Dancing with Orcas

It is December in Arctic Norway. The stage is set in an archipelago adjacent to the North Atlantic. I find myself in a wetsuit submerged in frigid water just a couple of degrees above freezing. The surrounding islands are covered in snow, and although it’s just past noon, darkness is already setting in. The sun had left us several weeks ago, and only the polar night prevails. I’m in the midst of a school of herring which has been pushed into the shallows by an animal known for indiscriminately devouring both white sharks and seals alike. As I float there, I see a large black fin slicing through the water headed straight in my direction. I hold my breath, dive down and get ready for a close encounter with the apex predator of the sea, the killer whale. This is the story of how a passion for the ocean led me to spend three winters with killer whales in Arctic Norway, using the sailboat Barba as a platform.

It all started four years ago when I was given an assignment to photograph a unique annually occurring phenomenon. Thousands of Killer Whales come into the coastal waters from November through January, to feed on one of the most abundant fish species in the North Atlantic. The Herring, also known as the silver of the sea for its brilliant scales, is a key species for predatory fish, large baleen whales, seagulls and killer whales.

I had my first encounter in open water. They appeared out of nowhere, soaring effortlessly through the salty liquid, with an almost ghost-like appearance. There is no mistaking a killer whale with its contrasting black back, white chest and sides, and a white patch above and behind the eye. It was a brief encounter with a group of ten individuals or so, lasting only seconds. But, it was still enough to spark a lifelong curiosity and the will to discover more about these magnificent animals. However, with a RIB (fast rigid inflatable boat) as a vessel and land-based accommodation, I missed the sensation of freedom and flexibility provided by a sailboat.

And so it was meant to be. The last three consecutive winters I have been up North with my sailboat Barba. It’s a fine-tuned sailing vessel, optimised for close interactions with nature. The subsequent numerous trips to the Arctic, the pack ice surrounding the North Pole and several encounters with polar bears are just some of the many noteworthy highlights.

The ultimate reason though is getting to understand the killer whales. I prefer to call them orcas as it’s a more dignified name, eliminating the negative association with that of a killer. The orca is an apex predator, not preyed upon by any other animal in the wild. They are known to hunt a wide range of ocean creatures, from fish to seagulls and baleen whales alike. With the second largest brain in the animal kingdom, in correlation with behavioural studies, they are highly intelligent. Measuring the intelligence though is difficult in a species whose environment and behavioural strategies are very different from our own. As for why they do not attack humans, no one really knows. Weighing as much as six tons and measuring up to eight meters, we would be an ideal epicurean match. Personally, I think they recognise us as being different, based on the mutual curiosity that results from the encounters. In addition, through the years of evolution, we have not been a natural part of their diet.

By using the sailboat, we are able to go far afield, reaching the remote areas where we are alone without the disturbance of an ever-growing whale watching industry. We have also observed that a sailboat is a non-intrusive green platform and a wonderful way to interact with nature. Over the years, I have had the privilege of spending hours in the water with orcas and hundreds of hours observing them from the surface. I have witnessed a range of different behaviours, but there is one common denominator. You always find them in groups. The orca is a highly complex social organism with cohesive family groups called pods, and as many as four generations can stay together. The bird’s eye view provided with a drone has also allowed for the deeper study of the different behavioural patterns. During transit, the entire pod will be on the move, cruising at an average speed of about seven knots, allowing them to cover well over a 100 km in a day. The calves will stay in the wake of their mothers, aided by the resulting hydrodynamic drag. There is also a resting phase, known as ‘logging’ when they will float peacefully on the surface, resembling floating timber. They also have what I like to call chill out behaviour, when they play and mingle during social interactions. When you are in the water you can hear them communicate with whistles and clicks, a language we have no understanding of.

My favourite though is when they are hunting herring. This is when we are able to witness their true complexity. And this is also our preferred moment to get in the water. During feeding they take no notice of us, allowing us to get up close – within touching range. Working together like a wolf pack, they isolate a school of herring, pushing it towards the surface, facilitating the kill. They then flash their white bellies and use sounds to herd them together into what is known as a bait ball. Using their tails to slam the fish with tremendous force, they will eat the stunned herring one by one. Quite often they’re accompanied by humpbacks. Measuring up to 16 meters these ocean giants will also take part in the feeding frenzy, engulfing hundreds of herring in one go