With the memory of my mother’s stern reprimand lingering in the back of my mind, my desire to make amends steered me towards the anti-nuclear movement. Christchurch had been declared the first nuclear-free city in the world in 1982, and my real introduction to anti-nuclear protests came not long afterwards when the USS Whipple visited Lyttelton Harbour two years later.

My thesis supervisor, a somewhat laconic professor named Bob Strauss, was instrumental in my involvement. Originally from Nashville, he had played a significant role in the Freedom Rides and voter registration campaigns of the 1960s, and despite his reserved demeanour was a powerful presence in the local peace movement. One afternoon as I was passing his office, he caught me in the corridor and asked if I was looking forward to ‘the big day’. I knew he meant the protest because we had discussed the Whipple’s visit during our last meeting, and I had mentioned my intention to kayak out on the harbour with my boyfriend and some other friends.

‘Could you give me a lift?’

‘You’re not driving?’ I asked.

‘No. I anticipate being arrested so I’d rather leave my car near the police station so I can get home after.’

We gave him a lift out to Lyttelton but didn’t see him afterwards because he was taken away and charged with trespass and disorderly behaviour. Meanwhile our small group had paddled out on the choppy harbour and braced ourselves against the wind for a day at sea. I’d been in a kayak before but had no experience of dealing with the constant harassment of the police and pro-American supporters who swept in with a roar of engines, circled our group and then accelerated away at speed. The wash from the powerful launches hit us from all directions and time and time again I thought I was going to be swamped or capsize. As the protest wore on I became not only increasingly tired from the emotional and physical effort of anticipating the next attack but also seasick. So while my male friends grew more and more emboldened, attempting to place themselves between the warship and the inner harbour, I slipped beneath a wharf and waited for the afternoon to end.

I was cold and my hands were frozen, wet and sticky from the sea. Every now and again while lurking beneath the wharf I bumped up against the piles and scraped my hands on the razor-sharp barnacles, causing my knuckles to bleed. The blood trickled in fast rivulets down the backs of my hands and I felt more and more miserable. It was gloomy beneath the wharf but every now and again, at odd angles, a strange light filtered through from above, casting streaks across the greasy, diesel-stinking water that slurped against the piers. Flotsam – bits of wood, polystyrene and cardboard – floated around me, adding to the ugliness.