NOTOM 007: How I got hooked on ham radio

 

Looking back, I can hardly believe I’ve been a licensed radio amateur for 34 years. I was trying to get back in time when radio ham passion lit up. Mumble.. when did my love for radio begin? My earliest memory takes me back to watching tv series such as Truck Driver and CHIPS, I was a little child. I was fascinated by the way these people could communicate through their radios.

Since my childhood, I had a habit, something I still maintain today—gazing at antennas on rooftops. Those iron sculptures, reaching skyward, left me speechless.

One day, at my uncle’s house, I went down to the basement with him to grab some tools. Let’s just say my uncle wasn’t the tidiest person; the underground room was packed with boxes and all sorts of random stuff. From one box, a CB walkie-talkie radio peeked out. I picked it up as if I had found a priceless gem. My uncle glanced over and said, “It doesn’t work, Daniel, but you can have it if you want.” I really was a happy camper.

I remember it had a long telescopic antenna. That day was extraordinary for me. I can’t recall what we had for lunch—visiting my uncle’s house usually meant enjoying great meals, a treat given my mom’s humble means as a single mother with fragile health. I don’t even remember if I watched the color TV, which was a dream at the time. All my attention was on that little fantastic radio.

At home, 10-year-old me opened it up, determined to find out what was wrong. Kids naively think everything is fixable. I noticed a component—either a resistor or a capacitor—had detached from the main board. I grabbed  the oldest and battered knife from the kitchen, heated its tip over a flame until it was glowing red, and carefully used it to “solder” the component back in place. Miraculously, thanks to some leftover solder, it worked.

I borrowed one battery from my mom’s alarm clock—causing quite a scene the next morning when her clock failed to wake her—and inserted it into “my” radio. The moment I had been waiting for arrived. I turned the knob to power it on. The radio crackled to life after years of silence, my joy was immeasurable. To this day, I don’t know how I managed to “fix” that radio!

I spent hours and hours or days and days, I dare say, just listening until, one day, I heard a voice: 'Is anyone on channel 14?' My heart raced. I couldn’t believe it! What shall I do? There was no turning point. I gathered my courage and pressed the transmit button decisively. I nervously blurted out, 'This is Daniel, I can hear you!' Sadly, the person didn’t hear me, but I was over the moon—I had heard a voice, at last!

The problem, I thought, was my weak antenna. Years later, I’d realize it wasn’t the antenna but the signal—0.5 watts with a telescopic antenna inside a house isn’t the best setup, is it? That evening, another uncle visited. I proudly showed him my radio and explained how I had repaired it. He mentioned that his neighbor was a CB operator. I didn’t know what that meant, but one day, during a visit to my uncle’s house, I met the neighbor. He had a beautiful Alan 87 and talked to people from all over. He explained the channels, how to communicate, the antennas etc. I was pumped like a kid on their first day of school; yep, the happiest kid in the universe. He showed me his bazooka antenna outside the window and explained that for long-distance communications, the antenna needed to be outside. That was my problem! My antenna was indoor.

Determined to fix this, I asked my first uncle, the one who had given me the radio, if he had another telescopic antenna. To my delight, he had a bunch of them. I was given another one.

Back home, I found some leftover electrical wire from a recent renovation. I removed the walkie-talkie’s antenna, grabbed a Sprite can, and connected the two antennas with the wire. I then hung the improvised setup outside the fifth-floor window of my mom’s modest rented apartment.

The big test came during a scheduled sked with Aldo, the neighbor. He lived on a hill overlooking the beautiful city of Como, about 1 km away. My excitement was off the charts. “Aldo, this is Daniel, can you hear me?” I called repeatedly but got no response. Disheartened, I kept trying. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the radio came to life: “Daniel, I can hear you, good morning!” My heart was pounding. We exchanged signal reports, and although I didn’t understand much, I was ecstatic.

Aldo told me I needed a callsign. Which one Uhmmm, which one would I have chosen? Something that would identify me for life. The choice was hard. At that time, I loved a show called The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams. I was drawn to the simplicity of life in nature and had a fondness for bears. Thus, I became “Grizzly” on air.

One day, my mom took me to a nearby town where radio amateurs were holding a demonstration. I was mesmerized by the equipment, the tents, and especially a massive crane truck with a huge antenna mounted high above (later I got to know it was a three-element yagi for 10-15-20 meter bands). An operator invited me to draw closer to the equipment. A missionary was broadcasting from Africa. That day flew by as I bombarded the operators with questions.

In time, I joined the ARI (Italian Radio Amateur Association) and began preparing for my license. An issue though; I had to attend classes held quite far away. I was the youngest in my class, just 13, and the lessons were tough. I’ll never forget when the instructor said, “We all know what logarithms are, right?” I had no clue! But I worked hard and kept up with the older students.

I loved the CW (Morse code) classes. Each student was given a number, and we practiced calling and responding using our assigned numbers. It was chaotic but taught us to handle pile-ups.

At 14, I wanted to take the licensing exam, but my mom, worried about sending me to another city, didn’t sign the authorization form. I had to wait until I turned 18 to take the exam, passing both the written and CW tests. It took another year and a half to receive my callsign, IK2SGL.

In the meantime, I spent countless evenings at the ARI club, poring over antenna manuals and callbooks. While others socialized, I immersed myself in technical reading.

When my callsign finally arrived, it marked the beginning of a lifelong journey. But… that’s a story for another post.

Thank you for reading this far!