Modern theories suggest that the year 1965 could still exist in physical reality - that we have just moved past it, and all the intervening years since. So it's nice to think I might still be there in that old chook house I used as a shack, the darkness illuminated only by the dial lamps in my old STC receiver and the red glow of the heaters in my 807, while I sit watching the electron cloud dancing inside it's glass envelope as I talk to my mates down the road.
Ah, memories of pirate days. There were three of us then and we held true to the cause for five excellent years until cars and girls and workday responsibilities parted us, each in our own way, from that glorious solitude of togetherness we knew to be radio communication. Starting on 60 metres in the early days, we moved on to join the few others who were the very first to explore the wonders of 27Mhz. Long before it became the CB radio band in Oz, we were there, riding the sunspot cycle, working each other and stations all over the world on our converted taxi radios, imported illegals and even a few home brews. Alas, all good things come to an end. Once "CB radio" was "discovered" by every juvenile car owner in Australia we knew our time was up. There was no going back to the old days either, we had all come too far along the road to adulthood to re-engage with the youthful hermetic existence we had once enjoyed. I wanted my radio days to go on, but my mates were busy now with new lives and new interests. So it was, with a certain sense of loss and a distinct feeling of surrender, that I found myself one warm spring morning partaking of the AOCP examinations at the RMIT rooms in Swanston st. Melbourne.
Things were never the same after that. By then I was seriously involved with the opposing sex, whose members I had found over my few previous engagements with them, had neither interest nor time for the odd and apparently nonsensical pursuit of amateur radio. Radio and electronics was by then also my profession, and there is nothing like working eight hours a day at something to destroy any hobby interest one might have in it.  In 1975 I finally chucked in the towel and didn't renew my station license. Thirty four years have passed since then. I no longer work in electronics and I have a new home and a wonderful wife who at least tolerates my peculiar interests. Yet even now, when I sit down for a night at my radio, I sometimes see the knowing smirk on the face of that fifteen year old sitting there in the glow of his 807 - who seems to have known all along that one day I would find him again.

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