Post by billhammond on Jun 1, 2024 16:17:18 GMT -5
Duluth News Tribune excerpt, John Myers
I miss the crackle of the marine radio in the corner of the cabin at the lake.
It used to be a veritable party line for communication in the north country, where we like to fish and hunt and play. It was the only way for people to chat from cabin to cabin, or boat to boat, or boat to cabin.
Of course, as it has across the globe, cellphone service came to our favorite place eight or nine years ago and, slowly at first but now almost entirely, the marine radios fell silent.
The two-way VHF radios with varying ranges, usually about 10 miles across water, but sometimes more, were mostly set on Channel 10 in our area. That’s where we reported back to the cabin on how the walleye bite was going and when we might return with fish for dinner.
Most families and fishing lodges have their own names for fishing hot spots. But when they talked on the marine radio, if you listened carefully, and if you figured out who was talking, you could sometimes guess where they were. And you definitely knew how the fishing was and what they were biting on.
The great thing about marine radios is that everyone tuned to that channel can listen. That’s a bad thing if you are trying to keep secrets, but it was great for keeping up on the Joneses. (Literally, the Joneses have a place just down the shore.) In a strange, nosy-neighbor kind of way, the radios created a sense of community over the air.
We knew when Tom’s cabin down the road was ready to serve cocktails because his wife would hit the airwaves: “Come on over for happy hours,’’ she beckoned to her next-door neighbor. It was always plural. One hour just wasn’t enough. It wasn't necessarily an open invitation to everyone on the air, but I don't think they would have cared who showed up.
You knew when neighbors had their grandchildren visiting because they got to call Grandma on the radio, from the boat back to the cabin, and report how big the walleye was they just caught, little voices being coached to make sure they said “Over’’ when they were done talking.
Like everyone else, our family had radio names called handles. You couldn’t just say, “Ann calling John” or all the Johns out there would reply. So I was Wild Thing, and we had Dream Boat Annie, Lady Bug and Dragon Fly. Other friends were Coot, Blackjack, Beer Keg, Stir-fry and Bluebill. Down the lake somewhere, we’d listen to regular reports from River Rat, Sarge, Marine One and Lund One, with no idea exactly who or where they were. Yet, it was good to hear their voices.
These days, if we even bother to turn the radio on, Channel 10 sits as quiet as a church mouse.
The underlying excuse for everyone having radios was safety. On a lake treacherous with rock reefs, sudden storms and big waves, no one wants to be stranded far out on the water with a faulty motor or leaking boat and no way to summon help.
There was the time when old Jim Stonehouse, who was pushing 90 and suffered congestive heart failure, was out fishing in his little Lund boat and didn't answer back when his wife, Betty, called him on the marine radio. Betty was worried, and her neighbors used our radios to organize a search team.
We were just pulling away from our docks when Jim came puttering in with his daily catch. Turns out he had bumped his radio to Channel 9 and no one could hear him say he'd be late.
Really, though, the radios were as much fun as function. They helped duck hunters trade reports on where the ducks were flying. We’d use them while out on snowmobiles to trade ice-fishing reports. We talked from duck camp to duck camp on who would be hunting where the next day.
Now, of course, it’s all texting. All private. All quiet.
Obviously, our lake isn’t the only place this has happened. Head out fishing on Lake Superior off Duluth and you can go much of the day when the only voices on the marine radio are the Lift Bridge operator and maybe the Coast Guard or a saltie captain.
While marine radios are still considered a necessary safety measure, required for boat-to-boat communications on the big lake, cellphones have all but rendered marine radios a decoration on most recreational boats, with fishing reports exchanged via texts between sport anglers and between charter captains.
Group chats just aren't as fun when others can’t listen in.
Cellphones have, of course, brought convenience to our remote area. We can get instant weather reports, track the weather radar for storms and be in touch with loved ones anywhere, anytime. The other day my daughter posted a photo of my wife catching a giant muskie. It was on social media and out to the world instantly, seconds after the catch, from a spot on the lake 8 miles from the nearest road.
Cellphones also have enabled us to mix work and play, working from anywhere, anytime, as some say, but messing up play, I might add, and blurring the line between them.
The marine radio used to interrupt our dinner quite often, and sometimes woke us up at night, with reports of someone lost or ridiculous chatter by someone carousing too hard and too loud. But it was a unique part of life at the lake, part of a sense of place.
That’s why the other night, while I was up raiding the refrigerator when everyone else was asleep, I walked over to the marine radio on the wall and pushed the channel arrow button from the ever-silent Channel 10 down to the Environment Canada weather channel, 03, just to make sure the thing still worked.
I couldn’t actually talk with the weather report person, of course — she was a computer-generated recording. And I didn’t really care about the forecast. It was just good to hear the crackle of static and the sound of an amplified voice on a small, analog-era speaker again.
Even if she was speaking in French.
I miss the crackle of the marine radio in the corner of the cabin at the lake.
It used to be a veritable party line for communication in the north country, where we like to fish and hunt and play. It was the only way for people to chat from cabin to cabin, or boat to boat, or boat to cabin.
Of course, as it has across the globe, cellphone service came to our favorite place eight or nine years ago and, slowly at first but now almost entirely, the marine radios fell silent.
The two-way VHF radios with varying ranges, usually about 10 miles across water, but sometimes more, were mostly set on Channel 10 in our area. That’s where we reported back to the cabin on how the walleye bite was going and when we might return with fish for dinner.
Most families and fishing lodges have their own names for fishing hot spots. But when they talked on the marine radio, if you listened carefully, and if you figured out who was talking, you could sometimes guess where they were. And you definitely knew how the fishing was and what they were biting on.
The great thing about marine radios is that everyone tuned to that channel can listen. That’s a bad thing if you are trying to keep secrets, but it was great for keeping up on the Joneses. (Literally, the Joneses have a place just down the shore.) In a strange, nosy-neighbor kind of way, the radios created a sense of community over the air.
We knew when Tom’s cabin down the road was ready to serve cocktails because his wife would hit the airwaves: “Come on over for happy hours,’’ she beckoned to her next-door neighbor. It was always plural. One hour just wasn’t enough. It wasn't necessarily an open invitation to everyone on the air, but I don't think they would have cared who showed up.
You knew when neighbors had their grandchildren visiting because they got to call Grandma on the radio, from the boat back to the cabin, and report how big the walleye was they just caught, little voices being coached to make sure they said “Over’’ when they were done talking.
Like everyone else, our family had radio names called handles. You couldn’t just say, “Ann calling John” or all the Johns out there would reply. So I was Wild Thing, and we had Dream Boat Annie, Lady Bug and Dragon Fly. Other friends were Coot, Blackjack, Beer Keg, Stir-fry and Bluebill. Down the lake somewhere, we’d listen to regular reports from River Rat, Sarge, Marine One and Lund One, with no idea exactly who or where they were. Yet, it was good to hear their voices.
These days, if we even bother to turn the radio on, Channel 10 sits as quiet as a church mouse.
The underlying excuse for everyone having radios was safety. On a lake treacherous with rock reefs, sudden storms and big waves, no one wants to be stranded far out on the water with a faulty motor or leaking boat and no way to summon help.
There was the time when old Jim Stonehouse, who was pushing 90 and suffered congestive heart failure, was out fishing in his little Lund boat and didn't answer back when his wife, Betty, called him on the marine radio. Betty was worried, and her neighbors used our radios to organize a search team.
We were just pulling away from our docks when Jim came puttering in with his daily catch. Turns out he had bumped his radio to Channel 9 and no one could hear him say he'd be late.
Really, though, the radios were as much fun as function. They helped duck hunters trade reports on where the ducks were flying. We’d use them while out on snowmobiles to trade ice-fishing reports. We talked from duck camp to duck camp on who would be hunting where the next day.
Now, of course, it’s all texting. All private. All quiet.
Obviously, our lake isn’t the only place this has happened. Head out fishing on Lake Superior off Duluth and you can go much of the day when the only voices on the marine radio are the Lift Bridge operator and maybe the Coast Guard or a saltie captain.
While marine radios are still considered a necessary safety measure, required for boat-to-boat communications on the big lake, cellphones have all but rendered marine radios a decoration on most recreational boats, with fishing reports exchanged via texts between sport anglers and between charter captains.
Group chats just aren't as fun when others can’t listen in.
Cellphones have, of course, brought convenience to our remote area. We can get instant weather reports, track the weather radar for storms and be in touch with loved ones anywhere, anytime. The other day my daughter posted a photo of my wife catching a giant muskie. It was on social media and out to the world instantly, seconds after the catch, from a spot on the lake 8 miles from the nearest road.
Cellphones also have enabled us to mix work and play, working from anywhere, anytime, as some say, but messing up play, I might add, and blurring the line between them.
The marine radio used to interrupt our dinner quite often, and sometimes woke us up at night, with reports of someone lost or ridiculous chatter by someone carousing too hard and too loud. But it was a unique part of life at the lake, part of a sense of place.
That’s why the other night, while I was up raiding the refrigerator when everyone else was asleep, I walked over to the marine radio on the wall and pushed the channel arrow button from the ever-silent Channel 10 down to the Environment Canada weather channel, 03, just to make sure the thing still worked.
I couldn’t actually talk with the weather report person, of course — she was a computer-generated recording. And I didn’t really care about the forecast. It was just good to hear the crackle of static and the sound of an amplified voice on a small, analog-era speaker again.
Even if she was speaking in French.
