An Open Letter

 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, saying "he was only twenty-eight countries away from his DXCC."

On one level, I understand what happened several minutes after you passed by. We're within a thousand meters of one of the nation's busiest international airports. You saw something, and you must have said something. The Homeland Security officers who responded conducted themselves like the professionals they are. They knew from the moment they saw me—if not before—that nothing would come of this particular call for service, just a dorky middle-aged guy playing with radio gear and geeking out on airplanes. The one officer even lightened the moment by facetiously asking me if I was talking to the Russians on that thing. I went into my ambassador-for-amateur-radio mode, as I've done dozens—maybe hundreds by now—of times before, answering their questions cheerfully and with what I hoped would be contagious enthusiasm and handing them a POTA flyer. I genuinely don't mind when someone, whether they're a ranger, a police officer, or a fellow park visitor, stops to ask me what I'm up to. I never think of it as an unwelcome interruption from the radio itself. I deeply enjoy doing this radio thing, and I equally enjoy sharing it. No matter how jaded we get about the ubiquity of communications technology, there's an elegance about one radio and one antenna making direct contact with one radio and one antenna on the other side of the country or the other side of the world that never fails to impress. Hell, it impresses me, even after all these years.

I'm not mad that you called the cops. I'm a little disappointed. As much as I enjoyed sharing amateur radio with those officers, I wish I could have shared it with you. I wish I had somehow looked more welcoming, and maybe less alarming. I wish we lived in a society where people didn't scare so easily, where Fox and all the other mass-produced news outlets didn't have us so convinced that there's danger in the unfamiliar. 

I was back on that same beach just a few weeks later, and I'll be back again, not in a defiant way, but in the honest pursuit of a tranquil morning by the ocean, playing radio under the departing planes. Maybe I'll make contact with another operator in some faraway land, bringing myself within twenty-seven countries of my DXCC award. Maybe I'll hear from one of the operators that I've worked numerous times, whose call signs I know as well as I know my kids' names. Maybe I'll talk to the International Space Station. If you stop by, I'd be glad to tell you all about it. If you instead keep walking, wordlessly savoring this seaside morning as much as I am, that's cool too.