Today, August 14th, in the Catholic Church, is the Feast Day of St. Maximillian Kolbe, who was martyred this day in 1941 . 

He died in the Nazi concertation camp at Auschwitz. As the story goes, there was a successful prion break from the camp. In response, the Kommandant ordered that 10 men be executed as an example of what would happen to those who might attempt any further prison breaks  One of the 10 selected men begged that his life be spared as he had a wife and children. Fr. Kolbe volunteered to take his place. The 10 men were placed in a starvation bunker. Over the course of 10 days, the men perished leaving Fr. Max alone as the last surviving prisoner. The Kommandant ordered that Fr. Kolbe be given an injection of carbolic acid to stop his heart. 

St. Max is the only canonized saint in the Catholic Church that we know held an Amateur Radio license. His homeland was Poland and his call sign was SP3RN. As far as we can tell, he spent his radio time spreading the Gospel. I highly and sincerely doubt that he viewed Amateur Radio in the same way we look upon it as a hobby or pastitme.

There is a weekly HF SSB net devoted to St. Maximillian Kolbe. I try to check into the Sunday evening 75 Meter net. There is also a 20 Meter net held earlier on Sunday afternoons.  For more information, you can go to:https://www.saintmaxnet.org/

72 de Larry W2LJ

QRP - When you care to send the very least!

The plane is empty.

She’s adamant that we must stay in our assigned seats but I somehow find myself stealthy relocated to a window seat.

Tired, excited and most likely caffeinated we are airborne from Cairo. The previous flight had left London sometime past midnight, presumably to garner the cheapest departure cost, inevitably has disrupted my sleep pattern, worsened by rigid and unbending seats.

Alarm and confusion set in as we descended early and all l could see was miles of desert and dunes. This can’t possibly be India and I wonder if we have somehow found our way onto the wrong flight to the wrong destination. Maybe she’s amused but responds that we are landing in Dubai and assures us we will get to Bombay after a short stop that requires no disembarkation on my part.

Weeks go by and we’ve traveled enormous distances at a snail’s pace. We’ve crept south from Bombay to Cape Comorin, the southernmost tip of India. As lone travelers we are an oddity to many. We visit Hindu temples, have become very familiar with train stations, carriages, government hotels and a diet that is proving hard. Density varies from a handful of people in remote and struggling villages to throngs that are almost a deluge in cities of equally challenged people. We’ve swung north along the Bay of Bengal towards Darjeeling. 

Weeks become almost two months and we’ve skirted westward across the lower Himalayas and into Kashmir. Maybe it was an article in the Guardian, but Rico has decided we must visit Leh in the otherworldly place called “Little Tibet” or more formally, Ladakh. Not long since a war frontier in bloody battles with China, this area is now open for the first time to tourists. 

Ill again, I stay in the Srinagar hotel room. Against the odds, Rico has scored a victory with two bus tickets and permission for us to ride from Srinagar up through the mountains on what is sometimes a plausible road clinging to the mountain side high above the Indus River.

Kargil is a desolate high altitude place. Unfamiliar with much, all hotel beds are nabbed by those in the know and we find ourselves sleeping on a dirt floor in a hovel. Maybe tea revived us the next morning but a day later we arrived in Leh and straight into the 15th century. No cars, limited electricity, heavy felt clothing, distinctive hats all make for a sense of somewhere that is not India. Buddhist pray wheals, pray flags and a miniature Portola dot a hilly and rugged community and close in feel and outlook to Tibet versus India.

The compartment was typical of the era. Two doors, two bench seats offering privacy and these cramped spaces were repeated the length of the carriage. No bathroom, no ability to move up or down the carriage. If trapped, fellow travelers could make the  journey almost unbearable.

Each is not particularly heavy nor bulky but five, seven or more rapidly became a chore to move. Pulling one out was possibly the highlight of the trip. Aged relatives with little to say made for difficult company for this ten year old who was shy and also had little to say. 

In a world of black and white TV and music pouring from a tiny transistor radio, badly curated by a prescriptive BBC, National Geographic was manna from heaven. A beautiful, exciting and colorful world existed beyond the drab 1970s UK. 

I loved the photos of American National Parks, hoodoos in Bryce or geysers in Yellowstone. Definitely not central London. I loved the photos of American states, colorful Vermont, cactus rich Arizona, I’m sold, I’m coming!. The occasional pull out map was always a perennial favorite. Photo tours of Africa, South America and even Europe were a delight. The ads for Bell Air or Cadillac conveyed such a sense of optimism. Camera and exotic shortwave radio ads sealed the deal for me. There is a Brave New World somewhere else.

We were essentially broke. Film was expensive, space was tight and unbelievably for an almost three month trip I have around twelve rolls of 35mm film, predominantly color but a few rolls of black and white. As a pretty unseasoned photographer on such a ridiculous “snap” budget it’s a marvel I have really anything to show for what was and is tritely, a life changing trip which made me a better human. Not many, a few, sunrise at Cape Comorin and this.

Permission granted, not as V victory but by two fingers, a rupee for each.  

I snapped it, I labored to develop and print it and caringly carried it over the decades through countless moves, an emigration to America and stashed it with family photos.

Its significance, somewhat unrecognized nor fully understood until later in life. In a way it’s a homage to National Geographic. Imitation is the finest form of flattery and I was “mimicking” what I had so enjoyed.

Twenty five percent inflation, relentless crippling strikes and an IMF bailout sharpens the will in 1970s London to avoid failure. 

With a newly minted Computer Science and Math degree, emigrating to join the A team was made all the more palatable having so enjoyed National Geographic’s simple message; the world is a wonderful place, the glass is half full, not half empty and optimism and America are the same thing. 

A simple philosophy to guide a simple life.

Nothing is permanent. I discovered, quite by accident, that Drew W2OU, a close friend who became a Silent Key in 2021 has had his call sign re-assigned.

I know, firsthand, that this is the way of the FCC, that call signs are not permanent markers and can be re-assigned, but n my heart of hearts, there will never be another W2OU quite like Drew. I wish new W2OU, Dr. Thomas Pallan much success with the call sign. 

I do hope that some day he takes the time to do a little research on the "original" W2OU just as I have done for the original W2LJ. There's a rich legacy of mentorship and volunteering behind that call sign, and I hope he discovers it. If he wanted to, just by doing a search here on "W2OU" would provide him with a lot of background. Since I began that journey, my call sign has become more precious and meaningful to me now that I know more about the Ham who proudly bore it with such distinction, and his family who supported him, before it was granted to me, .

Call signs are so much more than just a random jumble of letters and numbers. They take on a life of their own and we come to associate the call sign with the person, as if it were an integral part of their name ....... and part of their personality, being and soul.

Thinking of you, Drew, on this hot summery day. RIP, my friend.

72 de Larry W2LJ

QRP - When you care to send the very least!