I've been thinking about the first time someone on the other side of the world said my call sign back to me.
Not because I'm feeling nostalgic about radio equipment—although, to be fair, I can get nostalgic about a good tuning dial.
I've been thinking about it because it's hard to get your voice out there.
There are so many people already talking. So many posts, opinions, experts, stories and people who seem completely comfortable taking up space.
Sometimes I look at all of that noise and think, What could I possibly add?
Then I remember the dog pile.
And I was ready
I'm a ham radio operator. The summer I passed my Advanced Exam, I could finally get on HF and talk around the world.
And I was ready.
I bought an older Kenwood HF radio from a friend. It needed repairs, but I knew I could fix it.
And I did.
Then I learned more about building antennas. I experimented. I adjusted things. I figured out what worked, what didn't and what needed another trip back to the workbench.
It was awesome.
In June 2006, I was sitting in our CB shop in London, Ontario, listening to a dog pile of hams trying to reach a radio operator aboard a Second World War submarine in Pearl Harbor.
A dog pile is exactly what it sounds like. Everybody calls at once, each person hoping their signal will be the one that gets through.
I listened for a while.
I wanted to call, but wanting to do something and being willing to pick up the microphone are not always the same event.
Eventually, I got my nerve up. I grabbed the mic and called:
CQ CQ DX, VE3LYY.
And I kept going.
Then, a little while later, I heard him say my call sign.
My call sign.
He'd heard me.
Someone heard me
I wished him 73's, and he moved on to the next person in the pile.
The whole exchange was brief. I doubt it was especially memorable to him. He was working his way through a wall of people trying to make contact.
But I was sitting there in London, Ontario, absolutely thrilled.
My voice had travelled all the way from our shop, pushed through that dog pile and reached a person I couldn't see in Pearl Harbor.
That mattered.
So I kept turning the dial.
I found more people to talk to, and every contact made the next one a little easier. One day I had a wonderful conversation with a man tending a lighthouse in Venezuela.
There I was, sitting in our shop in London, talking to someone in a lighthouse in Venezuela because I'd repaired an old radio, learned how to build a better antenna and finally picked up the microphone.
My world got bigger every time I used my voice.
Only the medium changed
I need to keep telling myself this story.
Now I'm using words instead of radio waves. I'm writing posts, building websites, sending emails, teaching workshops and trying to find the people who might actually need what I have to say.
And once again, there's a dog pile.
Here on Hive, I can't hear the dog pile through a speaker, but I can feel it. Everybody is talking. Some people are louder. Some have been here longer. Some seem to know exactly what they're doing, which is suspicious but apparently allowed.
It's very easy to sit at the edge of all that noise and decide nobody will hear me anyway.
But I've been here before.
Confidence didn't arrive before I picked up that microphone. It grew after I made the call and somebody answered.
I didn't need to be the loudest operator on the frequency. I needed a clear call, an antenna that could carry it and enough nerve to transmit.
That's still true.
When I start wondering whether my voice belongs in the pile, I need to ask myself:
- What am I actually trying to say?
- Who am I hoping might hear it?
- Is there a clearer way to send the signal?
Then I need to make the call.
Maybe nobody answers that particular day. Maybe the signal needs adjusting. Maybe I'm transmitting in the wrong place, at the wrong time, to people who aren't listening for me.
That doesn't mean my voice is wrong.
It means I keep listening, experimenting and building better antennas.
Little has changed, really.
Only the medium.
There's always a dog pile.
I have to keep speaking anyway.
Until next time Friends...
— Artemis
If you're trying to build a better signal for your own work—so the right people can find you without you becoming the loudest person in the room—come visit Artemis North. That's where I share more candid notes and practical help for making the machinery behave.