The Next Eco-Warriors (33 page)

I decided to speak up and be a voice for the oceans. I attended several meetings of the International Whaling Commission to share what I had seen, and ironically, the only suffocating moment in my ocean life was here. The IWC's corruption, political posturing, and out-of-touch decision making was monstrous. They only had the interest of a few pocketbooks in mind, not of
the cetaceans they were supposed to protect. I decided then it was time to take action.

In 2004, my then husband, professional surfer David Rastovich, my good friend artist Howie Cook, and I gathered a group of like-minded activists, surfers, actors, filmmakers, and musicians who cared deeply for the ocean. We formed a nonprofit organization called Surfers for Cetaceans, and we had a goal to mobilize against the capture and killing of dolphins and whales.

Three years later, we would get our chance. Led by David, more than forty of us convened in Osaka, Japan for an ambitious action—in some ways, mission impossible. People had flown from around the globe with little information and almost no knowledge of what they were about to do, due to the need for keeping an element of surprise in our action. All they knew was that we were going to try to stop the Taiji dolphin hunt and that there would be great risks to do it.

We joined forces with the Oceanic Preservation Society film crew who had been filming the dolphin slaughters for two years while remaining completely undercover in Japan. But we weren't as lucky in keeping our operation covert. After arriving in Japan, we learned that the Taiji fishermen had somehow heard of our plans to hold an action, and rumors of violence against us were being filtered back to us via our Japanese contacts.

Four of us decided to make the long drive to Taiji to speak personally with the locals and clear any confusions about our protest. We professed our intents to hold a peaceful protest but were met with great resistance. Some of the locals felt that we were attacking their cultural heritage, and they were concerned that our actions would portray them negatively to the international community. Up until then, the world at large knew very little about the
dolphin slaughters, and to the outsider, Taiji was just another quaint fishing village in Japan.

The picturesque seaside town of Taiji is surrounded by majestic green mountains and stunning bays. Large, bright murals, filled with happy images of dolphins and whales, welcome visitors to the town. At first glance, it appears that this is a community that reveres and loves these animals. Even the killing bay looks like nothing more than a stunning postcard destination. Except for the odd dolphin burger restaurant, one would never know the darker side of Taiji. It's not Taiji Bay that is dark; it's what happens there, and that's what we were aiming to stop.

On the day of the planned action, October 28, 2007, I was so nervous I couldn't eat, and I felt my stomach turning into knots. We had all been up since before dawn with anticipation, coordinating our action. It was a nervewracking drive to Taiji; forty of us hiding in the back of three vans, the drivers wearing surgical flu masks to cover their Western faces.

After four tense hours, we reached the beach unobstructed, thinking our ruse was successful. But seeing the empty bay with not a killing in sight, we realized that the fishermen had anticipated our arrival and halted the dolphin kills out of fear of being filmed.

Even though the fishermen had hidden their crimes from our cameras, we still paddled out into the middle of the cove on our surfboards, holding hands in a traditional surfer's ceremony circle, mourning the lives lost. I cringed as I imagined this beautiful bay full of the blood of dying dolphins. In my mermaid tail, I dove down to the bottom of the bay and held onto the slippery rocks, letting the current sway me back and forth in the cold silence. In my meditation, I became acutely aware of the violence that had been perpetrated in this seemingly peaceful arena. I could sense the death around me despite the bay's seemingly peaceful façade that day.

Coming up for air, I looked back on the beach, and saw a group of fishermen were gathering, and the police had arrived. The film crews on land were confronted as they tried to gather footage of the ceremony. We paddled back in, despairing with the thought that all our planning and sacrifices had been for nothing. I took off my tail and walked out of the frigid water and tried to leave, but the police stopped us. They began interrogating us while we were
still shivering and cold, and the fishermen looked on with piercing anger but their bodies showed restraint.

We were eventually allowed to leave and arrived back at the hotel exhausted and defeated. We had filmed our ceremony, and although any day without a dolphin dying is a victory, we knew that in the big picture, it wasn't a victory at all. We had accomplished nothing until we could show the world what was really going on at the Cove. Withdrawing to our own rooms, I contemplated that we may have lost our only chance.

I was heading to bed, feeling like the whole world was doomed, when we received a call. It was from one of our insiders in Taiji, informing us that the fishermen had gone out immediately after our departure and captured over forty dolphins in the Cove. “The next slaughter would begin at sunrise,” he said.

This was it. We had our second chance.

This was what we had traveled across the world to achieve, a peaceful but strong protest face-to-face with the fishermen and the bloodshed that would capture the brutality of the annual kills. But it wasn't going to be how we had all imagined it. It was impossible to mobilize our entire crew of over forty people and get back down to the bay without being seen. So it was decided that we would just send a core team, professional surfers David Rastovich and Karina Petroni, actresses Hayden Panetierre and Isabel Lucas, writer Peter Heller, and me. And before my hair was dry from the last swim, we were heading down for another dive.

It was before dawn, and we knew we would soon be in the frontlines against armed fishermen making their kills. It was understood that this mission carried far higher consequences. If the police caught us interfering this time, we would be arrested and possibly jailed for years. So we took precautions, taping Ziploc bags containing passports and lawyer contacts under our wet suits. Hiding in the van for hours, under blankets, waiting for the right moment to make our move.

Once the moment was right, we charged out onto the beach, grabbing surfboards and frantically paddling into the cold sea. Through a mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline, I remained fearless. The water we waded through was stained red. We could see the trapped dolphins swimming in the blood
of their slaughtered family frantically trying to escape their netted prison. It scared me to see this, but I just told myself to keep going.

The film crew was positioned in high-tech camouflage gear around the different points of the bay to capture the massacre, while a mini helicopter strapped with a camera flew overhead to capture an aerial view of the confrontation. We were now “officially” interfering with the fishermen's operations and could be arrested at any time as we swam out to the nets. It was a net that crossed the bay, trapping the dolphins and dividing us from them. Just beyond the net we could see the dead bodies of half of the dolphin pod, scattered across a hidden beach, while the rest of the captive dolphins were meters away in the water, screaming.

We formed our circle and held hands, each one of us with a burning desire to cut nets and fight with the fishermen for these dolphins' lives. However, our mission was to stop this butchery forever, and to do this we had to stick to our commitment of a peaceful protest. I knew we couldn't save these select few; rescuing them was impossible. But not cutting those nets was the hardest things I have ever had to do. A dolphin looked me straight in the eye, pushing against the nets and squealing in terror. At that moment, it was the most important creature in the world to me, and I felt I was failing it, as if I were somehow indirectly killing it.

Before I could have second thoughts about cutting the nets, fishermen sped over to us in a small boat and began screaming in Japanese. Remaining silent and keeping our places on our surfboards, we brought our hands together in prayer to show that we meant only peace. In response, they backed their boat propellers toward us, trying to frighten us with their spinning blades.

I realized in that second that we had underestimated their anger, but none of us expected this violence. Fishermen began hitting us with large poles. I was astonished they were physically attacking us for such a peaceful protest. They were treating us just like the dolphins, and for a second, I thought they might even kill me.

I tried to calm myself down and stay on my board. I thought back to my time in the Pacific, swimming fearlessly with the whales regardless of the
consequence. I meditated and tried to stay strong and sustain the fishermen's beating, despite the injuries.

The physical pain brought the plight of the dolphins even more into perspective, and our group began to weep with sadness for the slaughter, as we knew it would happen once we left. We had carefully planned to be in the water for only five minutes to avoid violent confrontation and arrest, but we didn't care anymore. Twenty minutes later, we were still in the water past our strict deadline.

More fishing boats raced toward us, and the fishermen were becoming ruthless and unpredictable. As the threat of a serious beating amplified, we decided we had to head back to shore before one of us became a casualty.

Hayden Panettiere was the first to reach the beach. She was overcome with grief and exhaustion, falling to the sand, crying. I scooped her up in my arms, and we ran back to the van where the film crew was holding off the fishermen. Dripping wet, shivering, and shaking, we threw ourselves into the already moving van as it sped down the road. We hid under blankets in the back as we passed the police cars, sirens blaring. If we had stayed in the water just one more minute, we would have been hauled off to a small-town prison.

Once we thought we were safe, we stopped on a beachside cliff top for a short interview with a foreign news crew. Turning away from the camera, I looked out to sea, feeling a heavy weight on my soul. The enormity of the brutality I had just witnessed overwhelmed me. I wept as though I was experiencing the loss of a friend. I was, several of them. It may be difficult to comprehend why I care so much for these creatures. I can only respond by reminding you of the intense joy I have experienced in the wild, experiences that were life altering for me, and understanding that gave me a sense of purpose in this world. I have been shown that the sentient, peaceful, intelligent creatures that surround us should have the same rights as us to live in this world. These things are worth fighting for.

On our way back to Osaka, we were stopped at the Wakayama Precinct border by dozens of police officers with paddy wagons. My heart fell into my stomach. I thought to myself, “This is it ... time to face the music.”
Claustrophobia began to sink in at the idea of being enclosed in a cell. And panic for the first time in this journey poured into my soul.

We were all made to exit our vehicles. Our passports were checked, video and photos were taken of us, and for hours we endured repeated questions about the protest. To our amazement, we were allowed to leave. We speculated that these police were from another prefecture and were not convinced that we had broken the law, nor could they decide what to charge us with.

Returning to our hotel in Osaka, we packed to leave in a mad dash; protecting the video footage was our top priority. Reports came in that heavy-handed Yakuza gangsters had been visiting surf shops along the whole coast, threatening violence if surf locals didn't give up our location and details. It was definitely time to get out of there, I thought.

At Tokyo Airport, I was afraid I would be flagged and arrested on sight. We had heard that our information and photos were being circulated to relevant authorities, as the Taiji police were intent on arresting us before we left the country. Despite my fears, I walked on my plane without incident, and after the exhausting journey, landed back in my home country of Australia.

Thinking back to it all now, in many ways, I believe our campaign was a success. After our action, there was an explosion of international media on the dolphin slaughter. BBC, CNN, and
Entertainment Tonight
and many more newspapers and magazines around the world ran stories on the protest. The media attention helped expose the truth that dolphin and whale meat is highly toxic and unsuitable for consumption. As a result, many local schools and supermarkets in Japan removed all dolphin meat from their shelves. The film crew that worked with us, the Oceanic Preservation Society, showcased their documentary
The Cove
, which took the world by storm and received an
Academy Award in 2010. It has even showcased in Japan, helping to educate the people about what their government and corporations are doing.

A few years ago, nobody knew what was happening inside the Cove. Today, the dolphin slaughter is being drastically reduced in Taiji, and international pressure continues to put an end to it. The fight to educate the Japanese consumers has even been taken up by some local citizens and politicians in Taiji, who have been campaigning against the distribution of the mercury-poisoned dolphin meat.

For me, being involved in the action was empowering. It makes me realize that one crazy idea, conceived by a few ocean-loving individuals, can gain enough momentum to make a ripple of change in this world.