Black-and-white archival footage — shot of a hand pressing a switch on a microphone stand.
MAN:
Lucky Pierre, Lucky Pierre.
Shot of a second man speaking into a handheld microphone, with a bank of electronics behind him.
MAN 2:
QRZ to station on frequency, the Devil.
Shot of a moustached man inside a car, speaking into a CB radio.
MOUSTACHED MAN:
A bit of local 'hedra' died, unfortunately, but we are mobile.
Shot of a third man in a car, speaking into a CB radio.
MAN 3:
Yeah, well, 10-4. I'll wait on for you there, breaker, and we'll go clear of now.
Shot of a fourth man in a car, speaking into a CB radio.
MAN 4:
Big Red returning to Delta. 10-4 there anyway. 7 3s and we'll catch you when you get here. We're gone.
MAN 3:
Delta calling CQ, CQ. Delta calling CQ, CQ.
FOUR CORNERS REPORTER:
Delta and Big Red, two otherwise solid citizens of Sydney. They're indulging in a little illegal activity in their lunch hour. Instead of coffee and sandwiches in the canteen, the operation of unlicensed radio transmitters as they arrange an 'eyeball' — pirate radio slang for a face-to-face meeting of cars and radio gear. But it's not a simple operation. What might take only five cents and a couple of minutes on public phone can take up to 20 minutes because of the need to confuse and distract the PMG inspectors who may be listening in. So street names can't be mentioned, localities can only be hinted at, and the whole manoeuvre becomes cloak-and-dagger trail to avoid the PMG getting a fix and homing in.
Shot of a 1970s car parked in the bush. Man 3 — Delta — is inside, speaking on a CB radio.
DELTA:
How's the copy now? Break.
BIG RED, ON RADIO:
No, problem. You're coming over well there. Break.
DELTA:
Yeah, 10-4. Are you any closer to that particular 20 there? Break.
Shot of Man 4 — Big Red — inside his car, speaking on a CB radio. He is parked on a suburban street.
BIG RED:
Big Red returning to Delta there. I'm just about at that 10-20 there. Break.
DELTA:
Well, I'm in that Artarmon area, where you met me last time.
Shot of Big Red starting his car and driving off.
REPORTER:
It may seem a little melodramatic, but Big Red and Delta have got good reason to be cautious. Last year in Australia, 56 pirate-radio operators were brought to court and faced fines of up to $300 as well as having all their gear confiscated.
Montage of shots of people talking on CB radios, busy 1970s Sydney streets, suburban houses, TV antennas, and transistor manuals.
REPORTER:
But occasional martyrdoms have had little effect on the pirates, who continue to increase and multiply, happily transmitting anything — from technical information to the latest cricket score to how many hamburgers with egg to bring to the party. The messages come from moving cars, from vans, from basements, from beaches. They're hidden behind the call signs — like Rubber Ducky, Plastic Walnut, The Freeloader, Batman, The Chocolate Walrus, and Sunshine, the Happy Lady. It's an often lighthearted cops-and-robbers game. The cops — the PMG radio inspectors, using their sophisticated direction-finding gear to zero in on the pirate home bases. The robbers, on the move, elusive. Even in a last-ditch stand they've been known to hoof it over the back fence clutching radio, while the PMG inspector was still presenting his search warrant at the front door. Necessity has created many substitutes for the high-gain aerial — roofs of sheds, coathangers, wire fences.
Shot of the massive ABC Television tower.
REPORTER:
In fact, legend has it that one intrepid pirate even climbed the ABC Television tower at Gore Hill to call his distant friends, a feat rather like scratching your initials on the gold bars inside Fort Knox.
Shot of a man operating a CB transceiver from inside a home.
MAN:
Yeah, Lucky Pierre, Lucky Pierre. You about there, Pete? Break.
(Indistinct radio chatter)
Yeah, roger, Pete. I missed it before. I did miss it. A couple of stations came over the top. Could you give us a call before you go to work tonight? Break.
PETE, ON RADIO:
Alright, I'll try and call up. I won't be working till about half past eight.
MAN:
Roger, roger. That gives us half an hour. No problems. I'll catch you later on there, Pete.
PETE, ON RADIO:
Over.
REPORTER, VOICEOVER: So, what's it all about, Alfie? In this case, Victor Mobile.
MAN:
Oh, we talk about… just about everything in general — sporting, technical discussions, social… Who's been going out with who and what consequences and all sorts of things like this.
Shot of a Sharp Corporation of Australia warehouse office building.
REPORTER: The pirates say their hobby is educational, it's socially inoffensive, it's great fun and, most importantly, it's cheap. Basic gear can be got for about $40, though Bob Jesson at Sharp Corporation of Australia has more expensive models meant for licensed users, but equally favoured by the pirates.
Shot of Bob Jesson, a middle-aged man, displaying various CB transceiver units.
BOB JESSON:
The small unit is a 100-milliwatt unit, sells for about $30. The 200-milliwatt unit next to that sells for around about $45. The 1-watt in the centre there, the 1-watt units… is a 1-watt unit which sells for about $69-$70. Then we go up to about $150 in the big unit, which is about a 3-watt handheld, and it has to be reduced to 1 watt for licensing purposes. Up to the next unit, which is a CBT55, used for car or for base-station use. It sells for about $170-$180. And the same goes for the CBT72, which is our bestseller in the 5-watt range, which is about $200-plus. All that is required is to pull up the aerial, like so. Flip the switch on. And if I were to press that red button, we would be transmitting.
REPORTER:
So, there's no technical knowledge at all required to do this? Absolutely no technical knowledge at all.