The Next Eco-Warriors (10 page)

However, for the Yes Men, getting arrested is rarely a lemon but rather more like a sugar-coated lemon taken with a shot of vodka. When Andy got arrested, this prompted CN to cover the whole shenanigan, causing our symbol of stupidity to be seen by tens of millions of people. Yes, America: this is what you will look like if we don't take action now on climate change.

Throughout the Balls Across America campaign, I marched with the Yes Men crew in countless parades, rallied at 350 International Day of Climate Action in Times Square, maneuvered through the New York City Halloween Parade, brought the SurvivaBalls to countless actions around the country, and even traveled all the way to Copenhagen for the climate treaty negotiations to adorn famous statues and foreigners with the costume of the potential impending future. They broke all the time, didn't fit right, got ripped, had parts missing, and had to be repaired constantly. They always elicited the same reaction of confusion and hilarity from onlookers. Newscasters never spelled or pronounced the name right.

After all is said and done, I really hate SurvivaBalls. And I really don't want to live in one. It's only fun for an hour, not a whole lifetime. So I make it a point to use CF Ls, eat less meat, buy renewable energy, recycle, and—most importantly—be an activist. Because in fifty years, I really don't want to have to survive in the world's stupidest costume.

As the balls travel around the world, I'm sitting here in my New York apartment fighting my dog for the spot next to the window on my bed while trying to figure out my next strategic step. Scientists say there are only a few years left before a crucial point of no return is passed. I've pulled out countless hairs obsessing, scrutinizing, and searching the depths of my mind every day, thinking, “Should I write? Should I educate? Should I fight? Should I go work in government? Where can I make the most amount of impact in this pivotal point in history?”

So instead I impersonated the U.S. Chamber of Commerce. But I can't tell that story until after the trial is over . . .

Whitney Black is currently still causing mayhem with the Yes Men, while simultaneously fending off the Chamber of Commerce lawsuit with a stick. She may or may not also have a real job by now. The SurvivaBalls have been sent out to travel the world but may soon be recalled for mass production upon the pronouncement of the death of the U.S. climate bill
.

Twenty-nine
Australia
Eco-Pirate

PHOTO BY JO-ANNE MCARTHUR

THE DELTA INFLATABLE BOAT SPED ACROSS the large blue swells as I concentrated on trying to slow my racing heart and focus my wired nerves. Taking slow deep breaths and mentally preparing myself for confrontation, I kept reinvisioning myself scaling the rail onto the deck of the 1,025-ton (929.9-metric-ton) harpoon ship. If we managed to successfully board the ship, we would at least survive the action, though that could involve spending the next months or years in Japanese incarceration. If we failed, we could be crushed between the vessels or fall into the freezing Antarctic waters and be blended into a human smoothie by the massive propeller. Neither was an inviting prospect to someone who had really only just begun their foray into direct action.

But this was definitely not the time for doubt. I had decided a long time ago to dedicate my life to the defense of the Earth, and now that Captain Paul Watson had given me the opportunity, I was not about to back down. I had come aboard the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society's flagship, the M/V
Robert Hunter
, in July 2007 in Melbourne, Australia. Later to be renamed the M/V
Steve Irwin
, the ship still bore a large rusting scar ripped into the plate steel after a collision with a Japanese spotting vessel during the 2006 campaign. I would often stand out on the dock at night while on security watch and imagine what it would be like to stand on that bow as two great hunks of speeding metal came together in the frigid waters of the Antarctic.

The great boxy outline of the ships superstructure in the inky night sky, like some medieval fortress, spoke silently of purpose and the battle to come. The “
Stevesy
” waited patiently, creaking against the dockside for the time when the lines would be slipped and the race to save one thousand great whales in the southern oceans begun. My only wish was that I would be standing on that deck as she sailed out through the heads of Port Phillip Bay and due south to meet the roaring seas, shimmering ice, and ruthless whalers. My wish had been granted, and now come hell or high water. I would board a kill ship and let these whalers know face to face that I would not let them continue to kill whales in the Southern Ocean Whale Sanctuary without a fight.

The Japanese fleet's harpoon ships, of which there are three, are like Grim Reapers to the whales, menacing-looking vessels that taper into long, streamlined hulls and have raised bows where platforms for the harpoons are located. After a whale is hit in the guts with a grenade-tipped harpoon, it is then dragged into the ship to be peppered with rifle fire or electrocuted, then tied by their tail. With the whale inverted and drowning in its own blood, it is dragged back to the factory ship for butchering. These are ships designed to kill, but the design of the kill ship was also its weakness. Its low-lying deck, almost level with the waterline, opened itself up to a boarding from an inflatable boat.

The plan was to board one of these vessels and order the captain to cease his whaling operations, as it was in violation of the 1986 global moratorium on commercial whaling, Southern Ocean Whale Sanctuary, and CITES (Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species) treaty, as well as numerous other laws. The idea was just radical enough to potentially halt whaling
operations and bring the issue to the forefront of the world's attention. At the end of the day, that was what we were here to do. The diplomatic talks, banner waving, and petitions of the world's governments and mainstream environmental corporations had failed for twenty years to bring about an end to whaling by Japan, Norway, and Iceland. It was time for a change.

The great decimation of whale populations during much of the 19th and 20th centuries resulted in the formation of the International Whaling Commission (IWC ) in 1946 to regulate commercial whaling. But for decades, it had been deadlocked between nations who wished to transform it from a body that oversaw the continued exploitation of whales to one that would conserve and try to return whale populations from the brink of extinction. Since the 1986 moratorium, only scientific and cultural hunts were allowed, and Japan therefore claimed their annual hunt of nearly one thousand whales— including endangered whales in the Antarctic—as a matter of “science.” Japan was using the “science” loophole to continue its commercial exploitation despite the development of nonlethal research methods. This simple relabeling of the hunt as “research” and the power Japan wields in international trade relations has fundamentally crippled the IWC and the conservation of all whale species.

But on the day we boarded, January 15, 2008, the Australian Federal Court ruled that the Japanese company carrying out the whaling operations in the whale sanctuary were acting illegally under Australian law.

_________

AS WE APPROACHED, THE GRAY STERN OF the harpoon ship grew larger until one could make out the name
Yushin Maru No. 2
printed in English and Japanese.
Yushin
means “brave new” and was meant to herald the resumption
of Japan's commercial whaling industry with the construction of several ultramodern harpoon vessels. Yet in our action, we might take the industry back years in economic losses. In a stroke of luck, there was not one whaler in sight. The stink bombs, which the Delta crew had hurled all over the decks, had done their job in driving the whalers inside to escape the overwhelmingly acrid smell of rotten butter.

Dave, the boat operator, brought us in on the port side, but as we approached the gunnels, the harpoon boat increased speed and started to bank sharply from side to side—sending the lower deck, where we needed to board from the waterline, high into the air several meters above our heads and presenting us with a solid wall of slippery plate steel. The ensuing bow wave formed from the displacement of water from underneath the ship almost flipped our small boat upside down. Dave struggled to regain control and extract us from the precarious position.

As the ship leveled out, I found myself yelling into Dave's ear, “
Go go go go go!!
” I could see our chances slipping away and wanted to get onboard before the whalers came swarming out and onto the decks to repel us. The Delta increased power and pushed its starboard quarter into the slick gray side of the harpoon ship. My fellow boarder Giles Lane leapt from the bow over an access gate, while I struggled to move from the rear of the boat to gain a hold on the thick diameter railing used to secure the whales. My hands could barely hold the wet metal as the ship once again banked hard to port and the weight of my backpack combined with the downward motion of the railing almost sent me into the freezing water rushing below at a speed of twenty knots.
Just get over the railing!
was the only thought running through my head, and I threw a leg over and propelled myself headfirst onto the deck as Giles grabbed my backpack and helped haul me over.