The moment I knew: I was an activist out at sea – but all I wanted was to go home and marry Aaron | Australian lifestyle

The last thing I expected to see at a Melbourne vegan festival was a tall, dark and handsome man wearing a rugby union guernsey. I smiled at him and went about my day, grateful I’d worn my eating pants as I munched my way from food truck to food truck.

By that night he’d somehow tracked me down on social media. His name was Aaron and he asked me on a date. An actual date – not “a movie” or to “hang out”, but a date. It was the first time anyone had done that.

Three days later, at our mutual favourite vegan restaurant in Fitzroy, I asked him how on earth he’d found me. “I asked all my friends if they knew who the blonde in the Sea Shepherd top was and someone recognised you,” he said.

From the start, he wore his heart on his sleeve, which was endearing – but it didn’t stop me from managing his expectations. Over plates of mock chorizo and duck, I told him I had no interest in settling down or having kids, and that my work as a photographer and activist meant I would often be away at sea for long periods of time, of unknown duration.

“If that’s not for you I completely understand,” I said. “But we can still be friends.”

We started dating and I maintained my boundaries. Buying a house was for chumps. I was happy being an auntie, I didn’t need my own kids. Marriage? Absolutely not. We did, however, move in together – in a rental – after six months as his lease was up, and we spent most of our time at each other’s houses anyway.

Despite my boundaries, I fell deeper in love with his joie de vivre, wonder at the natural world, ability to be vulnerable and reflective, and his pure heart.

About 12 months into our relationship, I received a message from someone at Sea Shepherd. They needed a photographer onboard the MV Bob Barker in West Africa in a month’s time. Could I come?

I couldn’t pack my bags fast enough. The position was my dream come true.

I left Aaron and my dog, Charlie, and set out on my own, halfway across the world.

Although I was excited for the adventure, I wasn’t prepared for the endless hours of staring out to sea in between the action.

For many days, absolutely nothing happened while we patrolled, looking for poaching vessels.

Out at sea, there’s no wifi. There’s no phone signal. A colleague told me he read Shantaram in a single day.

What surprised me was the amount of time and space I had to do some soul-searching. I was also surprised by loneliness I felt, even living in close quarters, day in day out, with 34 other people.

One day we were called to prepare to board a longlining vessel. It was licensed to fish for tuna but we discovered it was pulling up blue sharks. We boarded it with armed marines and fisheries officials and, after negotiating my way into the freezer hold, I photographed tonnes of frozen shark fins. We arrested the vessel and began making our way into port in São Tomé and Príncipe, a tiny island nation west of Gabon.

Later that night, when I finally returned to my bunk, our ship rolled unreasonably – given how close we were to shore. It had been an adrenaline-fuelled day but, as I lay there, exhausted, my bed crammed with lifejackets to stop me rolling out, my heart ached. I missed our little house, I missed the dog. I missed Aaron.

In that moment, I felt my identity as a badass activist was crumbling. All I wanted in the world was to go home and marry Aaron.

I wanted to be tied to him for ever. I wanted to have a child with him.

Still, I delayed my return, tacking on trips to Kenya then Amsterdam. It was almost as though I had to make the most of this adventure before going home to a new life.

We married in the summer of 2018. We welcomed our son after a long fertility battle in 2021. What I ultimately learned through it all is my identity and my love don’t have to be separate things. I can be a wife and a mother and still be an activist. I’ve found a way to love and live, while staying true to myself.

And this year Aaron and I are due to celebrate 10 years together – and we’ve just bought a house. Turns out we’re chumps after all.