The Trident expedition

It had never occurred to me that a small group of committed individuals could stop an atomic bomb. The plan was elegant and direct: get within a mile or two of ground zero and dare the military to push the button. The simplicity of this proposition appealed to me. I concluded that survival was a fair bet and decided to join the expedition.

It’s amazing how easy decisions often result in profound formative experiences.

For almost eight months during 1967, I participated in a coordinated international effort to stop France’s atmospheric nuclear testing program at Mururoa Atoll in the South Pacific. Starting as a supporter of the protest, I eventually became one of six crewmembers on board a 42-foot yacht, Trident.

The origins of the Trident expedition were firmly rooted in the anti-nuclear weapons movement after World War II. The 1945 bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki by the United States had shockingly demonstrated the destructiveness of atomic weapons. Russia’s development of a nuclear capability in the late 1940s sparked a superpower race directed toward military superiority in this field. Meanwhile, emerging nuclear nations cited national defence priorities and mounted publicity campaigns to justify atmospheric testing, and hundreds of nuclear devices were detonated during the 1950s and 1960s.

The dangers of such testing were inadequately understood. Over time, however, scientists came to realise that contamination from nuclear explosions was very long-lived. Radioactive characteristics lasted for decades and often centuries. Debris carried into the upper atmosphere was distributed by global weather patterns around the world before falling back to earth. The connections between exposure to radiation, genetic damage and cancer gradually became clear, and this growing body of scientific knowledge gave rise to protest movements in many countries around the world. Widespread concern led in turn to international agreements designed to limit nuclear weapons testing, a principal concord being the 1963 multinational test ban treaty specifically prohibiting tests in the atmosphere, in space and underwater.

China and France were notably absent from the treaty table. China had isolated itself from the world community during the 1960s while undergoing a massive social upheaval known as the Cultural Revolution. The Chinese considered atomic tests, atmospheric or otherwise, to be essential for national survival. The French case was more complicated. France’s President, Charles De Gaulle, was pandering to nationalistic fervour by building a nuclear strike force known as the force de frappe. Today, most military strategists would agree that the force de frappe was of minimal significance in terms of global nuclear conflict. During the 1960s, it helped soothe a national psyche battered by two world wars. Nuclear weapons gave France the appearance of strength, independence and stature in the world community.

The French testing program had commenced in the Sahara Desert of North Africa during the 1950s. When countries around the Mediterranean expressed their displeasure, the program was relocated to Mururoa Atoll in the Tuamoto Archipelago, a French colonial possession in a remote part of the South Pacific. Testing at Mururoa commenced in 1966 and was preceded by the forcible removal of islanders, as well as a unilateral declaration designating several hundred square kilometres of international waters off-limits to sea and air navigation. Australia and New Zealand, directly downwind of the blast zone, would become major recipients of blast fallout. The Trident expedition was conceived to publicise French actions and their impact on Australasia and the South Pacific. It aimed ultimately to halt the tests.

I moved to New Zealand from Australia in 1966 at a time when both countries were becoming embroiled in the Vietnam War. Feeling dubious about Australian involvement, I had left for New Zealand rather than risk being drafted. There were relatively few conscientious objectors in our country at that time, and most who refused military duty were handed jail sentences. Leaving Australia was partly an act of principle and protest, and partly also reflected my fear of being sentenced to two years’ imprisonment.

I read about the Trident in a New Zealand newspaper. It had just sailed into Auckland Harbour from Sydney, and I was impressed by what the protesters were trying to do. Curious to meet people acting fearlessly to promote views similar to my own, I located the boat and offered to help. Many people of all ages were already assisting, including a small support group formally coordinating local logistics. I joined this organisation and was interested to learn how the Trident expedition had come about.

An anti-war group based in Sydney and affiliated with the British Committee for Nuclear Disarmament had conceived the idea. Through their English contacts, the group obtained financial sponsorship from a California-based Quaker organisation after first reaching agreement on objectives and methods. The Quakers generated most of the funds necessary for the Sydney group to buy Trident, a 42-foot ocean racing yacht. Australian and New Zealand groups then took on such tasks as equipping the expedition, readying the boat, training its crew, organising publicity and rallying support.

It was a major revelation to me that most of those involved were just ordinary people. Few had any political training, and there was little evidence of a centralised leadership. Core groups in New Zealand and Sydney were really Mr-and-Mrs-Average organisations with a smattering of social activists. Given a good cause and an excellent idea to promote that cause, they rapidly developed into formidable networks and influential lobbying groups. Within a short period of time, I witnessed the Auckland group expand from a dozen or so people to hundreds, spread across a number of cities and towns.

Most of my initial efforts were directed at preparing Trident for the voyage. I painted, worked on the engine, scrounged for fittings and services around the waterfront. Most crewmembers were close to my own age, and we quickly became friends. About a month before they were due to leave for Mururoa, one of the crew became seriously ill. It was decided that he should remain in New Zealand to help monitor the trip after his recovery. I prevailed on my new friends to become his replacement and—following a short group meeting—I was accepted into the crew.

As a crewmember, my perspective on the Trident protest underwent significant change. I remained concerned about being equipped and ready but could see that this was occurring anyway through the efforts of our supporters. The difference was being at the focal point of the protest action, which was now fomenting tremendous interest and controversy. A great sense of responsibility arose in me towards those who had participated to make the mission possible.

The month before our departure was a whirlwind of speeches and statements to the media urging the public to contact parliamentarians and protest at the imminent French testing. I was struck many times by the cynicism and ‘pragmatism’ within established, organised political parties and lobby groups. Most wouldn’t commit themselves to supporting us. I had the distinct impression that they didn’t want to compromise their standing until they had seen whether or not we were going to be successful. On the other hand, people in the streets quickly grasped what we were up to. Whether they agreed with our tactics or not, their wishes for a successful and safe journey were numerous and sincere. It was a valuable insight into the dignity and straightforward nature of ordinary people.

We sailed out of Auckland Harbour bound for the test site early in May 1967. The crew was never worried that the French would deliberately hurt us. Prominent organisations in several countries had a stake in our safety and welfare. There was certainly no intention on our part of becoming martyrs to a cause. The whole process was finally being reduced to its elementary purpose: a confrontational political action reflecting widespread public frustration at French intransigence on nuclear atmospheric testing.

As it turned out, the sea was much more formidable than any of us had imagined. By the time we got back to Sydney eight months later, we had sailed halfway across the Pacific Ocean and back. One of our crew was dead, while two yachts we encountered in the Cook Islands had vanished, the victims of storms. We had survived two major capsizes in a hurricane off Tonga, both of which came close to sinking us mid-ocean. The mission came apart when our yacht and crew were ‘quarantined’ for our own safety after stopping for supplies at a supposedly supportive island en route to Mururoa. Our ‘quarantine’ naturally lasted two months during the test period.



At the time it seemed to me that the Trident expedition had failed in achieving its objective, and it’s a fact that France exploded forty-one atmospheric tests in French Polynesia between 1966 and 1974. I vividly remember a deep sense of personal failure and embarrassment upon returning to Auckland, our first stop on the way back to Sydney. We dreaded meeting our supporters, who had worked so hard to set up the trip. Looking back, however, I see that while it is a fine thing to succeed, it is important to attempt change, even if failure ensues. To do nothing is the unsatisfactory alternative.

I learned much from our protest. I observed first-hand the value of strong organisational support for individual action. I also came to understand that, if confrontational encounter between individual protesters and the offending system is sufficiently dramatic, there is a ripple effect in the public consciousness that continues long the players have left the stage. The press told our story. Our compatriots embraced us as long lost sons. Groups that had formerly distanced themselves from us rallied in support of our cause. The magnitude of our aspiration simply impressed everyone. So, while superficially it seemed that we had failed, it eventually became clear that we were involved in a piece of political theatre of which the last acts had yet to been played.

For the first time, the countries of the South Pacific basin had been exposed to a full discussion of the French testing program for an extended period. The public awareness stimulated by our voyage was reflected in subsequent government action in the region. In 1967, the year of our expedition, neither the Australian nor New Zealand administrations made any official comment to the French. The following year, due to public pressure, the first formal protests were issued. Statements of national concern grew progressively stronger year by year until the French were finally pressured into underground testing.

Another significant aspect of the Trident is that the project helped develop organisational coalitions across a number of countries. Once our informal communication network had been established, it outlived Trident to go on and contribute to other social debates, Vietnam being the most significant. Thus, in a small way, I feel we made an original contribution to the impetus necessary for social change— particularly in Australia. Doubtless, Trident also provided inspiration to many who had not yet made public statements of their political beliefs. Of those, I stand as a prime beneficiary. I did go back to Australia the following year with renewed confidence in my convictions. I was drafted, and sensibly rejected as ‘unsuitable’ for service in Vietnam.

Looking back, it is obvious to me that better planning, communication and training might have generated better immediate results. It is my view, however, that our only real failure—which I regret very much—was the death of one of our crew on the return trip to Australia from New Zealand. Accidental though it was, his death might have been avoided with better medical emergency planning on our part. I do not believe in the principle of the end justifying the means. I do not believe that our friend’s demise can be rationalised as having been ‘for a good cause’. In my opinion, his death should be removed from the political context. It’s really a simple matter: when going to sea, one should be prepared in all possible ways. The sea is uncompromising and it is tragic that a life was lost when it could have been avoided.

My experience on Trident suggests that an individual’s actions—particularly when supported by the active interest of others—can trigger major change. Imaginative action leads to some of life’s most gratifying, self-actualising and powerful experiences, while apathy and fear can be counted amongst our most significant and disappointing failures.