Radio, Amateurishly

  I'm pretty sure I saw you. My radio was set up, as it is so often, on a camp table in my parking space where I was doing a Parks on the Air (POTA) activation. I was right next to the boardwalk, on the beach that is the last bit of land between the airport and the Pacific Ocean, the beach that I've flown over countless times. You were out for a morning walk on the boardwalk, effectively doing the same thing I was doing: enjoying an early Sunday morning by the ocean. Neither of us could honestly say we were there for the peace and quiet—the roar of departing jets every couple of minutes removed that possibility—and so yes, I was speaking into my microphone at just a little above a conversational tone, calling CQ and phonetically identifying my station as whiskey six kilo sierra romeo. As you walked by, I smiled pleasantly and tried to make eye contact. Your non-verbal response was a little different. If looks could kill, I'd be silent key, everyone shaking their heads, sayi