June – August 1985, Vancouver Island. I had been selected as one of several undergraduates to assist two marine biologists doing research on social behavior of orcas in Alert Bay/Telegraph Cove. This was my first time on Vancouver Island, and I was amazed at the raw beauty as I traveled to Alert Bay, a small fishing town at the northernmost point of the island. From there I was picked up by zodiac and ferried across Johnstone Strait to our tiny island of thick salal. A machete was a required piece of luggage. I got off the small boat and almost immediately was faced with a mass of the lovely native plant. I apologized to the plant before hacking my way to our encampment. There were 5 of us: 3 undergrads (me, Patrick, and Karen) and the 2 post docs: Naomi Rose and Jennifer. We needed to identify by sight approximately 40 orcas belonging to the J pod. These whales belonged to a family pod (in contrast to all male “bachelor” pods). Amazingly, the two groups of orcas had different hunting strategies and prey targets. Family pods at salmon and often hunted alone, while bachelor pods surrounding their prey of marine mammals, using their tails to club their prey.

To learn the whales by heart, I’d made flashcards identifying each whale’s dorsal fin, saddle patch, and eye patch, if known. Marine biologists studying these whales were trying to determine their social behavior. We took turns staying on the cliffs and going out on the zodiac to take data. From the cliffs, we would use binoculars and spotting scopes to determine which individuals were present. We noted direction they swam, how long they would dive, hunting behavior, proximity to other whales, and any other “objective” data we could record. It was to be a 2 month stint.

Within a few days, I sensed that there was a hierarchy. Naomi appeared to favor Patrick, both in camp (socializing) and out in the field. He was almost always selected to accompany the scientists in the zodiac, while Karen and I stayed on the viewing bluff, recording whatever behavior we could. I didn’t mind being relegated to the bluff. It was beautiful looking out over the strait toward Vancouver Island, though a strain to be constantly monitoring for whales. What pained me was the chumminess of Naomi in particular with Patrick, to the exclusion of the rest of us. It was a bit like Lord of the Flies. Especially because we were so isolated and couldn’t leave the island. Not easily anyway. One evening, we found Naomi’s journal open on a rock, and it hurt to read. Of course journals aren’t meant for public consumption, but given the awkward dynamics and its presence in the open, it was difficult to resist.

I kept my feelings to myself and tried my best to put aside hurt feelings for the greater good. Part of what made it hard was that this was an unpaid internship. Actually, I was paying them to be there, at least for supplies and food. Given that I was a poor college student, that didn’t sit well with me over time. One day, another biologist came to the island in a kayak. Chris seemed a kind young man who was currently teaching high school to underprivileged kids in Washington. He was excited about Paul Spong and his OrcaLab, where hydrophones were placed at intervals throughout the strait to record their mysterious calls. Paul had developed this as an alternative to the invasive coring of whale’s blubber that had been standard ops among marine biologists. I sensed that I could share my plight with him, and was pleasantly surprised when he suggested that I leave the study. But I felt loyal to the team, assuming that the biologists couldn’t get another intern at this late date. Yet his words remained with me.

A few days later, he returned and invited me to take the canoe across the strait to Vancouver Island. Maybe he knew that I needed to get off the tiny island and gain some perspective. Mid-way across the strait, an orca dove beneath the canoe, its haunting call echoing. I could feel the resonance through the metal body of the canoe, and realized that my dream had been fulfilled. What I’d unknowingly craved was an intimate encounter with one of these beautiful beings. Once on land, Chris and I explored the impenetrable temperate rainforest of the Pacific Northwest. At the base of a giant cedar we found the remains of an eagle. He wanted to take the skull for class. I wanted to take a talon but was torn, not wanting to disrespect the being.

We talked about my plight, and I decided that even if they ended up hating me, I needed to leave. With a heavy heart I canoed back to the island, dreading the conversation to come. That night, I told Naomi and Jennifer how I felt: conflicted because I wanted to stay the course, yet chafing against feeling on the outside. Every word felt like swallowing broken glass. But after saying my peace, I felt better. They agreed to let me leave, and the next day Chris came back in a 2 person kayak, and we left for Paul’s magical lab on Handson Island, an hour’s kayak away. The first thing I saw when we landed was a clawfoot bath tub in the yard. Later I had the pleasure of taking a hot bath under the stars. Paul built a fire underneath, and I was careful to stay on the thick piece of wood between me and the tub.

Paul was one of the kindest and most inclusive people I’ve ever met. He and his wife Helena ran the lab as a labor of love. Occasionally people came by to lend a hand. I was lucky enough to get to spend a few days with them. I played with Anna, who was 8 when I visited, and got to help Paul place hydrophones, connecting them to solar panels attached to car batteries. It was tricky to balance in the skiff while placing the components. But somehow we managed.

Paul gave me a tour of the lab, showing me how the would record the orcas’ calls as soon as they picked up the signal on the hydrophones. One such time, he ran into the lab and began the recording process, including important data like the whale’s location, swimming direction, and anything else that might be pertinent. Over years, they created a sonic map of the ‘Northern Resident Community’ of British Columbia orcas. I was struck by Paul’s dedication to protecting these sacred animals and collecting data without harming them. He is one of the most dedicated protectors of the wild I have met.

While visiting Paul’s OrcaLab, Chris invited me on a multi-hour day trip in his 2 person sea kayak to a Mamalilikulla First Nation site on Village Island. He wasn’t sure we would make it, as it was a long paddle on open sea. It was my first sea kayak experience, and I was proud to have been able to paddle for 2 1/2 hours straight. I was amazed that we found it given that map and compass were our only guide. But Chris had obviously done trips like that before, and seemed well prepared. We pulled the kayak up on a rocky promontory and set off to explore the island. I felt sad as I walked among the deserted long houses and totem poles, some still standing and others lying on their sides. They were majestic and carved of cedar, and the spirit of the Mamalilikulla First Nation people who had lived here felt very strong. I felt like a trespasser and despair at their absence. Had they disappeared due to disease, had to move due to the exploitation caused by commercial fishing, or was there some other cause rendered upon them by a culture of rapacious capitalism. I performed a quiet ceremony of my own creation to honor them. I wanted to do more but didn’t know what or how. With heavy heart, we paddled back to Paul’s home on Hanson Island. Chris was heading back to his teaching, and I thanked him for helping me navigate in more ways than one. I would have loved to stay at the OrcaLab all summer, but was careful not to take advantage of Paul’s generosity. At the end of the week, I bid Paul and his family goodbye and took a ferry back to Vancouver Island. I had my eye on the West Coast trail.