Life settled into a comfortable rhythm. School, ham radio, and my slowly healing social life became the three pillars of my world. My friendship with Doretha had blossomed. We were two very different people-she, the bubbly tech enthusiast; I, the quieter, more introspective one-but our shared hobby bridged the gap. We were a team, constantly pushing each other to learn new things. Azhar was our steady, knowledgeable older brother figure, always there to answer a complex technical question. Samuel was our prickly but brilliant rival, his competitive nature keeping us all sharp. And Gregory was our wise grandfather, the heart of our little radio family.
My parents were just happy to see me smiling again, to hear me laughing on the phone with Doretha or excitedly explaining some new radio concept to my dad. The deep, heavy grief for my first Doretha was still there, but it was no longer a suffocating shroud. It was a part of me, a scar that reminded me of what I'd lost, but also of what I'd found.
Then the storm came.
It wasn't a thunderstorm like the one that had helped me find Bluebird on the CB. This was a massive winter storm, a once-in-a-decade event that was forecast to dump two feet of wet, heavy snow on our region, accompanied by freezing rain and gale-force winds.
The city prepared. Schools were closed in advance. People mobbed the grocery stores for bread and milk. My dad hooked up our small gas generator, just in case.
"If the power goes out, at least we can keep the fridge running and charge our phones," he said.
I had another thought. "And run my radio," I added.
He smiled. "And run your radio."
The storm hit on a Friday afternoon, and it was worse than predicted. The wind howled like a hungry wolf, and the snow, thick and wet, clung to every surface. By early evening, the inevitable happened. The lights flickered once, twice, and then died, plunging our house into a sudden, deep darkness.
My mom lit some candles. My dad went outside to start the generator. And I went to my shack.
I hooked my radio's power supply to the extension cord from the generator. The radio's display sprang to life, a welcome glow in the dark room. I put on my headphones and tuned to the frequency of our local ARES/RACES net.
ARES (Amateur Radio Emergency Service) and RACES (Radio Amateur Civil Emergency Service) are groups of volunteer ham operators who provide emergency communications when normal systems fail. Gregory was the emergency coordinator for our county. I knew he would be activating the net.
His voice came through the speaker, calm and authoritative. "This is Pathfinder, Net Control for the County ARES Net. This is a directed net for an emergency weather event. All stations, please stand by for instructions."
The repeater was running on a backup generator at its site on the downtown building, a critical piece of infrastructure. One by one, stations from all over the county began to check in. I heard Azhar. I heard Samuel. I heard Doretha. I checked in too, letting Gregory know that I was operational and had backup power.
For the first few hours, our job was mostly to listen and relay information. The 911 call center was overwhelmed. Power lines were down everywhere. Trees had fallen, blocking roads. The emergency services were stretched thin.
Our role was to be their eyes and ears. A ham operator in a rural part of the county reported that a tree had fallen on a house, trapping a family inside. He couldn't get through on the 911 lines. Gregory, as Net Control, had a direct line to the Emergency Operations Center (EOC). He relayed the information, and a fire truck was dispatched.
Another ham reported a traffic accident on a back road that hadn't been plowed yet. An elderly couple in a nursing home had run out of oxygen for their medical equipment, and the backup generator had failed. A message was relayed, and a paramedic was sent.
It was incredible. Here we were, a bunch of hobbyists in our homes, using our personal equipment, but we had formed a coordinated, effective communication network that was literally saving lives. This was not a drill. This was not a contest. This was real.
My first assignment came around midnight.
"Haruka," Gregory's voice said. "The main shelter at the high school is reporting that their phone lines and internet are down. They need a communications link to the EOC. Can you deploy to that location and set up as a simplex station?"
"Deploy?" The word sounded so official.
"It just means you need to go there," he said, a hint of a smile in his voice. "Take your handheld radio and a spare battery. You'll be our link. Can you do it?"
"Yes," I said without hesitation. "I'm on my way."
My dad, a former volunteer firefighter himself, didn't even question it. He just nodded grimly. "Your four-wheel drive is gassed up. Be careful, Haruka. The roads are terrible."
Driving to the high school was treacherous. The snow was deep, and the wind rocked the truck. But I made it. The school gymnasium was a sea of cots, filled with families who had lost power or been forced to evacuate their homes. The air was thick with the smell of wet clothes and anxiety.
I found the shelter manager, a tired-looking woman from the Red Cross. When I told her I was from ARES and was there to provide communication, her face flooded with relief.
"Thank God," she said. "We've been cut off for hours. We need to request more blankets and baby formula from the EOC."
I found a quiet corner, took out my handheld radio, and called Gregory. Because I was too far from the repeater to reach it from inside the building, I had to use "simplex"-transmitting directly to another station without the aid of a repeater. Azhar, who lived closer to the school, was tasked with being my relay.
"Azhar, this is Haruka at the shelter. Do you copy?"
His voice came back, faint but clear. "Loud and clear, Haruka. What do you have for the EOC?"
I relayed the shelter's request. He confirmed he had copied it and would pass it on to Gregory. For the rest of the night, that was my job. I was the voice of the shelter. Requests for supplies, medical information, messages for worried family members-it all flowed through my little handheld radio, to Azhar, to Gregory, and then to the people who could help.
It was exhausting, stressful work. But it was the most important thing I had ever done. All those hours of studying, all those nights of chasing DX, all the practice-it had all led to this. I was no longer a helpless girl on the side of a mountain. I was a vital link in a chain of communication, a calm voice in the middle of a storm. And the silence was nowhere to be found.