Brad Farmer sits opposite me describing how he was kidnapped by the KGB.

“It was 1990 during the Arctic summer and I was working on the Greenpeace mothership, MV Greenpeace. The USSR wanted to launch the world's largest nuclear detonation device at Novaya Zemlya, an island chain deep in the Arctic Circle. We were trying to bring attention to their plans when KGB officers stormed the boat, smashed up our radio room, and took us captive.”

Farmer recalls this story on a warm spring afternoon. We're seated on my outdoor decking, brightly coloured native birds squawk at the nearby feed bath. The relaxed setting makes it hard to square away Farmer's story of Arctic brinkmanship, communist Russia seems a long way away, both in time and place, yet it's an ideal starting point for Farmer's story.

The Russians hadn't heard of Greenpeace so when they found high-tech film and surveillance equipment they took them for spies. A tense six-and-a-half day standoff ensued. With all communication to the outside world cut, Farmer had no idea how the situation at would be resolved: Would they be sent to prison? Sent to Siberia? Or something worse..? Yet any nefarious plans the Russians may have had were halted when the Hawke government brokered a deal for their release. Australia's then-Foreign Minister, Gareth Evans, intervened directly to Mikhail Gorbachev who ordered a presidential pardon. It helped that the leader of the Soviet Union was due to a receive a Nobel Peace Prize, in part for slowing the arms race and “promoting international trust”.

Farmer still suffers some trauma from the experience, the memory of being interrogated at gunpoint isn't easily erased, however Greenpeace's strategy paid off: the nuclear tests were cancelled and on November 1990 – the same month Gorbachev received his Nobel prize - the USSR ratified the Comprehensive Nuclear Test Ban Treaty. “That was my globally awakening experience,” says Farmer of his triumph at the top of the world.

Brad Farmer on asssignment for Greenpeace, Novaya Zemlya, Russia, 1990

Connection to the environment is a central theme in Brad Farmer's life, as is its corollary, caring for the environment. He was raised at the northern end of the Gold Coast in a region that's now known as Sovereign Island. Three generations of the Farmer family lived there before him. During his childhood in the 1970s, Sovereign Island was a bare patch of sand abutting a low lying peninsula. Dusty streets criss-crossed the peninsula, each street dotted with squat one story homes. When a waterfront caravan park was proposed just north of the family home, Farmer, then a precocious 11-year-old, planned his first environmental campaign.

“The creeks were clear and full of fish,” Farmer says of the waterway before it was reclaimed for the caravan park. “So I walked around with a petition campaigning against it, yet the developers came and destroyed all the mangroves and the fish's spawning habitat. I couldn't understand or forget that wanton destruction and it made a lasting impression on me."

It got worse. Much worse. In fact, it's hard to imagine anywhere that's been as wilfully altered as Sovereign Island has. In 1988 developers began trucking landfill – 2.3 million cubic metres of it – onto the small uninhabited islet. They then laid roads and carved canals so every house had a waterfront. In 2016 Sovereign Islands has the most expensive real estate in Australia. It's a gated neighbourhood comprised largely of Chinese nationals that bears no resemblance to the place Farmer grew up.

“That's the transition I had to go through, seeing mangroves and wild nature obliterated by obscene development.” So perhaps it isn't any surprise that Farmer says he's a natural born environmentalist. The injustices that cause him to tremble with indignation are environmental injustices. “I became a full time environmentalist by default. It was like the start of a universal plan.”

Sovereign Island in 1983, at left, and 2016

When Brad Farmer returned to Australia from Novaya Zemlya he started making good on his plan. The previous two years had been spent working with Greenpeace and learning their methods. He knew how to organise campaigns, rouse the public, work the media. Farmer chose his battlefield – the Australian coast - and formed a core team that included veteran environmentalist Tom Kirsop AM. Together they created Surfrider Foundation Australia.

Surfrider was started by American Glen Hening in 1984 and existed only loosely until the second wave of environmentalism brought eco issues back to the fore. Surfrider subsequently opened branches across America and Europe. Surfrider Australia started operations in mid-1991.

At the time many popular beaches, particularly in Sydney and on Victoria's Mornington Peninsula were heavily polluted from nearshore sewage outfalls. In Sydney, if the wind blew from the south – the predominant winter breeze - Manly would be smeared by effluent from the North Head outfall, while if the wind blew north-east – the predominant summer seabreeze – it was Bondi's time to turn brown. Ocean pollution was a major issue for surfers, as were sand mining and unchecked coastal development. “The Australian Conservation Foundation weren't addressing these issues, Surfing Australia wasn't either.” The time was right for Surfrider to step into the breech.

Surfrider spearheaded campaigns such as the Poo Marches against ocean pollution, and got involved in every issue that concerned the coastline. Local chapters tackled local issues, the rank and file members getting their hands dirty while central office provided organisational support. For the first time surfers had a lobby group to speak on their behalf. “Surfrider made surfers feel like they owned the coast,” says Farmer. “Like they had a greater sense of belonging.”

However, his relationship with surfers wasn't always smooth. A regular criticism Farmer faced was that he didn't surf. I ask him about these accusations and he laughs dismissively while pointing to the surfboards atop his station wagon parked in my driveway. “It wasn't that I didn't surf. It was that I didn't surf enough,” says Farmer incredulously. Surfers have always had to display their hardcore credentials to gain acceptance, and even devoted environmentalists - Farmer estimates he was working 80 hours a week at the time - weren't immune from this absurd test of approval. To his credit, Farmer never complied when asked how often he surfed and he ultimately turned the accusation on it's head: If lack of surf time was the only muck they could rake then he was doing pretty damn good.

More serious was his relationship with big money. “I learned very quickly in the Greenpeace days not to take money from corporations or government. The moment you take a dollar from them you're immediately compromised.” That stance created an 'us against them' mentality which allowed Surfrider to define its position free of outside influence. It was an important stage in the coastal environment movement; just as surfers wanted a figurehead that surfed, they also wanted a movement run solely by surfers.

At its peak Surfrider had 58 branches across Australia, however it was still a grass roots operation with a budget to match and at times Farmer had to dip into his own savings to make ends meet. “I was genuinely happy to do so. I was a bachelor, I was a Buddhist, so it was modelled on selfless service. That's why I was happy to be a philanthropist of sorts and put my money and efforts into the service of the community.”

Brad Farmer and Mark Richards in the early days of Surfrider

I've known Brad Farmer for 25 years, first as an acquaintance with shared beliefs – I was a Surfrider grunt, he the charismatic leader – and later as professionals with overlapping job roles. I'd spoken to him many times and on topics that we both felt strongly about, yet I only recently discovered he was a practicing Buddhist. It was a surprising revelation as spirituality has played no obvious part in Farmer's public image. For someone who's spent so long in the public eye he's kept that part of himself well concealed.

“I've never made an issue of it, but it gives me an immense sense of fulfilment to give to others.” Altruism is but one benefit of his belief system. It also provides him with endurance. “I was working 24/7 at Surfrider, as were a number of other people, but after a couple of months of that workload people were burning out. That's what I was seeing right across the conservation movement - people burning out. The spiritual seed gave me resolve and persistence.”

Though he has a spiritual bedrock, its composition has altered over time. “During my forty years of activism I've gone from Christianity, to a yogic Sannyasin, to a Theraveda Buddhist,” says Farmer. “All three themes have been concurrent drivers in my life towards what altruists call selfless service.”

He's currently settled on Buddhism, a belief system that teaches impermanence and the inexorable nature of change, doctrines that could potentially be at odds with his opposition to development. Yet according to Farmer, that view doesn't address the whole picture. “Change is inevitable but it has to be environmentally and socially responsible. Buddhism has helped me rationalise the change that's gone on before me, but it hasn't stopped me caring about those people it effects. ”

Similarly, Buddhism teaches equanimity and serenity, yet the nature of activism means he often clashes with developers, politicians, and sometimes even other surfers. It could be an odd fit, the stereotype tells us that Buddhists are amiable and accommodating - duck soup for developers - but Farmer insists the opposite is true. “My beliefs have allowed me to feel fearless in the face of some pretty arrogant and ignorant people. They've given me the determination to represent the family of surfers.”

And yet most surfers don't share his evolving spiritual views. “Well, most surfers are happy to call themselves spiritual, and their place of worship is the ocean, which is also true for myself. But you probably only have one life so you may as well be a spiritual explorer.”

Greeting the Dalai Lama

In the early 1990s Sydney Water cut the ribbon on their deep water ocean outfalls and almost overnight Sydney's beaches cleaned up. Ocean pollution had galvanised the surf community; under Surfrider's banner surfers mobilised against the direct and visible threat. However, when the issues became less explicit Surfrider's membership numbers dwindled. I stopped renewing my Surfrider membership in 1995. At the time I was 23-years-old and the reason was simple: policy issues and management plans lacked the drama of a picket line.

“Twenty five years ago I thought there'd be hundreds of people engaged in coastal conservation,” says Farmer in a remark that reveals as much about his own level of commitment as it does the apathy of surfers. “But unless the threat is right in front of them, unless they're actually surfing in poo, surfers just don't care.”

It's a harsh assessment because, in general, the Australian coastline is well managed, a point that Farmer concedes. So why should surfers remain on a war footing when there's no battle left to wage? The problem, according to Farmer, is that every now and again issues arise that concern surfers and the infrastructure is no longer there to call upon. Surfrider still exists but they can no longer rely on the support of the wider surfing community.

Surfing's challenge is that it's largely apolitical. It's something we do to escape on land worries. To hang onto those problems, to take them with you to the beach, would defeat the purpose of going for a surf. Yet abandoning all forms of organisation leaves surfers at the mercy of better organised coastal users. It's a problem Brad Farmer wrestled with as his own relationship with Surfrider changed.

In 1994, after three years at the controls of Surfrider, he stepped aside. “I'd achieved most of the framework and a lot of talented people had come in that wanted to be management. “ Yet the bigger picture remained indistinct. “It'd become clear to me what had to happen; I had to take coastal protection to a legislative or policy level. I had to take all I had learnt in Surfrider, and in Greenpeace too, then take it to legislation.”

A call from Cheryl Kernot sealed the deal, and for the next decade Brad Farmer left the beach – metaphorically at least. In Canberra he was appointed head of special projects and coastal policy for the Democrats, who were then holding the balance of power. “I used that opportunity to work on a range of things from truth in advertising to anti-vilification laws around sexuality to a whole raft of social justice, environmental, and youth issues.” And all the while he kept pursuing coastal policy. “I got right in the faces of ministerial decision makers and I put policy before the Democrats that they put into the house.” Though his name wasn't heard around the beaches for many years, Brad Farmer was still advocating on behalf of surfers from the nation's capital.

Farmer was quietly offered a senate ticket for Queensland, seemingly a golden opportunity for someone with his aspirations, but he baulked at it. “On deep reflection, and after a long discussion with Bob Brown, I decided to decline the offer because of the intrusion of private life.” Even selfless service has it's limits when tested under the relentless media spotlight. Besides, the riddle that had pre-occupied him since leaving Surfrider – how to enact coastal policy - was nearing its denouement. He left Canberra and returned to the beach.

Farmer with the Good Doctor, former Senator and Greens leader Bob Brown

“There is an art of advocacy,” says Brad Farmer with genuine wonder. “There really is. There's a science or craft of advocacy, and my advocacy has been honed through more campaign losses than wins.” At Greenpeace Farmer used non-violent confrontation, at Surfrider he constructed a fortress mentality with his constituents, but his time in Canberra taught him something new: community involvement. “You've got to get people together: surfers and the government, coast users and the government. It's akin to Gough Whitlam putting the sand in the hand of Aboriginal elder Vincent Lingiari. It's saying to surfers and coast users, “This now belongs to you”.”

In 2005 Farmer applied the art of advocacy and came up with a winning formula. Rather than trying to drum up support each time there was an issue and being constantly caught on the back foot, he'd take coastal protection back to first principles. He'd use government legislation to protect our sacred surfing sites and place them in the care of local communities. Farmer teamed up with scientist Professor Andrew Short OAM and National Surfing Reserves (NSR) was born.

Together Farmer and Short laid out a claim for the cultural and environmental importance of specific surf breaks, then partnered with the Land and Property Management Authority to legally declare those sites Crown reserves. Despite his earlier reservations, Farmer had found a way for surfers to partner with government without being compromised. “Maroubra was the first NSR, and that got the attention of John Webber at Angourie, and then it just flowed, Manly got one, Cronulla too, then Freshwater, North Narrabeen.”

There's a certain genius behind the NSR idea. Surfers are inherently tribal and NSR's indulge that aspect of our psyche by creating a legitimate expression for localism. It also helped that the surfing demographic had matured and were now prepared to engage with government. And there were unforeseen outcomes too, says Farmer. “I've seen advertisements in the window of real estate agents saying 'Live close to a National Surfing Reserve'! That was inconceivable a few years ago.”

National Surfing Reserves solidarity with Parko and Mick

Farmer and Short always intended to take the NSR model to the world, and a few years into the venture they began receiving overseas interest. In 2008 they were invited to a round table conference in California where they shared their work with others, including Save The Waves, a California-based environmental group. “I explained the NSR model extensively over a weekend. They wanted to call it International Surfing Sites and I said no, just call it World Surfing Reserves and we'll be one and the same family.” Neither Farmer or Short had felt it necessary to trademark the name, web domain, or concept. “It was a free model that I wanted to see implemented all around the world.”

Problems arose with the new American contingent who rebuffed repeated calls for audits sparking suspicion from both camps. Farmer became concerned about their governance. “If I ask people to be ambassadors – which I have, Kelly Slater gave regular support to both National and World Surfing Reserves – then I have to know everything is above board for their sake. If there's a scandal they're the ones in the firing line.”

Tensions between the two parties increased and the stalemate was only broken when Save The Waves delivered a thunderbolt. In 2009 they covertly trademarked the World Surfing Reserves name and took ownership of the movement. Brad Farmer and Professor Andy Short were legally shunted out of the program they created.

Joining Kelly on the way to Manly World Surfing Reserves ceremony

Earlier I mentioned that my work sometimes overlapped with Brad Farmer's, and this was one of those instances. Clearly an injustice had occurred and I intended to expose the skullduggery. The headline to the story was already written - “Gung ho Americans hijack Aussie enviro group" - yet a few Skype conversations to the American team showed it wasn't quite so clear cut. The tyranny of distance had made for misunderstandings that compounded over time and the Americans chose a drastic solution. It was made clear to me that, despite the differences of opinion, the new World Surfing Reserves were doing good work and any negative media would jeopardise what had been achieved thus far. I elected not to run the story.

It's a decision I still question, because while good work is indeed being done it differs from Farmer and Professor Short's original vision. Rather than employing legislation to protect the intrinsic value of noted surf spots, Save The Waves operate true to their name and put the focus on environmental protection.

Seven years on and World Surfing Reserves have eight locations, two of them in Australia. They still use the model Brad Farmer shared with them in 2008 and their website reads almost exactly the same as National Surfing Reserves whom they list as a key partner, yet neither Brad Farmer or Professor Andy Short's names appear anywhere on the website.

When asked about his misplaced trust, Farmer, perhaps unknowingly, puts his answer into spiritual terms. “If people think I'm naïve for not trademarking World Surfing Reserves then I'm quite OK with that, because at the end of the day my conscience is clear.”

He could also frame the issue in Buddhist terms. Losing World Surfing Reserves was a spiritual lesson in impermanence and letting go of the ego. That didn't make it any less painful of course.

Brad Farmer and Professor Andy Short on assignment at Wineglass Bay, Tasmania

Brad Farmer and Professor Short remained friends and colleagues after the World Surfing Reserves imbroglio. They pressed ahead with National Surfing Reserves and also published a book together, 101 Best Beaches. The book provided the platform for Farmer's most recent advocacy project. Farmer, however, is coy about divulging just what that project is. "There's not too much I can say at this point," he explains apologetically. "But it'll all come out in a month or two."

And with that my afternoon with Brad Farmer draws to a close. I thank Brad for his time as he backs his wagon, surfboards strapped to the roof, out of my driveway. He slowly swings it around to the south, hoping to make it to Ulladulla before dark.

The next time I see Brad Farmer is a month later. We don't meet in person, I see him appear on a breakfast television show. He's standing atop Greenmount headland, mic'ed up and introduced good-naturedly as a beach expert. The host informs the viewers that Farmer has been visiting beaches all around Australia and assessing their merits.

"I like to think I have a great job," says the interviewer playing up Brad's new role, "but you get to spend much more time around beaches. So tell us what you do."

In his amiable way, Brad then explains how he's less a beach expert and more a beach ambassador - he champions Australia's coast. One aspect of this newly created role is 'Australia's Best Beach' award. "Between Professor Short and I we developed a ranking system which looks at the criteria including the visual amenity, the facilities of the beach, a bit of natural history, the indigenous culture, and we look at the way people engage with their beaches."

To someone who's followed Brad Farmer's career it all sounded very familiar, particularly that last point. While they may no longer be pursuing a pure surf angle, Farmer and Short have again developed a way to protect the Australian coastline by reasoning that if it can't be ignored then it can't be exploited.

There's an old saying that sunlight makes the best disinfectant. It's a political proverb and over thirty years of activism Brad Farmer has put his own spin on it. Whatever his project may be, from Surfrider to National Surfing Reserves to 101 Best Beaches, Brad Farmer shines a light on the Australian coast so people take pride in it. So they take ownership of it. Because he believes that when people are invested in the coast there's a greater chance it'll be protected - and that is his ultimate goal.