Every year, husbands around the world cram rigs, mozzie spray, fishing-pole antennas, and enough coax to strangle a whale into Pelican cases, then jet off to DXstinations where coconuts outnumber people and the only locals are hermit crabs.
Their mission? To activate a speck on the map—a perfectly valid excuse, apparently, for missing anniversaries, school concerts, or the footy grand final…
It’s an adventure that requires months of planning, thousands of dollars, and a complete disregard for marital harmony…
At the airport with the YL, there’s the ceremonial farewell: a kiss, a wave, and the solemn promise to “call if Wi-Fi (aka propagation) allows.”
Translation: you won’t hear from him until he needs the credit card PIN for a flight upgrade—or runs out of beer.
While he’s off chasing signals from palm-fringed dots you can’t pronounce, she’s drafted into a solo campaign of survival.
Forget romantic sunsets on some Most Wanted IOTA —she’s waging guerrilla warfare against laundry that multiplies like rabbits and kids who treat her like an unpaid Uber driver.
For him, it’s “5-9, good luck!” For her, it’s “5 loads of washing, 9 tantrums, good onya, mate.”
DXpeditioners love to brag about their suffering: late nights on the mic, a diet of tinned spaghetti, mozzies “the size of galahs….”
Meanwhile, the DX Widow survives on reheated pasta, wrestles the stubborn ride-on mower, and explains to the plumber why her husband flew 14,000 kilometres to sit in a shack and shout at static—while she’s been fighting a redback spider invasion in the laundry.
She balances the budget like an Olympic gymnast on a tightrope, drives the kids to school with V8 Supercar urgency, and still nods patiently when he calls to gush about “unbelievable openings on 11 metres”—as if that means anything to someone who just spent two hours unclogging the sink and dodging a swooping magpie.
Some YLs don the DX Widow crown with pride; others sigh whenever a “rare one” pops up on the calendar, knowing it will eclipse anniversaries, birthdays, and even heroic feats of childbirth.
Either way, they’re woven into the fabric of ham radio lore—though their adventures belong more on a sitcom stage than in a DXpedition report.
And when the triumphant dx adventurer returns—scruffy, sunburned, and muttering about “unruly pileups”—she greets him with open arms… and a to-do list longer than his logbook.
The prodigal DX guy has returned, but the rubbish bins are still waiting, the backyard is a labyrinth of half-built DIY projects, and the garden has launched a silent protest for neglect.
So next time you log a rare station from some coconut-strewn rock in the middle of nowhere, spare a thought for the YL back home—the real expedition leader, armed only with caffeine, car keys, a sense of humor sharp enough to cut coax, and a stash of Tim Tams to survive the week.
Meet the DX Widow. Patron saint of patience. Goddess of grit.
And quite possibly the only person who thinks working 5,000 QSOs is less impressive than finally unclogging the sink… or taking the bins out without being asked.
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