From the Archipelago: Observing the Wild

April-May 2001

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.
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by Alexandra Morton

JANUARY 25, 2001

Droplets fill the air around a pod of orcas as they rise to breathe together. Photo by Alexandra Morton

I stop in at the post office to send an email. As I'm doing so, Noah, who runs the store in winter, mentions that five whales went by not a half hour ago.
Excitedly I fumble through "shut down" on the computer as fast as it will let me go, then jump in my boat and head out of the bay.

This is the calmest, driest winter I have experienced in the Pacific Northwest and it's another lovely afternoon. The water lies still and the long shadows of a mid-winter afternoon paint one side of Cramer Pass black while the other is bathed in light.

As I make my way south, the rich, fishy odour of a marine mammal kill fills the cabin of my boat. I stop and circle the floating gulls which are pecking absently at the water. Tiny droplets of oil form a silvery skim on the water and I see a few bits of white flesh drifting just below the surface. Probably the remains of a seal kill, possibly a porpoise.

But there haven't been any porpoise around all winter. The small trio that spend spring, summer and fall in front of my house, vanish each winter. So do all the little porpoise groups, dotted throughout the archipelago. Occasionally I see them gathered in larger groups of 10 to 15. Normally quiet, no-nonsense cetaceans, these winter groups engage in much more boisterous activity-splashing, chasing, even breaching. But Cramer Pass is not one of their winter hangouts, so it doesn't seem likely this kill was a porpoise. And I expect the whales are still close by.

I soon find four orcas tightly grouped in mid-Retreat Pass. There are two females, one male, and one juvenile, but I can't tell whether the youngster is male or female.

As I approach, movement against the shore catches my eye-two river otters surface, creating a long golden ripple in the dark water. Suddenly a female whale cartwheels among them, tail arcing over her head, water droplets reflecting the sunlight.
One of the otters begins chirping while the other is pushed offshore in the wave made by the mother whale. Now the young whale surfs in alongside its mother and together they corral the otter into deeper water.

The confusion of animals attacked by whales is often fatal. If the whales are simply eating, death is sudden, but other times the whales are much more casual.

This occasion is clearly a training exercise. The young whale noses the otter about, then abandons it. It swims away with its mother to join the other two whales, who are floating nearby. The otters reunite and wisely vanish.

I don't hear any whale calls on my hydrophone, but transients are masters at hiding their sounds-whispering or clicking in a pattern so disjointed that I don't hear it as echo-location.

While I start to pull the hydrophone out of the water, the four whales start jumping. Even with binoculars I can't see what they are doing, but it looks a lot like a kill.

The gulls, with eyes much keener than mine, are skilled whale watchers and soon a few are wheeling above them and dipping down to the water to pick up bits. A kill for sure.

I position the boat and press "record"on my tape recorder. While I can normally hear the fish-eating resident orca ten miles away, I can barely hear these whales at all, although they're only meters away. When they keep their voices down, it means to me that they are planning to hunt again and don't want to alert potential prey.

In this case, whatever animal they have attacked is instantly subdued, and never surfaces. All four whales mill and dive, apparently feeding. Finally, half an hour later, the male and one female (likely his mother from the close association between these whales), move off a hundred meters to the south. There they swim slowly back and forth, as if pacing, while the female and young whale continue feeding. The male orca's body glints in the setting sun as he slowly sculls with his enormous pectoral fins.

Loons are attracted to the kill site by the feeding screams of the gulls. There is not much here for them as I don't think they eat the blubber remains of mammal kills, but they don't want to miss the action, hoping all the fuss is about a big school of herring at the surface.

Suddenly the male orca takes off after a loon. The bird cannot lift its heavy body off the water fast enough and the whale raises his head, tucks the loon under his chin and carries it down.

Seconds later the bird tries to get airborne again, but this time the whale bats it through the air, using his flukes. As the bird sits stunned on the water, the whale surfaces under it and rises ten feet straight up in a tall spy hop, with the bird on his nose flapping desperately.

After a few more minutes of this play, the loon is dead. Now an eagle catches a glimpse of the overturned loons' white breast and swoops down. It locks his talons into it, but can't take-off. With his broad wings spread out on the surface of the water the eagle floats, not wanting to let go.

When the male orca cruises over for a look that is all the incentive the eagle needs to become airborne. With great arching strokes, it lifts straight up into the air, leaving the loon behind.

The whale rolls and dives. The family draws together and continues into the gathering night.

I scoop the loon out of the water. It's still warm and much heavier than I thought. I leave it on a rock beneath the eagle, who looks down at me with interest and a stare of disdain.

JANUARY 30

0630 hours. I pick up the rapid-fire staccato chirps of dolphins on the hydrophone. Their voices start loud and fade away-they must be moving east from Fife Sound towards Tribune Channel. After daylight, I set out to find them. My eyes search beneath any circling birds. Even a big group of dolphins in calm water can be difficult to spot if they are not jumping. Finally I spot a disturbance in the water-there they are.

As I approach the dolphins, a mob of youngsters cluster around the bow of my boat. They bump and shove each other, trying to monopolize the best part of my bow wave, but when they find I am not going to speed up and give them a ride, they lose interest and rejoin the group.

Humans appear to be the only species which actually like dolphins bowriding. Dolphins cluster in front of humpbacks, sperm, and other large whales which don't seem to like dolphin attention at all, lunging and breathing explosively at them. But cheeky dolphins are not easily discouraged.

As these youngsters speed away from me, they rejoin the group and coalesce into a tight circle. I see there are about 300 dolphins knit into a solid living mass of sea mammals only about 25 meters across. A few birds glide over hopefully, but there are no fish-this isn't about fish, it's some kind of social process. Perhaps it bonds the dolphins into a community.

Dolphins don't stay together in the same family-dedicated manner as orca, having instead a "fusion-fission society", coming together and splitting apart on a rhythm I haven't figured out yet. Their high-pitched whistling during this activity is also typical of whales. Perhaps one is giving birth, maybe one is dying. One thing is certain-they are all in physical contact with each other.
Researchers studying orca in Puget Sound talk about greeting "ceremonies" among the southern resident whales they call "group gropes," and this looks similar to what they describe.

As I watch, a speed boat comes screaming down the channel. I take off my headsets as the little needle on the tape recorder slams into "overload". The boater spots the dolphins and veers right through the middle of them. Several young dolphins take off with the boat, while the rest of the group fragments. The boat swerves back and the operator yells, "they love this," then turns the boat and runs through the tightest remaining group of dolphins, further fragmenting them again. After a few more passes, the boat heads for the distant horizon, the bowriders wander back, but whatever was going on in that tight melee of dolphins is over.

Whenever I get the chance, I try to suggest to boaters that if they want to play with dolphins they should run past a group. If there are some dolphins who want to ride, they'll do so. If there are no takers, the group won't be disrupted.

While it looks like dolphins enjoy bowriding, generally it is only a few members of any group that are actually into it. And some dolphin activities are disrupted by just hearing the distant whine of a highspeed motor.

As kayakers you will not have this effect and can get to see some of the wonderful things dolphins do. Watch carefully and you'll often see bulbs of kelp vanish then pop to the surface when dolphins are around. They like to snag the floating sea weed on their fins, and carry it for as long as they can before it slips off. Those with fins much thicker than the others and slightly hunched forward are the males. They are always busily zig-zagging through the group, usually in small packs.

I am trying to keep track of dolphin movements throughout British Columbia and Washington State. If you see any or have any photographs of their dorsal fins, it would be great if you could contact meat email: wildorca@island.neto

Alexandra Morton is a marine mammal researcher and writer in BC's Broughton Archipelago. ©