District 1 OHIO ARES

It"s 8:32 p.m. Saturday and the sun"s about to disappear beyond the black cloak of tree line on the west end of Winter Springs" Central Winds Park. Nine hundred and seven miles away, 60 pounds of metal are rocketing across the dome of the Earth, northeast-bound in a hurry, just as J.D. Smith awaits a date with destiny. "Any minute now, it"ll start talking," Smith says. Crouched on a park bench under an awning, Smith sits in a gray cap tracking a ghost on the horizon. Seconds later, that speeding hunk of metal wakes with a kiss from the setting sun and its haunting signal says hello once more, just as a stifled grin broadens Smith"s face. Reaching for signals in the sky, Americans by the tens of thousands took to the radio airwaves in synchronous Saturday through Sunday. For 24 hours they shook hands through the air, said hello, and a quick goodbye, all in seconds at a time as they raced to connect with as many other radio operators as their dialing fingers could get their hands on. This was all just a test, but the worst kind. For guys like Bob Mahon, cooped up and transmitting for hours inside a trailer the size of a large refrigerator, the hypothetical is dead serious. A disaster has just wiped out the electrical grid. The cell phone towers are useless. That"s when the hams take to the air and save the day, setting up disaster communications across the area. But on the last weekend of June every year, they go global, challenging amateur radio clubs worldwide to see who"s the great communicator on the airwaves.