Hamming it up on air
One chap in particular held my attention. His name was Harold, an old guy like myself, yet he never seemed to make contact with anyone further than Durban.
Since my schooldays, when Dixon (my buddy) and I strung a length of string across the road, and knotted a couple of jam tins to each end, communication has been an obsession to me.
Of course the kind of language that we eight year olds used over that form of communication may well have brought a blush to a sailor. It did to my mom who picked up my tin one Sunday morning and listened to some choice verbal abuse from my friend across the road by mistake.
Nevertheless the system worked well. Later, when in my teens I became a boy scout, and among other things, like raiding the Vicars orchard and lighting untold fires, I learned Morse code. No mean achievement for a kid of 13. It was only natural, after my short-lived stint with the Royal Corps of Signals during the war, that I became what is known as a “ham”, or a member of the Amateur Radio League.
Immigrating to this fair land in my 40s, I didn’t keep up my licence, and I didn’t think about radio again until I was 60 odd.
“Geoff,” my friends said one hot and humid morning at Port Shepstone, “why don`t you give it a bash, and take your South African Amateur Radio licence with us?” I pondered the situation for several days, then decided that as an old man, I might well get a lot of pleasure chatting with friends over the airwaves. I passed with flying colours and pretty soon was back to rigging antennas, and calling “CQ… CQ… CQ…” with the other guys.
Of course, I went to our local radio-club meetings, and we chatted over the long-distance contacts we had made during the week.
One chap in particular held my attention. His name was Harold, an old guy like myself, yet he never seemed to make contact with anyone further than Durban. There we were, boasting of our conquests, “Got a contact from the Middle East… Russia… Malay… Japan… Finland…” Poor Harold sat and listened.
Filled with compassion for this little old gentleman, and with the Devil on my shoulder, I contrived a very naughty plan, destined to shake up the Port Shepstone Amateur Radio Club, and all in Harold`s favour.
One dark and dreadful evening, I listened for Harold’s call sign.
“CQ… CQ… CQ… Zulu Sierra Five Yankee Whiskey… CQ… CQ…”
Disguising my voice, I answered his call. “Aaaaah… aaaaaaaah… Zulu Sierra Five Yankee Whiskey… Aaaaaah…. Good evening old man…. Aaaaaah, Johnny Nakamura here, aaaaah… my QTH (name of town) Tokyo… Aaaaah so!”
Y`know, I must have made Harold’s day. He was so excited, we even exchanged weather conditions, the car we drove, and the number of kids in our respective families. I ended up with saying a very fine “sayonara.”
One contact just wasn’t enough, I wanted Harold to have the best-damned contacts of the club. Moscow is a fair distance from Port Shepstone… and indeed why not? I answered Harold’s call the next evening.
“Ullo my comrade… Nastorovia, iss very good we meet, your signal iss five by five jaaaa?” I said, in my finest Soviet style.
The farce continued, Italy, France, Novo Scotia and the Canary Islands. Harold was over the moon! Clearly, he had never had such good radio conditions in all his life. After all, I was a good half mile down the road from him, and my signal strength must have well and truly blasted his radio receiver!
At the next meeting, Harold was a changed man. “I contacted Tokyo, a Johnny Nakamura… chatted for hours… then I got Boris from Moscow on the very next night.” Filled with pride, he continued with the rest of the countries that he had contacted. Excusing myself from the meeting, I headed for my car and collapsed with laughter. Strictly illegal, and totally against the ethics of the “ham” fraternity, I had given my old friend a new meaning to his fascinating hobby.
I`m still licensed, though I often wonder what may happen if someone found out about my escapade -I`d be drummed out I suppose, just like the boy scouts!
