A ham radio license makes me feel safer as someone with hemophilia
“Whiskey-Bravo-six-Zulu-Yankee-Yankee looking for a radio check,” my dad called out into his faithful Kenwood handheld 2-meter radio. “W-B-6-Zed-Y-Y, I hear you loud and clear,” came an answer from radio land. This was my dad’s call sign — the constant background noise of my youth. Ask any childhood friend who spent…