The Orcas Of Mt Baker

The orcas are attacking yachts. Not because of a revolution, but because they want us to listen.

That’s probably not correct. There’s probably a scientific reason, some human-induced aberration in orca behavior. Maybe the yachts are imitating the sound of a male orca. Or maybe the orcas are just playing, with capitalist captains the unintended-yet-often-deserving victims. 

I’m okay with that. 

But let’s just assume the wolves of the sea are trying to say “Hello,” and we’re not listening. 

I’m not surprised.

Humans are noisy. 

Noisy politically. Noisy about religion. Noisy about gossip. Noisy in general. 

But there are moments that can still make us listen. 

Every August, Sacramento faces a coin flip: become a post-apocalyptic wasteland with yellow air you can feel in your throat, or just a hot-as-hell urban desert.  My family always tries to flee the threat of smoke and particulates. In 2022, we spent the month in Canada. One highlight of the trip came on Vancouver Island … or more specifically, in the waters off Vancouver Island. 

After a day touring Victoria, we splurged on an eco-adventure whale-watching tour, and motored out into the waters between Vancouver Island and the San Juans. 

Everyone was having a good time, chattering away at each other until sunset … when the pod arrived. 

These were five transient orcas (for conservation reasons, whale-watching tours avoid resident pods), two older females and three youngsters. 

They crossed our path, multiple times, circling, diving under the boat and surfacing on the other side with wet exhalations. Other boats were in the area and joined us in watching, slowing their motors. 

The orcas began to hunt. 

Soon, a sickly sweet scent came faintly on the breeze. “That’s seal,” our guide commented matter-of-factly.

We never saw the seal, fortunately. 

But we saw the effects of a successful hunt. 

The orcas ate.

Then the orcas began to play. 

As sunset approached, and against the backdrop of Mt Baker, water and stone and snow and sky, the orcas spy-hopped, barrel-rolled, swam on their backs, beating the waves with a flipper. 

They fully breached, twisting in the air with the grace of Dick Fosbury inventing the Fosbury Flop. 

You could hear them exhaling, snorts of water and air. You could hear the smash of water giving way beneath their breaches. 

What you couldn’t hear were humans. 

There were six or seven boats in the area at that point. And no one was saying a word. We knew we were lucky. We knew we bore witness to something deep and profound. 

We were lucky. 

It left me with a shred of hope that the world might recover if humans don’t destroy it first.