Orca Magic Moments

by Susan Berta, Carolyn Koppel, Leslie Strom

On Monday afternoon, August 23, 1999, there was a commemoration ceremony at Lime Kiln Lighthouse on San Juan Island to mark the loss of J6, also known as "Ralph," a 42-year-old male orca who disappeared in 1998. We can be reasonably sure he died since pod association among the resident community of Killer whales in Puget Sound continues for the whales' entire lifetimes.

The three pods of the Southern Resident community, J, K and L pods, (Lolita's extended family) generally travel in groups of subpods hundreds of miles apart, sometimes up and down the west side of San Juan Island during summer months, as well as ranging far north into Canada, south into Puget Sound and west into the Pacific Ocean. About five or six times per year all three pods get together somewhere in their vast habitat and engage in what is called a "superpod." It's an active time, including much breaching, tail-lobbing and spyhopping as small groups and individuals move rapidly among the community, meet up, greet one another and frolic together.

At 1:30 PM on Monday, the announced time of the ceremony for J6, a superpod event of the Southern community commenced within a few hundred yards of Lime Kiln Lighthouse. The two ceremonies took place simultaneously.

Below is a first person report by Susan Berta.

August 23rd....It was a beautiful day in the San Juans. The sun that's been eluding us all summer shone brightly the whales, who hadn't been around for a few days, were travelling north up the west side of San Juan Island, arriving at the Lime Kiln Lighthouse precisely at 1:30 p.m, just as Washington Secretary of State Ralph Munro began his "Goodbye to Ralph (J6)" speech.

Incredibly, as Ralph began his talk, he was interrupted & upstaged by an amazing show of support from J6's family (but I don't think he minded...)! All three pods went frolicking by, with no less than SIX full breaches exploding right behind Ralph as he spoke of his strong connection with the whales, & J6 in particular, & what a great loss it is to us all to lose J6 & the other whales that did not return this year. Ralph's connection with the whales was clearly obvious to everyone there who witnessed that magical moment that was just too perfect & precise to be a mere coincidence. Magic, maybe, but not coincidence.

Ralph & his wife Karen also spoke of Lolita, & of their hopes & efforts to bring her back to her family in Puget Sound. Ralph & Karen are clearly dedicated & committed to our neighboring community of whales. They are working not only for Lolita's freedom, but for the "whale-being" of all of J, K & L pods. They emphasized the importance of keeping their habitat clean & healthy, bringing back the salmon runs, & reducing other human impacts, such as harrassment by whale watchers & recreational boaters.

After the speech, Ralph & Karen tossed a wreath into the water to honor the passing of their beloved J6, & the other whales we lost this year, & laid roses on the rocks in their memory.

These losses were heartbreaking for us all - but to witness the rest of the pods' frolicking & breaching, the new babies leaping clear out of the water, full of life & vigor - was a vivid reminder to us all that we need to keep fighting for their whale-being & safety, & for a healthier habitat for them to swim in. And we need to keep fighting for Toki's freedom - to reunite her with her family so she can frolic & breach & swim freely with her own kind, & someday have some babies of her own to help the Southern Resident Community bounce back from the losses of the past few years.

I am so thankful to have been a witness to the magic of yesterday's enthusiastic display by our whale friends, & to know that we have amazingly wonderful people like Ralph & Karen Munro working for Lolita & her family's whalefare. And I can't think of anyone more deserving of a "Six-Breach Salute"! I believe the whales know much more than we realize, & they know that Ralph is a true friend who will never cease his struggle for their safety & freedom~

According to Martha Jordan, who heard the story from Ralph and Karen, Ralph had been "inviting" the whales to visit all day. It seemed to have worked. -ed.

This one is from Carolyn Koppel, a dear friend who found herself standing at the same location that Ralph Munro did, in July on a brief vacation of the San Juan Islands:

It was our last night on San Juan. My son and I finished a great dinner and as we walked back to our apartment I asked him if we could go to the lighthouse on our last night and watch the sunset. He was very agreeable and off we went.

When we arrived there were a few people there and we struck up a conversation with a couple from LA, a hospital administrator and his wife who was nuts about orcas. She was wearing a gold necklace made for her of about 4 orcas porpoising, and she was chatting away with lots of energy and hand gestures.

I noticed J Pod out in mid channel. They were far out there and appeared to be feeding. The woman starting making a lot of noise and jumping up and down. Okaaayy...

I pretty much tuned her out at the beginning. But suddenly two dorsal fins appeared to leave the group and be coming towards us. It was a cow and half- grown calf. This woman started squealing and digging her nails into my arm. The orcas swam up to where we were standing and spy hopped. I heard my son whisper, "Oh my God..." I can't begin to tell you what it meant to me on many levels. I know I didn't mind leaving the island the next morning, because I was given a gift that would be a part of me forever. I know there was some sort of connection and communication, but I can't define it.

I know my son was deeply affected, and if I move to San Juan it would be his second home and sanctuary. I really don't know what happened to me that evening, but it was strong medicine.

My first sighting of Killerwhales was 15 years ago, and I never get bored being with them. I also never turned in a weeping performance like the one I did when I had to leave the island...

I was fortunate to attend the very last session ever of what the Whale Museum in Friday Harbor called "Whale School," a week of study and field work on San Juan Island. Our group consisted of six people from all over the US, a few that were new to the museum staff, and two instructors, Peter Capen and Rich Osborne. Rich's wife Linda did the cooking. We stayed at a large rental house on the rocky shore of west side of the island where at night we could hear whales pass by. One night we heard a pod pass close to us, and Rich identified one of the whales. Mind you, it was pitch dark out. "Oh, sure," I laughed, "you can tell by their blowing." J-2, "Granny", he told me, was very old and has a very distinctive wheeze, and as I listened, it was indeed very pronounced. So out there in the pitch dark there were mysterious unique individuals, as well known as the regulars at Herb's Tavern, foraging by. I wanted to get to know them all.

Every day we went out looking at Killer whales, Minke whales, seals, and birds in the museum's motor-sailer the Scotia, every evening we would wheeze into the diesel dock at Roche Harbor (where the fuel attendants would hasten to get us on our disgraceful way), every night we would have a wonderful dinner that Linda would make for us, and then a lecture on marine mammals from a local researcher.

It took me about a day to get used to the routine, the water, the studying. I could see myself doing this all the time. On the last day we had a final exam, and a final dinner consisting of salmon, barbecued oysters, beer, s'mores, more beer, salsa, and beer. The house was full of people. I had enough beer to eat a few oysters and enjoy them. We watched the Northern Lights, talked about wildlife, looked at slides, perfected marshmallow toasting in the fireplace. I finally went to bed so I could get up early and take the 6:00 am ferry back to the mainland and my job which was then at Kenworth Truck Company designing automotive parts.

Next morning the others got up to say goodbye. I got in my truck which was poised on the saltwater cliff facing the water, and listened for the sound of whales, hoping to hear J-2 again. Instead I heard the alternating mooing of two foghorns (we were positioned between Lime Kiln Lighthouse and Cattle Point Lighthouse). I drove to the ferry line, what there was of it... just some delivery trucks which got on the ferry and occupied the very tip of the gigantic deck.

I am NOT a particularly sentimental person, and I don't cry over much of anything. I felt subdued and a bit sad to be leaving, but that seemed normal. I talked to the dry-cleaning delivery truck guy about life on the island. I read the local paper and looked for people I knew in the Sheriff's Log. I had a donut and tried to forget what I was leaving behind me. I thought I was doing okay.

We landed at Anacortes and I drove off the ferry with the trucks. When my tires bumped up the metal ramp to mainland pavement, I started to cry. I couldn't stop crying. It was as though every cell in my body knew the meaningless crap I was returning to was a horrible poisonous compromise suitable only to landlubbers, now that I'd spent a week among whales and their friends.

I had to pull over three times on the freeway, so blinded by tears I was. At work, no one wanted to know about my vacation, and the big hot topic was a parking lot survey deciding who got priority for the covered stalls. Every half hour or so, for the rest of the day, I would retreat to the ladies room to cry my eyes out. I never knew I could generate so many tears. I must have looked like hell, but no one noticed.

A few years later I returned to the island to visit with people from the museum. I mentioned this uncontrollable weeping episode to Tim Ransom (who was studying River otters on the island) and he smiled and said, "The place really gets in your blood, doesn't it?" And Rich, who can identify some whales by their wheezing, smiled and said, "THAT'S a pretty clear message, don't you think?"