From phil@io.comWed Jun 21 11:06:18 1995 Date: Wed, 21 Jun 1995 00:33:13 -0500 (CDT) From: Linnaeus Maximus To: phil@io.com Subject: Alex again I sat next to the aquarium tank in the warm California night in 1978 and watched the two killer whales below me. The loudspeaker on the wall reverberated with a plaintive call that I had heard again and again from the female. Two days before, following the death of her third calf, Corky had begun to call every few seconds. Her cry was starting to sound hoarse and raspy. When her dead calf was winched from the tank, Corky had thrashed against the concrete-and-glass walls, but now she lay motionless on the bottom, rising only to breathe. Occasionally her mate called out in response, but she ignored him, and her pitiful cries continued. Corky had lost her calf to starvation. Although she was extremely attentive to her baby, she didn't know how to nurse it. The calf had chirped endlessly for nine days as its mother's milk flowed uselessly into the water. Corky had been taken from the wild, removed from her mother and the rest of her family pod when she was very young, and had never learned how to nurse. I heard the male, Orky, vocalise again, and this time Corky answered him. She rose to the surface and exhaled beside him, and then the pair dove together. Soon, I heard them calling back and forth. As they undulated gracefully, Corky's pectoral fin rested lightly against Orky's side. I was deeply touched by the comfort Corky had finally found in her mate. Exhausted from my 72-hour vigil, I decided that I could no longer study killer whales in captivity. I had already spent several years researching cetacean communication, first with bottle-nosed dolphins, then with Corky and Orky at Marineland in Lost Angeles. I longed to understand the complex repertoire of orca vocalizations, and now I felt it was time for me to join killer whales in their natural environment. Killer whales, or orcas, are found in all orceans and major seas at any time of year. Next to humans, they are the most widely distributed species of mammals on Earth. They are formidable predators of both fish and marine mammals. The larger males can weigh 11 tons, attain lengths of up to 32 feet and swim at speeds as great as 20 knots (23 miles per hour). They use echolocation to find and trach their prey, emitting a constant stream of 'clicks' that bounce back from surrounding objects and give the whales a mental sense of what lives in the murky waters ahead. They communicate with other orcas by using whistles and various calls. Canadian researcher John Ford discovered that each killer whale pod has a slightyl differnt language or dialect. I had learned the sounds and cadences of Corky's pod dialect, and I felt that if I could find her family in the wild I could seek relationships between what the whales were doing and daying. But how could I find her natal pod? Corky had been captured off the west coast of Canada in 1969, but the oceanariuam staff didn't know where I should look along the hundreds of miles of rugged coastline. And I might never have found the pod without the help of the late Michael Bigg of Canda's Pacific Biological Station on Vancouver Island. In the early 1970s Bigg headed a population study of killer whales that frequented the coast of British Columbia and Washington State. Photographs made by his team revealed that the orcas carry unique markings. On each one the dorsal fin and the gray patch behind the dorsal, known as the saddle, are distinct. Every member of the population could thus be identified and tracked for its entire life, and Bigg could draw the whales' family trees and map territorial boundaries. By studying photographs taken during orca roundups, he could often trace an aquarium captive to its pod of origin. When I decided to track down Corky's family, I contacted Bigg -- and was stunned when he sent pictures of her pod and told me where and when I might find it. I quit my job, packed my belongings into my pickup and headed north. Rolling off the tiny ferry at Alert Bay, a Vancouver Island fishing village on the Johnstone Strait, the first thing I saw, staring at me with unblinking eyes, was a totem pole crowned by a killer whale motif. I unfurled my Zodiac infaltable boat on the beach, mounted the engine, stowed my assorted gear and paddled to the closes wharf. I had arranged for Paul Spong, a killer whale researcher, to guide me to his small research facility on a nearby island. In the northern twilight the sky turned dark red, and my stomach knotted in apprehension as I waited for him. Where would I go if he didn't come, and how would I ever find Corky's family pod? Across the water I spotted silver plumes erupting from the brilliantly colored surface; proud, straight black fins emerged. Therey they were, wild orcas. Adrenaline rushed through my body, but I clung to the dock. I knew nothing of these waters or this northern wilderness. But the sight of the whales so close to me was magnetic. With my eyes riveted to their rippling flukeprints, I timidly pushed off from the wharf. In Johnstone Strait I was no longer peering down at whales in a tank, I was among them. They swirled the water beneath me and rose beside me. I was the visitor; they were at home. I lowered my hydrophone, an underwater microphone, placed the headset over my ears and pressed the "record" button. Echoing in the vastness of the deep, numbing water were the familiar calls of Corky's dialect. It seemed incredible that in this expanse I was able to find one particular family; I gave silent thanks to Mike Bigg. As I watched calves nuzzle their mothers and splash in the red-gold waters, I knew then that I belonged there. Shortly, Spong appeared and led the way to his research station, where I set up camp. The summer flashed by in a blur -- whales passing under my boat, their breath fogging my camera lens, and their calls filling my head. I also learned about engine breakdown, drying wet bedding in a northern rain forest and the incompatibility of electronic equipment and salt water. But I was able to record hours of tape of Corky's pod. I spent my first two summers in Canada living in a big canvas tent. I arrieved with a stack of blank tapes, hoping to fill them with whale sounds. I would get up very early and head out to the 12-foot Zodiac to find whales. Days would go by without my seeing orcas, and I would drift, listening and watching for them. On the days that I found whales I would record their calls as well as verbal notes about their behaviour. Stormy days were welcome. I could catch up on sleep. My initial research suggested that the primary function of killer whale communication is to keep all pod members in touch and traveling the same direction in the murky green waters of British Columbia. The calls also appeared to inform the group about what was going on; whales made different sounds when foraging or at play. Most dramatic was the call used during a change of direction: the same sound Orky had made to rouse his grieving mate. I roughly interpreted this special call as "swim with me, in this direction." But I had no explanation for why the whales produced so many different sounds or why some calls seemed random and unconnected to any specific behaviour. Obviously there was a great deal going on that I knew nothing about. Greeting Dawn With a Flick of the Tongue Before going to Canada I made some observations that suggested complex social behaviors no one else had described. Every morning that I'd spent with captives Corky and Orky I saw them select a spot along the tank wall in the predawn light and gently squirt water at it. Then they opened their mouths and flicked their tongues at the chosen spot. When the sun appeared, the first beams of light invariably hit the exact spot the whales had marked. As the seasons changed, the spot moved, but the whales always knew where it was. In the early morning sunlight the whales played boisterously, chasing each other, spiraling nose-to-tail in tight circles and creating huge swells that sloshed out of the pool. If a clous passed, the activity stopped until the sunligh reappeared. Because of the position of their tank they didn't respond to sunsets, but once during a thunderstorm, I saw Orky flick his tongue at lightning and make a low groaning sound. Corky and Orky also engaged in precisely synchronized forms of play. The most intricate took weeks to perfect. Just after dawn, when no trainers were around, they would lie side-by-side, their tails resting on the trainer's platform while each held a pectoral fin aloft. At first they had timing problems and sometimes held the wrong fin up or colleded when trying to flip their tails out. When the performance went smoothly they stopped doing it. The fun was apparently in learning. In Canada I watched Corky's pod perform similar highly synchronized behaviors and energetic play at day's end. I saw two bulls float head-to- tail, oriented toward the pink blaze of the setting sun, and hold their pectorals aloft in a kind of cetacean salute. Another evening I saw four whales "spyhop" -- poking their heads vertically above the water to take a look around -- side by side, in perfect unison, facing the sinking sun. These ritual-like behaviors hint at a rich, vibrant social core. The need to respond to the sunrise was so strong in Corky and Orky that 12 years in a tank had not thwarted the behavior. It is clear that orcas respond to what is going on above, as well as below, the water. During the early years I spent bobbing among killer whale finds, Corky's pod became tolerant of my presence, and slowly I became familiar with each of the individual personalities. Killer whales are a matriarchal society, and the grande dame of Corky's extended family was named A9. (Alpha-numeric code names make it easier to track the whales by computer.) Killer whales mature at a rate comparable to our own, sexual maturity beginning in the early teens, full maturity in the early 20s. Females have a life expectancy of up to 80 years in the wild, bulls to about 60 years. The identity of Corky's mother, A23, was known because at the time of Corky's capture the calf was swimming tighly against her mother's side. All calves exhibit this behavior, or swim just behind their mother's dorsal fin, except when playing with other youngsters. Several photographs from the 1969 capture show mother and daughter in their last hours together, and these images helped Bigg find Corky's mother's pod. When I found the pod, she was with two more-recent offspring. She swam with another female, probably a sibling, whose female calf was about the same age as Corky when she had been taken. The calf was dubbed "Sharky" because of her unusually sharklike dorsal fin. Sharky was an exceptionally outgoing calf, and she often approached my boat with her year-old brother in tow. She seemed curious about my actions. As I lowered the hydrophone she would come as close as she dared and then wriggle off in excitement. If I put my bare hands into the bone-chilling water I could feel her echolocation clicks against my skin as she tried to make sense of this strange creature. Years later, when Sharky suddenly lost interest in me, her shift in behavior was so dramatic that I was worried. The explanation came 18 months later when, at the age of 14, Sharky gave birth to a daughter, whom I named Charlotte. Sharky no longer swam at her mother's side but reamained in the pod, with Charlotte tuckeed behind her dorsal fin. Newborn orcas are very well developed at birth. Within the womb the little whale is curled sideways, its nose against its tail. The calf emerges with deep creases running vertically from the base of the dorsal fin to its belly, due to the way it was curled. At birth the tail lies folded together like resting butterfly wings, and the tiny dorsal fin is flopped to one side. Within the first 20 minutes of life the fins stiffen, giving the whale its proper shape and the ability to swim. However, a newborn is weak and requires help swimming. The mother tow her baby, which rides in her current, between her dorsal fin and tail, behind the widest point of her body. Orca pods stay together for life and are composed of up to four generations of related females and their offspring. The young calves grow up in the company of their brothers and uncles, but not their fathers. Whenever I encountered A9, she was usually flanked by two magnificent sons who remained at her side until her death in 1991. After she died, the two no longer traveled with their pod but lingered all winter within a few miles of the spot where they had last seen their mother alive. They vanished. As each family returned the following spring, I searched for the borther's distinctive dorsal fins without success. I thought that they, too, had died, a common occurence with orphaned bulls. A Welcome Summer Reunion During July and August huge numbers of spawning salmnon funnel through Johnstrone Strait en route to their birth streams. This annual concentration of fish draws orca pods from throughout the region for a community gathering. Early arrivals often swim north and greet newcomers. Late in August 1992, while I traveled with one of these groups, A9's two sons suddenly appeared. As the escort whales surrounded the pair, goosebumps rose on my arms. I had truly missed them. The oldest son, A5 -- also called Top Notch -- carries one of the most massive fins on the coast. Despite his immense size I have always felt at ease near him. He was the first whale to approach me on the day I discovered Corky's pod. I took pictures whenever I found new calves or teen males -- who change in appearance rapidly as they grown -- or any adults with which I was unfamiliar. These photographs helped Mike Bigg fill out his orca genealogies. Taking ID photographs of whales isn't easy; I had to photograph them from the left side for consistency (markings differ from side to side), up close and in perfect focus. Proximity is the key. I learned to follow a pod slowly and quietly. Whenever the whales did focus their attention on me it was incredibly powerful. Once, when I was charged by a teenage male, I knew there was nothing to be gained by fleeing, so I maintained my speed and paralleled his course. He dove and, I was relieved to see, reappeared at his mother's side. Another time he appeared out of nowhere, inches from the stern of my boat. I'd been floating for an hour and had seen no indication of whales nearby. Suddenly he exhaled in a mighty WHOOSH right beside me. I jumped and my heart slammed into my ribs. Though I was startled, his manner was nonthreatening. I took it to be a form of a whale joke and laughed as he skimmed alongside, his eye swibeling up to get a look at me. I noticed that he was nearly the same length as the 22-foot boat I was using. On a drizzly afternoon in the summer of 1980 a young Canadian filmmaker pulled alongside my boat. He invited me to a field studio he and his partner had built on Vancouver Island, complete with and underwater camera that was aimed at a submerged pebble beach, This beach is a playground for the whales, who seem to enjoy rubbing their sensitive skin on the rocks. The two cinematographers wanted to film my reaction to watching the objects of my study frolicking in their world. The Man With an Orca on His Shoulder I was skeptical and unimpressed: I was sure their camera would never work. When I arrived, the other partner was underwater attending to the equipment, so I waited on the beach. The lean figure in a wet suit that emerged smiling from the green water held my attention as he waded ashore and peeled off his insulating suit. He had a killer whale tattooed on his shoulder. "Who is this man?" I thought to myself. The camera did work. I watched in amazement as Top Notch loomed into view; somersaulted and rubbed the entire length of his back on the peblles. I had always longed to see what wild whales did beneath the surface. I was ecstatic. Seven months later I married the cameraman, Robin Morton. HIs films on killer whales have been shown internationally and were used to protect the submerged beach as a provincial ecological reserve. We bouth an old boat, the Blue Fjord, and dedicated ourselves to whales. AT the end of the year our son, Jarret, was born. To make money we chartered out our boat for a variety of non-whale-watching uses and explored the coast looking for a site for basing a year-round study. On a cool, wet October day in 1984 we took our Zodiac and followed Corky's pod as it entered a steep-sided, mainland inlet surrounded by snowcapped peaks. As we traveled farther into this mist-enshrouded place we felt as though we were entering another world. So it was quite unexpected when we spotted a small house floating on a raft of logs. It looked warm and inviting with smoke curling out of the chimney. Other houses lay behond. Soaked and cold, we left the whales and turned to meet the people who lived there. We were welcomed by an eclectic group of residents and realized this was the place we'd been looking for. We knew there were whales because they had led us there. There was a post office where mail arrived by sea-plane, a place for us to moor the Blue Fjord and, incredibly, a cheerful one-room school. Jarret, who had spent more time among whales than children, was definitely ready for playmates of his own species. And so we began to moor the boat there and adopted Echo Bay as home. Our community had no power, roads or waterworks. There were no telephone lines for staying in touch with our families. But for the three of us it was perfect. Harret had playmates and the warm, cozy homes of new friends, while Robin and I had endless miles of coastline to explore. Whale sightings were infrequent, but so little was known about the winter activities of killer whales that we saw something new with every encounter. When we saw came upon other boarts we pulled alongside, inquired if they'd seen whales and asked them to call us on the marine radio if they spotted any. A few of them called in, and slowly we built a network of spotters. Today more than half of my sightings come from these people. That winter we learned that because of the depleted food supply, the big pods of summer fragment into smaller "subpods" made up of one or two mothers -- probably sisters -- their offspring and their brothers. These groups are quieter and less boisterous as they forage in kelp beds and along the base of steep inlet cliffs. The killer whales off British Columbia are split into three different social groups: residents, transients, and offshores. The differences between residents and transients are remarkable. Residents eat fish, travel in larger associations, vocalize often, remain with their mothers for life and travel predictable routes. Transients eat mammals -- seals, sea lions, and other cetaceans. They are quiet and their pods are small -- five or fewer. Their fins are more sharply pointed. They are difficult to locate because they suddenly disappear, with years passing between sightings. The offshores have only recently been discovered, and we know little about them. They live in open waters and only occasionally come inshore. As we followed Corky's pod -- residents -- during the winter months, we began to encounter more transients. They were wary of us when we tried to approach and reacted as though we were stalking them. Residents had become familiar with our photographing behaviour, and basically ignored us. Transients, however, did not. Theyir uncanny ability to simply disappear, even in open water, I think was used in efforts to lose us. Sometimes they surfaced three or four times, heading one way, only to reappear minutes later, swimming far behind us and in the same direction. At other times they resurfaced and spouted behind islands or rock piles. We always presented ourselves as entirely predictable, and the pods we encountered most often soon relaxed enough for quick photography sessions. Robin and I found transients to be bolder and more aggressive than the residents. One day, as we trailed behind a transient pod, a calf and two older juveniles back-tracked and appeared close to us. One came up several yards off our bow while the other two flanked us. I instantly felt corralled. On their next surfacing the whale to starboard came up with his side against our rubber boat. As he swam he pushed us toward his pod mate. I didn't know whether this was an aggressibe, playful or exploratory gesture, but I didn't want to play his game and reacted by throttling into neutral. If he hit our propeller, we would both suffer damage. None of the adults participated in the juveniles's activity, so I settled on something between exploaratory and playful. Several months later I spotted a large group of transients from several pods. Robin had left on a film job, and Jarret was at a friend's, so I departed alone and followed the orcas. They were spread out, so I moved slowly from group to group, trying to identify them. We came to a large bay, and the lead whales stopped at the entrance and floated while the others caught up. All breathed rapidly for several minutes, saturating their blood with precious oxygen. Then they rolled into steep dives. showing their entire backs to their tails. I started my stopwa6tch to time their dive. There was a sea lion haulout in the bay. so I positioned my boat, turned off the engine and dropped the hydrophone. I waited in torrential downpour. counting the minutes. Resident pods dive for 2 to 3 minutes. so after 15 minutes I thought I had been given the slip. Suddenly the still, dark water exploded ahead of me in a wall of white foam. The cliffs reverberated with gunshotlike sounds from the whales as they heaved air from their lungs. Over the hydrophone their eerie. haunting calls began. Iquickly pressed the record button to catch these rarely heard vocalizations and raised my binucolars. I thought I knew the power of killer whales; I'd been traveling with them for five years. But as I witnessed bodies of bull sea lions weighing up to 2000 pounds sailing through the air. the show of power was so great that it seemed unreal. Recording the Sounds of Underwater Battle The whales tore through the water, spray flying off their dorsals as they tried to land blows with their heads or tails while managing to avoid the huge canines of their agile sea lion prey at the same time. I was content to observe from a distance and record the sounds of underwater battle. I was pretty sure that if I moved within range one or more of the sea lions might try to escape the attack by jumping into my boat. Neither the craft nor I could have survived the landing. Shortly, as the whales were consuming a hard-won meal. I sped home in the rain-soaked twilight, my mind replaying the sight of whales and sea lions suspended in midair, each fighting for the right to survive. I had valuable data and a new awareness of my physical fragility. On Sptember 16, 1986, my life unraveled. Robin was filming A9 underwater at the pebble beach. One way orcas threaten one another is to release a cloud of bubbles. Robin believed that they might be more accepting of his underwater presence if he weren't releasing air with each exhalation. That day he was using a rebreather system, scuba gear designed to emit no bubbles. He had used it before. But this time a tiny valve became clogged, reducing the flow of oxygen. Although everthing seemed to be running normally, I sensed something was wrong when A9 approached him then immediately departed. I jumped overboard but was unable to do anything more than retrieve his body. He had died among the whales he loved, a hundred yards from where I'd first watched him walk out of the sea. My research faltered as I learned to deal with the rigors of wilderness living on my own. Every detail seemed to require monumental effort. I sold the Blue Fjord. The Zodiac was lost in a storm. Jarret and I moved into a small floathouse, and the first thing I had needed to learn was how to use a chain saw. If I couldn't get my own firewood I would be dependent on my neigbors. I thought of the chain saw as a monster machine. and at first I operated it only when the weather was calm enough to fly to a hospital for emergency care. Eventually I got the hang of it and found a certain pleasure in cutting and squirreling away my own wood. A visit from a bear that tried to force its way into my home convinced me to learn how to handle a rifle. The most difficult challenge was living as a single woman with a young child in a community of 30 people. My remedy was to embrace my research and remain firmly focused on my purpose for being there -- the whales. Finally, I was accepted by my neighbors. I spent the next seven years researching killer whales on my own from my new 22-foot vessel, the Blackfish Sound. The boat allowed me to follow whales for days at a time; Jarret and I could anchor wherever the evening found us or tie up to the floating homes of friends. My son developed into a capable deckhand. He often steers. and his steady hands make him a natural at videotaping whale encounters. On one occasion he caught the surfacing of a newborn calf. The advantage of a long-term field study is the learning that unfolds over time. As the seasons run by I have agrowing sense of how complex thse creatures are. With each encounter I acquire more pieces of the puzzle. Most of the time I don't know where they fit until I have a day when I observe how several variables are related, and suddenly I gain one more insight into their behavior. Undoubtedly part of what attracts me to orcas is the certainty that beneath their impassive and regal exterior, deep pools of character and experience swirl. TRheir lack of facial movement imparts a certain 'unknowability' to us humans. whose first language is the change of facial expression. A whale never frowns. grimaces or laughs. There is only the ever-present Mona Lisa smile. Whales don't offer their secrets freely. On a crisp fall day in 1980, I was tagging along behind Corky's pod, watching through binoculars as they socialized with other members of their community. We were in a large body of open water. Ahead, a bank of fog rolled thick and dark along the horizon. It looked much frather away than it was. and soon it rolled over me, dampening the paper I was writing on. When I looked up I was completely disoriented. Very foolishly I had left without a compass and now had absolutely no idea of which way to go. My predicament was compounded when I realized I was in an active and narrow shipping lane. Over the hydrophone the dull roar of a luxury liner became louder as it approached swiftly. To a small oboat. cruise ships are massive monoliths with knife-edged bows. Panic started to take over; I didn't know which way to turn. Tehn the pod -- A9, Top Notch and the others -- surfaced serenely beside my boat. I didn't care where they were headed; I knew they would avoid the ship and I'd be safe. But my relief was tempered by the worry that tracking them would be impossible in the thick gray fog. The whales had been on such an erratic travel pattern all day. it was amazing I had stumbled onto them at all. Nonetheless, I started the engine and puttered along parallel to them. They mother veered beneath me, several times I shifted into neutral, concerned they might graze the propeller with their flukes. I assumed we were heading depper into the fod, but after 20 minutes I saw the vague outline of a tiny island crowned with twisted cedars. The pod vanished, and I sped for the islet, bursting into the glorious evening sunlight. As I got my bearings, I realized the whlaes had turned 180 degrees and taken me back home. My mind was reeling. Had they rescued me? Was that even remotely possible? Whatever their motivations, they had turned around, stayed close to me until I was safe, then apparently returned to their original course. That was a long time ago, and in the years since, my life has gone through many changes. They are defined by the death of my husband, Robin, the passages of Jarret's childhood and the appearance of a tugboat named Gabriola. She turned the corner into Echo Bay in August 1993 and now calls my floathouse her home port. her skipper, Eric Nelson, and Jarret and I now roam the coast together, Eric beachcombs and works his boat, and we tow my boat so I can take off in any direction when I see killer whales. Echo Bay has changed too. Now I see fewer whales, fewer salmon. Fish farms raising salmon are on the increase, and around them the seabed has become fouled with fish feces. decaying food and chemicals. Wild salmon are now frequenly found to be infected with the same diseases as the farmed fish which live under crowded conditions that cause epidemics. At the same time, the fish farms broadcast high-amplitude sounds underwater to scare off predatory harbor seals, and whenever they do, whales disappear. Nowadays the local tourism industry has burgeoned with people who want to watch wild whales, and it is difficult on summer days to hear the orca calls over the sounds of tour boats. Fortunately most of the tour operators cooperate with whale researchers, and several compromises are under consideration. Increasingly I have found myself in the position of protecting the whales' interests. as I understand them, against the groups that want to change this coastline, whether it be for fish farms, extensive logging or increased tourism. What is good for the whales is good for everyoned: clean water, abundant sea life and expanses of pristine wilderness. I think that during the 15 years I've spent with them, these whales have gotten to know me. They probably know where I live, the extent of my range, and that I scurry home when darkness falls. I don't mean that they have ever demonstrated any recognition -- for the most part they ignore me. I have tried to present myself as predictable and reliable, and I let them know that I will pull back and let them enter narrow channels first, as well as maintain a steady speed and straight course if young calves come near me to investigate. I shut off my engine and float at a distance when they rest. As the first southeaster of fall bends the tops of the trees around my house and scatters the summer tourists. I look forward to what I might learn this winter. My list of questions still runs longer than my answers. The most wonderful aspect of studying such fascinating cratures is that my job will never be finished. All of my adult life has been spent in their company, and I can see no reason that that should change.