the desk. It is not a wall; it is a window, and through it, I can see the antenna farm. It is a forest of aluminum, a collection of massive, multi-element Yagi antennas for every conceivable band, all mounted on a series of towering steel structures that seem to scrape the sky. This is a "superstation." This is what radio dreams are made of.

"She is all yours for the next few hours, Haruka-san," the station manager says with a proud smile.

Sitting down in the operator's chair feels like being crowned king. The leather is worn smooth by a generation of the world's best operators. I put on the headphones, and the world rushes in. The noise floor here is incredibly low, the signals preternaturally clear. This is what the radio spectrum sounds like without the noise and interference of a dense urban environment. It is beautiful.

For a moment, I am just a kid in a candy store. I spin the dial across the 20-meter band, and it is a solid wall of sound, signals from every corner of the globe, all loud and clear. I could spend a week just listening. But I am here to operate.

My hosts from the JARL are watching me, their faces expectant. I know what they want to see. They want to see the contest operator, the pileup artist. I take a deep breath, find a clear frequency, and send my call.

"CQ, CQ, this is JA1RL, Japan Alpha One Radio League, operated by 9W8ABC."

The response is instantaneous and overwhelming. A tidal wave of callsigns comes rushing back at me, a roaring, chaotic pileup that is ten times bigger than any I have ever experienced. My training kicks in. My mind goes into a state of deep focus. I enter the rhythm, the dance of the pileup.

"The station ending in Zulu, go ahead."

"Five-nine, thank you."

"The station from Italy, you are five-nine."

For an hour, I am a machine. My hands fly between the radio controls and the logging keyboard. I am pulling one callsign after another out of the roaring noise, each one a small, perfect victory. I am not just Haruka anymore; I am the voice of Japan, and the world is calling.

After the pileup subsides, I decide to demonstrate my philosophy. I switch the radio to the FT8 frequency. On the screen, the waterfall explodes with hundreds of signals. I point to the screen, explaining to my hosts, "This is where the next generation is. We need to go to them." I spend some time making effortless digital contacts, showing them the incredible efficiency of the mode.

Then, I switch to the CW portion of the band. I plug in my own personal Morse code paddle, my familiar, trusted tool. I find a clear frequency and send a very specific call.

"W1Z DE JA1RL K"

I am calling my team. Back home, it is the middle of the night, but I know they will be listening.

A few seconds later, a reply comes back, faint but clear. It is Samuel. His Morse code is as fast and precise as ever.

"JA1RL DE W1Z. WOW. UR LOUD. GREG AND DORETHA ARE HERE TOO."

My heart swells. I am sitting in a world-class station, thousands of miles from home, but I am talking to my family. We have a short, happy conversation, our dits and dahs crossing the Pacific Ocean, a private, perfect moment of connection. I am showing my Japanese hosts that this hobby is not just about technology or competition; it is about friendship.

My final operation is a personal one. The DXpedition to Hachijojima island is a whirlwind of portable antennas, battery power, and non-stop operating from a small hotel room overlooking the ocean. The island is a "semi-rare" entity, and the world is hungry for a contact. For three days, our team is a constant, welcome presence on the bands.

On the last day, as the sun is setting over the Pacific, I find a quiet moment. I tune to the 40-meter band and point the portable Yagi antenna towards home. I take out the beautiful, perfect QSL card given to me by the Japanese widow. Pinned to it is a small, fading photograph of her late husband in his radio shack. I prop it up on the radio.

I pick up the microphone. "This one is for you," I whisper. Then, I send out a call, not to the world, but to a single, silent listener. It is a signal of thanks, a signal of remembrance, a signal that closes a circle that has been open for years. It is a whisper, sent from one island to another, a message of gratitude across the endless, silent ocean.