Posted by Paul & Helena Spong 16 September

The forest floor is starting to go reddish-orange around here, as the cedars shed their summer cloak, and the mornings have a distinct chill about them that comes with fog and feels like fall.  So we know the season is changing.  From what has been happening with the orcas lately, though, you’d think we were still immersed in full-on summer.

Backtracking a bit, just 12 days ago, Tsitika returned with her A30 family, and took up residence in Johnstone Strait, doing pretty much exactly what we expect them to be doing in summertime… casually moving back and forth between the rubbing beaches at the eastern end of the Ecological Reserve at Robson Bight, and Turn Point at the western end of Hanson Island, making the Strait, as ever, seem a bit like a boardwalk at a holiday beach, where families stroll back and forth, the adults chatting about this and that, and the kids dashing off to the side with whatever whim overtakes them.

Soon after, the A30s had company again, as the I15s seemed to find the attractions of Johnstone Strait once again irresistible.  They came back “in” with part of the I31s, who have some of the loveliest voices among the northern residents.  The I15s made a quick trip to the east, possibly to check on the Chinook scene in Nodales Channel, but once they returned, it was party time again, and we were endlessly entertained by their sometimes raucous acoustics, mixed in with the serene or excited voices of the A30s, and the exquisite “pings” of the I31s.   Intense bouts of echolocation told us that this party was feast time too.

The fishing “opening” was still in full swing when the A30s and others returned, as sockeye salmon continued to flood through the Strait on their way to the Fraser River, so boat noise was persistent, day and night at the beginning of this period.  Then on September 6th, commercial fishing ended, and the orcas suddenly had a relatively quiet ocean to enjoy once more.  We say “relatively”, because there were still thundering cruise ships passing through, along with very noisy tugs and freighters, anytime, and during daylight hours, sports fishers, water taxis and whale watchers.  But the constant noise, more oppressive to our ears than ever in our experience, was over, and we enjoyed some achingly beautiful times in which the orcas sang their hearts out in the stillness of the night, with only themselves present (along with us, eavesdropping remotely).   It was altogether quite lovely, just like summer is supposed to be.

Constant partying can be rather exhausting, and it’s probably no different for orcas than it is for people, so the A30s may have been relieved to find themselves all alone for nearly a week, from September 9th to 14th.   They resumed their old habits, spending hour after hour in Robson Bight, where we could hear them intensely fishing, taking long breaks, resting; and then their voices would rise, as they practiced the ancient songs that have kept them together as a family for a very long time.  We listened in, enthralled, for hour after hour in our nights, as did others around the world, in their day or night, via orca-live.
LISTEN HERE TO A30s Sept. 13 ’10.

Over the same period the A30s were here on their own, we kept hearing reports of large numbers of orcas, possibly from “G” clan, being sighted to the north of Port Hardy, sometimes with indications that they might be heading east.  We were expectant, and vigilant, but nothing happened until yesterday, when the A30s headed northwards out of Johnstone Strait, via Blackney Pass, around noon, and made their way up to Lizard Point, where (surprise!) they met up with a ‘crowd’ of orcas who happened to be most of G clan.  Just how the A30s knew they were coming, we don’t know, but it’s hard to imagine that this was a chance event, the result of bumbling around.  Whatever the explanation may be, this turned out to be a serious meeting, in which the A30s were mixed up with half a dozen “G” families, and it took hours for them to slowly make their way down Queen Charlotte Strait and into Blackfish Sound.  After we heard they were in Blackfish and pointed east, we waited expectantly for them to come into our view, but this also took hours.

Whatever the orcas were doing, they were in no hurry, but after a long time of silence, they suddenly burst out in a vocal frenzy that lasted for quite some time, and then was as suddenly gone. When they finally came into our sight, the light was fading.  Our photographs, taken from a ways off, are fuzzy, but the images we have in our heads from the spotting scopes we used to survey the scene, will remain sharp for a long time.  Rafts of orcas, dozens at a time, drifting about as if aimlessly; huge males surfacing briefly, pointing one way and then changing direction; little kids flipping their flukes amidst a surrounding group that must have been so close to one another as to be touching; the mist of a dozen blows suspended in air; a bright rainbow touching the ocean, with golden orcas passing through; the shiny light of the last of the day reflecting brilliantly off dorsal fins; underwater there was mostly silence, but we also heard some of the most beautiful “pings” ever on our “local “ hydrophone; the breaths were distance, but the moment was intense, and close.  As the orcas drifted away, back into Blackfish Sound, the overwhelming impression we were left with was: what we were witnessing was an expression of love.

Love, love, love, it’s all you need.

About the authors

In 1970, Dr. Paul Spong founded OrcaLab, a small land-based whale research station nestled against the evergreen forest of Hanson Island in the waters of the "Inside Passage" of northern Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada.

The work of OrcaLab is centred on the philosophy that it is possible to study the wild without interfering with lives or habitat. A network of hydrophones, positioned around the orcas' "core habitat", helps us monitor their movements all year round. Supplementing the acoustic data are visual sightings of orcas as they pass OrcaLab, and reports from land observation sites staffed by OrcaLab volunteers during the summer "season", as well as reports from other researchers and whale watchers who share observations and information. Since 1994, OrcaLab has operated a video monitoring station on Cracroft Point in Johnstone Strait that allows the unobtrusive collection of both surface and underwater images of orcas and other ocean life. Beginning in 2000 and continuing through 2005, OrcaLab and Japan's NTT Data Corporation brought the everyday beauty of the orcas' lives to the Internet via www.orca-live.net. Plans for this project now include creating a production studio in a new operations base in Alert Bay. This will monitor and control a network of video cameras, enabling us to bring live imagery as well as live sounds to a worldwide audience via the Internet.

OrcaLab's work also includes vital conservation issues - preservation of orca habitat; release and rehabilitation of captive cetaceans, especially Corky; and bringing to an end the dismal era of commercial whaling. If OrcaLab’s work is to continue, and grow in the future, it needs stable funding.  To accomplish this, they are asking for small, regular donations that will add up to what is needed.  Even £3 or $5 per month will help OrcaLab a lot if enough people get involved.  With stable support, OrcaLab can go on to do things like streaming live HD video of the orcas we all love - so we can enjoy seeing them in intimate detail, living free in their natural world!  Please help OrcaLab, and participate in its future.

Posted by Michelle Bishop 19 September 2010

As we reached the top of the dunes we were hit by the grisly sight of piles of dead whales.  The live whales were still on the beach with a few hardy volunteers.  The DOC coordinator explained that they had lost one whale since they were found and the objective for the night would be to keep the remaining fourteen alive.  I was given one of the two large males and we began digging holes for his fins, supporting him with sand bags and pouring water over him. All the while trying to keep him calm.

Unfortunately the rain soon eased, so ferrying buckets of water to each whale to prevent them from overheating and drying out in the wind was the major challenge for the night.  I was glad that I had remembered my Project Jonah training, especially the advice about what to bring to a stranding.  While others were getting cold, wet and hungry, I was wrapped up in my dry suit and thermals and had a flask of hot coffee and chocolate to keep me going.

There were only one or two volunteers for each whale so people were bringing each other water as required.  Each whale had a glow stick at its head to indicate that it needed attention.  By the middle of the night I'd named my whale “Guinness”.  I told him about my children, my love of diving and the stress of quitting smoking.  We discussed the possible lowering of the driving age, the All Whites’ performance in the World Cup and whether track pants ever make a positive fashion statement.  He gazed at me, occasionally making a slight popping sound and appearing to understand every word I said.

DOC moved from person to person asking for reports on each whales breathing, temperature and general condition.  Occasionally they would try and co-ordinate an adjustment to the whale’s position, but we didn’t have enough people to undertake major moves.  We were offered coffee and milo to keep us warm  and told to take breaks if we were tired.  By about 4am the beach had an eerie calm about it.  The only light was the fourteen glow sticks and the occasional torch light.  We were all whispering to try and keep the whales calm, and they had all been named by their care givers. 

As the sun came up we were told the plan of attack. The surf was still too rough to risk re-floating the whales from Karikari beach so they would be moved over the peninsula for release at Maitai Bay, which would be much calmer.  Guinness already had a sling underneath him so he would be the first to go.  I would be travelling on the truck with him to keep him calm and once back in the water I was to stay with him as long as possible, keeping him in the shallows until everyone else was ready to be released.

There were some delays in getting diggers set up at the other beach, so it was mid-morning before the the move could begin.  As the sun got warmer it became even harder to keep Guinness cool.  He was also showing signs of sunburn on his tail and dorsal fin.  Fortunately other volunteers began to arrive and I soon had a core of three other people helping me.  They were fetching water and pouring it over him, leaving me free to talk to him and keep him calm.  By this stage we had started to connect and he was responding to my voice.

Finally the digger arrived to lift Guinness and place him on the flatbed truck.  He had already been moved onto a mat so it was a quick job to clip this on to the lifting frame.  Unfortunately he was too big for the mat.  His tail started to slip and he panicked; his tail thrashed and his breathing turned into a frantic sounding series of gasps.  He was quickly lowered back on to the sand where I tried to calm him down.

The lifting crew moved on the next whale.  They would return and move Guinness once the other smaller whales had been moved.  I was asked to keep talking to him.  We don’t know how much they understand, but they respond to familiar voices and touch.  This gave me the confidence to stay calm and get Guinness through the day.

The next few hours passed even more slowly than the night.  People came over to watch and help but Guinness seemed to get more agitated with lots of people around. Two teenage boys came over and offered to get me a coffee, which was very welcome.  Someone fed me a banana for lunch and left me with a water bottle.

As the digger approached Guinness again, he became stressed, presumably remembering the failed attempt to lift him earlier in the day.   We were told that if he panicked we would need to abort.  No one was suggesting that he would have to be euthanized, but they didn’t have to.  I knew the stakes.

I explained to Guinness what was going to happen, and told him that all he had to do was focus on me. “Listen to the sound of my voice” became a chant.  The digger moved closer and his breathing got quicker.  I raised my voice and continued talking to him, resting my hand on his shoulder for as long as I could while the lifting crew hooked him up and suspended a sling to support his tail.  He twitched his tail and moved his head slightly in the sling.  Everyone froze, waiting for him to panic.  I moved forward and put my hand on his shoulder again, repeating the chant “Listen to the sound of my voice”.  He stopped moving and looked up at me.  The crew continued to swing him on to the back of the truck, lowering him onto a bed of hay.  I scrambled up onto the truck, still chanting “Listen to the sound of my voice”.  Ned and two other volunteers climbed up beside me, with buckets of water.  I crouched next to Guinness, gazing into his eyes as I continued to chant and the truck slowly moved off.

How he found the strength to make the journey I’ll never know.  I didn’t stop chanting until the lifting crew sprung into action at the other end.  I told him that this was it, his final lift, and that soon he’d be back in the water.  He’d done it and I was so proud of him.

He continued to gaze at me as the crew swung him round and lowered him into the water.  At first he held his breath. For nearly a minute his blowhole was underwater.  Then he raised his own head and blew a triumphant breath, showering all of us with his spray.  From that point on his breathing continued to slow down.  At first he seemed a little unbalanced and we rocked him gently in the water to restore his equilibrium. He leant lopsidedly against us, but within a few minutes was holding his own position and moving forward to swim.

Most of the support crew stepped away, leaving two of us guiding, rather than supporting him.  We had been warned that we might have to hold him for several hours in the water since he had been out of the water for so long.  Within fifteen minutes though he was swimming strongly, checking in on his mates.   A couple of times he turned back to me and head butted me in what seemed like a playful gesture.

As with most strandings, one whale was placed in a pontoon and taken out to deeper water. We were asked to move our whales together and prepare to release them.  I knelt down next to Guinness and explained that this was goodbye, that I would always love him and if he ever saw me in the water again he should say hello.  I gave him one last gentle stroke and released him with the other whales.

There was suddenly an outburst of noise from the beach as everyone tried to herd the whales out.  Cars tooted their horns and everyone in the water was shouting and splashing.  Amid the chaos I watched Guinness swim away.

In the space of a few minutes I suddenly felt tired, hungry and emotional.  Back on the beach someone was offering hot drinks to the volunteers, which was welcome, but everything became a bit of a blur.  I got out of my dry suit and struggled into the car. On the beach I had promised Guinness that I wouldn't smoke again if he made it, but home was now calling me and I couldn't wait for a celebratory drink.

About the author

Michelle Bishop is a volunteer with Project Jonah a registered charity based in New Zealand that helps marine mammals, pioneering whale rescue techniques, and sharing this technology and expertise with the rest of the world.
“Our vision is to create a world where these animals are respected and protected. Our strength comes from our volunteers; everyday Kiwis that give up their time to help marine mammals through our rescue, action and protection programs. Whether they’re picking up litter on beaches or getting hands on in rescuing stranded whales, they’re out there helping. Whatever the weather. At the heart of Project Jonah is a passionate belief that caring about marine mammals is simply the right thing to do. We care about the welfare of these animals; their suffering and their needs. And though we make decisions using our heads, we do what we do because our hearts are connected with this absolutely vital work.

We believe that both animals and people matter. Whilst the animals are central to what we do, it’s people that make our work possible. We believe in working together with others to achieve the best results. New Zealand can lead the world in marine mammal welfare and protection. Your help puts us closer to that goal.”

Posted by David Rothenberg 8 August 2010

About the author

Thousand Mile Song uses the enigma of whale sounds to open up whale's underwater world of sonic mystery. In observing and talking with leading researchers around the globe, as they attempt to decipher undersea music, Rothenberg tells the story of scientists and musicians confronting an unknown as vast as the ocean. His search culminates in a grand attempt to make interspecies music the like of which no one has ever heard (until that is, they listen to the accompanying CD), by playing his clarinet with whales in their native habitats, from Russia to Canada to Hawaii.

Philosopher and musician David Rothenberg is the author of Why Birds Sing, also published in Italy, Spain, Taiwan, China, Korea, and Germany. It was turned into a feature length BBC TV documentary. Rothenberg has also written Sudden Music, Blue Cliff Record,  Hand’s End, and Always the Mountains.  His articles have appeared in Parabola, Orion, The Nation, Wired, Dwell, Kyoto Journal, The Guardian, The Globe and Mail and Sierra.  Rothenberg is also a composer and jazz clarinetist, and he has seven CDs out under his own name, including On the Cliffs of the Heart, named one of the top ten CDs by Jazziz Magazine in 1995.  His latest book is Thousand Mile Song, about making music with whales.  His first CD on ECM Records, with pianist Marilyn Crispell, One Dark Night I Left My Silent House was released in May 2010.  Rothenberg is professor of philosophy and music at the New Jersey Institute of Technology.