My Greta Moment

It's 1984, and we're at boarding school. The debate about whether or not to dam the Franklin River was raging. This was a significant environmental issue in Australia, as the Franklin River was one of the last wild rivers in Tasmania. Conservationists, led by Bob Brown, were fighting to protect it from being flooded by a proposed hydroelectric dam, which would have destroyed its unique ecosystem and cultural heritage. Most of us didn't give a flying toss about rivers, dams, or Tasmania, for that matter. We cared about our sport, dodging teachers, and sneaking as much contraband as we could into the dorms—cigarettes, dirty magazines, and the occasional bottle of cheap booze.

Yet somehow, the dam debate became the unofficial blood sport of the school. As my mate Lillee put it, it was a chance to "pick a side and chuck some fists." Back then, there were two types of people: the "No Dams" crowd and the "Dams On!" gangs. This split ran deep, like raw, adolescent tribalism. Say "Bob Brown," and half the school would yell "Legend!" while the other half would sneer or hurl something unpleasant from a lunch tray. None of us really understood Bob Brown's conservation agenda, but we knew he once socked John Howard through a car window, and that made him an instant legend.

The "Dams On!" crew got their kicks modifying signs and stickers all over town. The "No Dams" stickers were fair game. Sometimes, the "No" was scratched off; other times, it was swapped for "Yes" or Lillee's personal favourite: "Dams or Die." We turned the river into a joke, our defiance spelled out in half-ripped bumper stickers. I’ll admit, I found it funny in the way a moth finds circling a lightbulb funny—irresistible, even if it meant getting singed.

Then came that unforgettable afternoon when Tiny Marriott got nabbed by the local cop. Ironically, Tiny wasn't small; he just had a knack for slipping away unnoticed. But not this time. He was standing in plain view, hands all over a "No Dams" sticker on the back of someone's car. The cop appeared out of nowhere, like a phantom in blue. Tiny tried the old, "Just admiring it, officer," he said with a forced grin, his eyes darting nervously and his shoulders tensing up, but the cop wasn’t having it. He made Tiny open his bag, and out spilled twenty-three "No Dams" stickers—peeled off every car between here and the bakery.

Tiny got hauled off for "petty theft of political paraphernalia." It was the most Tasmanian-sounding crime I'd ever heard—after all, where else would stealing bumper stickers about a river be considered a political act? When he came back, we paraded him through the dorm like a martyr. He’d suffered for the cause—though none of us could actually articulate what that "cause" was, beyond the thrill of getting our hands dirty and racking up detentions.

It was my first taste of what they called "environmentalism," though our motives were murky at best. We didn’t know what we were fighting for, why we cared, or even what a dam really did. All we knew was it was a fight worth having, if only to escape the monotony of curfews and study hours. Looking back, I can’t help but laugh. There we were, tangled up in Tasmanian history, sticking our noses into politics like the clueless fools we were. But maybe that was the point—getting involved, even without fully understanding, taught me that standing up for something matters. Now, I see environmentalism differently; it's no longer just about the thrill, but about protecting what we have for future generations. For better or worse, we became part of something bigger than ourselves—even if it was just for the laughs, the bruises, and the stolen stickers.

FSF