Resurfacing
By Brenda Peterson
Can orcas off the coast of San Juan Island and Olympic National Parks thrive in the face of growing environmental concerns?
In the long, slanting light of a Far Northwest summer solstice, a rocky beach on San Juan Island becomes a concert hall, and the audience often includes families of orca whales from J, K, and L pods that the locals know by name. Although dozens of orcas migrate through the area regularly, members of the Southern Resident community of orcas spend much of the year inhabiting the chill, emerald waters of Puget Sound. And here on Haro Strait, at Lime Kiln Point State Park—halfway between the British and American camps of San Juan Island National Historical Park—an expectant crowd has gathered for the annual celebration of OrcaSing. As Seattle’s City Cantabile Choir sings harmonies broadcast underwater through hydrophones, most of its members keep one eye focused on director Fred West and another eye focused on the sea, in the hope that their local orcas will join in the proceedings, as they’ve done before. The birth and deaths of each individual in the Southern Resident Community are front-page news in the Northwest. In fact, the concert is dedicated to the memory of a young male orca named Everett (J18) of the J pod. It’s rare for an entire community to come to know wild animals as identifiable individuals and families. But it’s possible thanks to work conducted by researchers like Ken Balcomb at the Center for Whale Research on San Juan Island, who uses nonintrusive “individual recognition” techniques pioneered by Jane Goodall in her long-term study of chimpanzees. Like Goodall, Balcomb has documented each orca, assigning each whale a name in addition to a number. Using photo-IDs of the black-and-white “saddle patches” on every orca’s dorsal fin and body, researchers can track the habitat, travels, behavior, lineage, and life-cycle of each family pod. Since 1973, Balcomb has worked with Paul Spong and Helena Symonds of OrcaLab to catalogue more than 300 resident orcas whose range stretches from northern Vancouver Island in British Columbia down to the Strait of Juan de Fuca surrounding the San Juan Islands. They’ve recorded the name, family tree, and history of four generations of Northern and Southern resident orcas—from A pod to L pod. Orcas are to Olympic and San Juan what bison are to Yellowstone and what wading birds are to Everglades, and the growing knowledge of these creatures has created a sense of responsibility and connection throughout the community.
“Orcas are creatures that we can identify with because they have language, curiosity, feelings, intelligence,” says Bob Lohn, Northwest regional administrator of the National Marine Fisheries, which successfully lobbied for the Southern Resident Community to be added to the federal Endangered Species List in February; the Northern residents were listed as “threatened” back in 1999 by the Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife, a Canadian governmental organization.
Female orcas can live to be 90, and a male’s life expectancy is about 60. But those numbers are falling as the perils facing orcas continue to increase: Dams on the Elwha, Snake, and Columbia rivers have destroyed 90 percent of salmon runs, the mainstay of the resident orcas’ diet. Meanwhile, fish farms have sprouted up to meet the international demand for salmon, which has exposed endangered native salmon to sea lice, which can kill immature fish.
Noise pollution takes a toll as well. In 2003, the U.S. Navy tested high-intensity military sonar in Haro Strait. Even above water, whale-watchers heard the ear-splitting pressure blasts pinging in metallic shrieks. A deaf whale is a dead whale, so the disoriented members of J pod did their best to escape the sound, gathering close to shore and swimming in tight, protective circles. The same incident led 14 harbor porpoises to beach themselves and eventually die. Related incidents have been reported following naval sonar-testing maneuvers off the Canary Islands, Hawaii, North Carolina, and Washington State.
Rising water temperatures have reduced prey populations and altered migration patterns, industrial driftnets have entangled orcas, and toxic runoff from large metropolitan areas continues to threaten orcas whose immune systems are already compromised. Northwest orcas are exposed to a toxic brew of pollution from heavy metals, PCBs, and PBDEs (fire retardants), which accumulate in their blubber. Males tend to feel the effects of pollutants more dramatically, because females purge some of their toxic load by giving birth and nursing offspring, thus passing the poisons on to the next generation. As a result, the Pacific Northwest orcas are now considered the most toxic marine mammals in the world.
With proper nutrition, orcas can tolerate large loads of toxins, but when stressed by starvation, their odds of survival are slim. Indeed, many wonder if this is the last generations of orcas. A census of the Southern Resident Community is alarming, reflecting a drop from a population of 100 in the early 1990s to 79 by 2001. In 2006, the J, K, and L pods have made a slight rebound to 87 individuals, which is promising, but each individual is precious for the future survival of this small Puget Sound population—any loss is unsustainable.
That’s why OrcaLab researchers are doing all they can to track the pods’ every move. In a remote research cabin off Vancouver Island, a sudden symphony of high-pitched squawks, squeals, and syncopated orca “click trains” bounce around and echo up into the rafters. “That’s the A5 Pod,” researcher Helena Symonds announces. “And there’s A23, Stripe,” the mother of Corky, one of the many whales captured in recent decades and shipped off to SeaWorld San Diego to perform under the stage name “Shamu.” In fact, 70 very young orcas were captured in the Pacific Northwest and shipped to aquariums during the 1960s and ’70s. Most of the whales were taken from the Salish Sea, like Lolita from L pod, who was captured at age five and has spent 35 years in Miami’s SeaWorld—the only surviving Southern resident orca in captivity.
Because orcas can live to be 90 years or older, and because offspring always stay with the pod’s matriarch, adopting her signature whistle as their own, the disruption of these lifelong family pods marked the beginning of a very difficult time for Northwest orcas. Researchers will never know how healthy the Pacific Northwest’s orcas might have been if the capture of those animals hadn’t interrupted the orca’s life-cycle, including vital reproduction periods.
Fortunately, thanks to the research conducted over the years, some catastrophes have been averted: In 2002, a lone orca calf—a rarity in orca communities—was discovered in Puget Sound interacting with ferryboats and floating logs; her skin was mottled and featured a rash, likely due to the stress of loneliness. Using OrcaLab’s vast archives of photo-IDs, Ken Balcomb recognized the baby orca from her eyepatch as A73, or Springer. Balcomb sent a hydrophone recording of Springer’s vocalizations to OrcaLab, where Symonds confirmed the lost calf’s signature whistle as a perfect match to the A4 pod in the Northern Resident community. With the help of government and grassroots groups, a massive international effort sprang into action: Springer was lifted by a crane from her solitary waters, sailed on a catamaran for the 12-hour trip to Johnstone Strait, and delivered to a floating pen on OrcaLab’s Hanson Island. When Springer heard members of her immediate family vocalizing as they passed by, scientists reported that “she practically blew our headphones off.” The netting was removed and she shot off toward her pod. This successful family reunion is celebrated every season when researchers identify the A-clan’s signature whistles and announce that Springer has returned to her home waters with her pod.
But the outcome isn’t always so successful. When another lone orca calf, Luna (L98), was separated from his family pod the summer of 2001, Canada’s Department of Fisheries and Oceans clashed with the Mowachat/ Muchalaht First Nations about whether to return Luna to the Southern Resident L pod. The tribe had already named the young orca Tsu’xiit, believing that he embodied the spirit of their late chief, Ambrose Maquinna, who had told his family he would return to them as an orca. Although the six-year-old whale was guarded by the First Nations and researchers, he was struck and killed by a huge tugboat as he approached the boat in search of interaction.
Clearly, things need to change if orcas are to remain in the waters of the Pacific Northwest for future generations. Fortunately, there is reason for hope, including a growing demand to restore healthy populations of salmon to the waters off the coast.
“The removal of two dams on Washington’s Elwha River, beginning in 2009, will be one of the most significant river restoration projects of our time and a boon for resident orcas,” says Josh Walter, Northwest rivers coordinator for the National Parks Conservation Association (see sidebar, page 36).
Another good sign for orcas is Washington Governor Christine Gregoire’s $42-million plan to restore Puget Sound, rallying environmentalists, tribes, and businesses to come together with “a community vision.” Rep. Norm Dicks (D-WA) has already predicted that the huge restoration project is a legacy that the community “will look back on as a turning point for Puget Sound.” And for the orcas, as well. If the sense of connection that people already share with these animals can be extended to a sense of community and conservation, there may be hope for the waters of the Pacific Northwest and the orcas who call it home.
Back on San Juan Island, as people gathered for the summer solstice presentation of OrcaSing, suddenly a familiar arc of dorsal fins arose on the horizon. “It’s J pod!” yelled observers on the shore. “There’s Granny!” Everyone started clapping. And as the 95-year-old matriarch and her family whistled, echoing in the exact key of the choir, the elegy became a celebration. Everett’s family pod had arrived, “as if they had read the invitation,” said Fred West, “as if on cue in their own opera.”
Brenda Peterson is a nature writer and author of 15 books, including the National Geographic book SIGHTINGS: The Gray Whale’s Mysterious Journey. Her most recent book is Animal Heart.
