Big Blue Sky

by Peter Garrett

  We were convinced the proposal was flawed and hadn’t been thought through properly. Scientific reports showed the risks that were likely with a facility of this scale, especially the impact massive dredging would have on the healthy seagrass beds that hugged the foreshore.

  Covering a pristine stretch of the bay with concrete would also change the character of the area substantially, and degrade what had been a popular retreat for holidaymakers and local families.

  As well, locating a huge arms depot, and then the fleet base, outside Sydney placed a substantial logistical burden on the navy. If the move went ahead, vessels would have to transit up and down the coast from existing bases just to store their weapons, and then ensure they were safely secured, and later move offices, personnel and myriad support services to an isolated location that, surprisingly, turned out to have only one access road.

  I was confident that once these points could be put to someone at the top of the food chain, sanity might prevail and the proposal would be quashed. Reasoning that there might be senior officers who held reservations about the cost and inconvenience of having what amounted to another naval base built well away from Sydney, I sought an opportunity to put the case to the officer corps at HMAS Penguin at Mosman, a picturesque suburb situated on Sydney Harbour. After laying out the technical objections, I asked the officers if they would really be content to give up this fabulous location, twenty minutes from the centre of the city, close to good schools, hospitals and restaurants, to relocate three hours south to a place where the nearest town, Nowra, had a population of fewer than 20,000 people. From the polite chatter that ensued after I’d finished speaking, I guessed that some officers might be having second thoughts, although no one went so far as to express them.

  Whatever misgivings were held by the admirals and commanders, however, there was no wavering by the defence department or the government. Everyone, it seemed, was resolved to push ahead.

  I travelled to Canberra to meet Robert Ray, an influential leader from Labor’s right faction who was soon to become defence minister. I got to know Ray a little better when I later entered parliament, and came to appreciate him as an astute tactician with solid Labor values. At the time of our first meeting, though, I must have appeared to be an anti-American, anti-nuclear activist, who had somehow been chosen to head the ACF and was now arriving at the eleventh hour to demand that the defence department abandon a decision that was the result of years of careful planning—a decision that he happened to support.

  Ray heard me out, feet on desk, with barely concealed contempt. ‘There’s no way we’re pulling out of Jervis Bay,’ he grunted, then added, just in case I hadn’t understood, ‘Over my dead body will a bunch of greenies stop the Australian navy from doing what needs to be done.’ With that, the meeting was over.

  Paul and I mulled over our predicament. We needed an out-of-the-box manoeuvre to push Jervis Bay into as many faces as possible, to signal that we were prepared to dig in and fight. Up to this stage, the campaign had delivered reports and petitions, lobbied politicians, built strong community support, and now included most of the leading national and state-based conservation organisations. We’d ticked off most of the tasks that need to be done in a campaign of this kind, but there was still no sign of a change of heart or mind by anyone of consequence and time was running out. In the end, we concluded that the only course of action was to directly confront the Department of Defence.

  When the firing range was due to be used it was closed to public access as fighter jets from the air force and navy screamed low over the peninsula doing target runs with dummy ammunition. On 5 June 1989—World Environment Day of all days—the range was scheduled to be used for joint exercises called Tasmanlink, and forces from New Zealand and the US were joining in, which would attract larger numbers of aircraft and personnel than usual.

  The plan was simple. Under cover of darkness, just before the range was declared off limits to the public and the training exercise started, a group of activists would hide out on the bombing range. The whole enterprise would then have to be delayed, and the resulting publicity would launch Jervis Bay into the national media spotlight.

  The action went off without a hitch as around a dozen people, including Diana Lindsay from the Oils office, snuck into the bush and dug in. Well camouflaged, wearing dark colours and covered with branches, they were all but invisible from the air.

  At first light, an hour or so before the joint exercises were due to start, and with navy ships gathered outside the entrance to the bay and crews preparing aircraft for flight, Paul Gilding made his first phone calls: to the range commander to inform him there were a dozen human shields on the firing range, and then to national and local media in quick succession.

  Astonishingly, despite having state-of-the-art equipment and plenty of army and navy personnel at their disposal, the authorities were unable to find anyone hidden on the range. The jets that flew overhead trying to spot the infiltrators appeared to be moving too fast for anyone to see clearly; either that or their fancy gear wasn’t working properly. The ground searches, in which soldiers and sailors actually had to hike through the scrub, were half-hearted affairs.

  Most of the activists remained out on the range for nearly a week; a few even snuck out at night for supplies and returned before daybreak. To our amazement, six days later the entire Tasmanlink exercise was cancelled.

  The action made the nightly news bulletins for most of the week and we kept pressing hard on the back of this lift in media interest for the plan to be abandoned. Every day more and more people were questioning why such an unspoiled part of the state should be turned into a heavily industrialised military port.

  We held public rallies, including one extraordinary gathering on the brilliant white sands of Cabbage Tree Beach (adjoining the wharf site), where protesters formed a human chain that spelled out ‘Save Jervis Bay’ for the television crews. As helicopters raked the beach, a pod of dolphins materialised right on cue to add some colour to the television coverage.

  In the lead-up to the 1990 federal election, Jervis Bay was at last elevated as a priority environmental issue.

  Finishing the last leg of a European winter tour at the end of 1989, I was caught in a fog of fatigue, constantly on the phone to Australia while everyone else slept.

  I’d been joined by Doris and our girls for the last few shows in Paris—madcap, over-the-top affairs during which I struggled to talk to the typically excitable crowd in poor schoolboy French—and we decided to drive down to Spain to take a breather before coming home. There, hunkered down in a two-storey stuccoed house on the coast owned by the business arm of the Jesuits whom Doris’s mum had worked for, we could see the coast of North Africa. It was the off-season, with a smattering of locals our only company.

  I swam a couple of times in the chilly Mediterranean Sea, but it was singularly depressing. Above the waterline everything appeared normal, but below the surface it was a rubbish tip. I dived down with a snorkel to check out the sea floor and scout for fish but found nothing: just old bottles and cans, bits of plastic, rope and twine, broken buckets and assorted detritus that had fallen, or been chucked, off fishing boats. There wasn’t a single living thing in sight.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of losing Jervis Bay: it was so healthy, just bursting with life in comparison. So I redoubled the calls to Australia, hassling Paul, Phillip Toyne, the office of environment minister Graham Richardson, journos who might be willing to cover the issue, anyone I could think of who might take an interest. It was frustrating to be so far away, and after my melancholy swims, I was intensely aware of how high the stakes were.

  I finally heard back from Richardson early one morning when the rest of the house was still asleep. Despite our past interactions, we’d always had a professional relationship and he was undoubtedly an effective environment minister. He’d spoken to Hawke, he told me. Kim Beazley, the defence minister, had been rolled. Labor would go to the election with
a promise not to move the Sydney naval fleet. For the time being, Jervis Bay was saved.

  I felt a wave of relief breaking over me and slept soundly for days after.

  A couple of weeks later, when we’d returned home, I travelled to Melbourne to join Bob Hawke as he opened the new ACF headquarters located in an old factory in the grungy suburb of Fitzroy.

  Hawke was in an upbeat mood when he arrived, which persisted, despite me leading him by mistake right into a large broom cupboard during a tour of the premises. The two of us stood shoulder to shoulder in the dark, with a few muffled voices calling ‘PM?’ from outside.

  Inside the cupboard, I said, ‘Sorry, Bob.’

  ‘A-a-ah, no worries, Peter.’

  Once out in daylight again, the prime minister announced that the government was ‘no longer disposed’ to move the navy to Jervis Bay. The cheering could be heard up and down the eastern seaboard.

  In his speech, Hawke reflected that ‘with greater information coming to light about the global threats posed by greenhouse gases and CFCs, concern for the environment has spread from the preserve of a relative few, seeking to protect a local river, beach or forest, to occupy the minds of people all around the world who would have never considered themselves to be greenies’.

  As we were ‘all greenies now’—an expression that would be used by John Howard when he became prime minister in 1996—Hawke went on to commit the government to working up policy on ecologically sustainable development (ESD) in partnership with the ACF and other environmental organisations, the forest, agricultural and mining industries, relevant ministers and the chief scientist.

  This was a world first, with the environment being recognised as deserving a place at the table of high-level decision-making. The ESD process offered the first substantial opportunity for government, the conservation movement and industry to sketch out how Australia could continue to grow in a way that didn’t run down our natural assets. Picking up on the Our Common Future report, which aimed to square the circle on economic growth and a healthy environment, the participants eventually delivered a suite of recommendations for government that reset policy in ways less harmful to natural ecosystems. Finding areas of agreement proved a difficult and time-consuming exercise, but it was a good start and provided a platform for change.

  Along with the leaders of most of the groups participating, I travelled to a roundtable meeting with the new prime minister, Paul Keating, in Parliament House, to press the case. Once the reports were made public, the prime minister and cabinet and other government departments had run a mile. Those recommendations that hadn’t already been neutered were simply ignored, and it became apparent that Keating had little appetite for this kind of reform. He’d been dismayed by Bob Hawke’s unilateral decision, when Hawke was still prime minister, to reject the siting of a mine at Coronation Hill in Kakadu National Park, despite the majority of the cabinet being in favour. Phillip Toyne and I had pushed hard, and the ACF’s entreaties, along with those of the traditional owners, helped scupper the project. This was a bridge too far for Keating, who was then treasurer, and for a number of other senior ministers. It was the first and only occasion on which Hawke directly overruled the cabinet, and it was the beginning of the end of his highly successful leadership.

  Ironically, the Coronation Hill decision was characterised as a win for conservationists. The blowback from the business community was intense, and was used by Finance Minister Peter Walsh and others to rebuff what they saw as the insidious influence environmentalists had over the government. The narrative was taken up by a gullible press gallery; Labor was now in thrall to the ‘greenies’. Yet the Coronation Hill decision was primarily about Aboriginal interests; the destruction of specific sacred sites of the Jawoyn people was considered sufficient reason to knock back the proposal, notwithstanding the environmental significance of the Kakadu area.

  The relationship between the ACF and Labor had been a constructive one. It was built on a reasonable degree of mutual trust that had built up over time. This didn’t prevent the ACF advocating for policy change without fear or favour, nor did the government readily acquiesce to the ACF’s demands. And there were many areas in which it was difficult, if not impossible, to make ground. But at the least the door was always open, and in politics getting a foot in the door is often the hardest task.

  In the background was the decision by national conservation organisations, including the ACF, to direct their members to consider preferencing Labor in the 1990 federal election—a decision that helped return the party to government. In the 1987 election, the ACF council voted specifically to endorse Labor in the House of Representatives, despite Toyne and president Hal Wootten disagreeing with the tactic. In the following years, my advice would echo theirs. It made sense to point out the strengths and weaknesses of all the parties, but endorsement of one was self-defeating. It jeopardised the capacity of the ACF and the conservation movement to work with the government of the day, irrespective of its political persuasion.

  Rather than affirming the importance of environment issues to voters, the 1990 result, along with the Coronation Hill decision, seemed to convince Keating of the need to create distance between green groups and Labor to reassure big business that the party wasn’t beholden to environmentalists. It’s been mainly uphill ever since. The need to protect the natural environment—including national parks, when conservative governments hold sway—never goes away. Serious environmental reform always demands national leadership.

  In the case of Jervis Bay, a skirmish had been won, but there would be plenty of battles ahead. And even for this jewel of the South Coast, managing the demand for housing, maintaining the marine reserves and limiting sewage run-off so as to protect the integrity of the bay are live issues to this day.

  Since that time I’ve tried to get down to Cabbage Tree Point at least once a year to spend a couple of hours wandering along the beach, snorkelling over the wavy seagrass, watching the stingrays and schools of fish grazing in brilliant clear water. Boats anchor off the beach and families traipse down onto the blinding white sand, as seabirds soar over the bay. It’s a way for me to recharge the batteries, to take a moment to reflect, and to toast all those—especially the brave handful that occupied the firing range—who made this victory possible.

  17

  ONE PLACE LEFT IN THE WORLD

  THE BREAKOUT OF the environment as a critical issue had rounded off the 1980s. There was a lot going on and inevitably my focus, as ACF president, skewed from music to the raft of issues I needed to get my head around. With a dramatic rise in public awareness of the environment, we’d reached a stage where real progress could be made.

  The preservation of the Antarctic—the last and only great wilderness—stands out because of its international significance. Locally, increasing attention was being paid to the fate of Australia’s native forests, whether in Tasmania, in Gippsland, Victoria, in the southeast of New South Wales or on Fraser Island in Queensland. The state of our eroded, salty soils and stressed river systems, especially in times of drought, was crying out for action, as was air pollution and the increase in greenhouse gases in the atmosphere—the biggie. We needed to address the growing mountains of waste that were clogging up our cities and to ensure that World Heritage areas like the Great Barrier Reef stayed in good shape—and there was plenty more.

  The developing relationship between the federal Labor government and conservation groups, particularly the ACF, had been aided by this increasing public concern and the environment started to rate highly as an electoral issue. A number of other highly motivated professionals, some with activist backgrounds, started to take up key positions in government. Simon Balderstone, a former Age journalist who worked briefly for the ACF before joining Graham Richardson’s staff when Richardson became environment minister (Balderstone later served as an adviser to Hawke and Keating—some kind of record), had a solid grasp of green issues and worked well with Phillip Toyne. As did Penny Figg
is, the ACF’s first national liaison officer, who brought a strategic sensibility to lobbying, an increasingly important tool in the campaigner’s toolbox, especially in the nation’s capital.

  Along with Balderstone, Gregg Borschmann and Janet Willis served on Richardson’s staff. Michael Rae from the Wilderness Society spent a lot of time in Canberra in this period. Judy Lambert, also from the Wilderness Society, and up-and-coming bureaucrats Warren Nicholls and Tony Fleming all worked for Ros Kelly when she succeeded Richardson. Sue Salmon, a former ACF national liaison officer, with Fleming and Peter Hitchcock, an outstanding advocate who’d worked in academia, advised John Faulkner when he subsequently took the role.

  The influence that green preferences had on the 1990 election was real. But it is the record of what was achieved at the time that is most striking: the Franklin Dam decision, which saved the Franklin and Gordon river valleys; protecting the Queensland Wet Tropics; extending Kakadu National Park; protecting native forests in south-west Tasmania and south-east New South Wales; preserving Shelburne Bay in Cape York; establishing Landcare; safeguarding Jervis Bay. This high-water mark of Australian conservation—saving special places for generations to come—hasn’t been equalled since.

  I had a bird’s-eye view of the Antarctic campaign: a many-layered tale, which started with Australia, following the age of Antarctic exploration typified by the stoic endurance of explorers like Douglas Mawson, claiming 42 per cent of the continent—some 6 million square kilometres—as Australian territory. Of course we were not alone there. Other countries had asserted sovereignty, including the UK, France and Argentina, and there were nations that disputed these claims and subsequently sought involvement in Antarctica, like Malaysia and India and, later, China.