By Serah Rounds-Zavitz
“What brought you to OrcaLab?” is a question you often get asked when first meeting your lab mates. Though, it is not one I have answered in full truth until now. That question brings me back to the late 90s and early 2000s when I was first introduced to Bjossa, the last captive orca at the Vancouver Aquarium. From a young age, my parents taught me to love and respect nature. At every opportunity they took me camping on the island or hiking in the mainland mountains. It made sense to take me to the aquarium as I had grown to love marine life, back then the horrors of captivity weren’t understood by all. The moment I stepped foot in front of the orca tank and saw her I was completely entranced. I vividly remember Bjossa swimming up and peering back at me, she was so big, strikingly beautiful, and evidently intelligent. After that day she became known as “My Orca” in my family. “I want to go see my orca!” I would beg my parents and every so often I would win the argument and off we would go. Though, those fond memories eventually turned to heavy reflection. What was once magical became horrific as I grew and learned about captivity. The memory of her eyes still haunts me, what was she thinking? How did it feel to be all alone in that small, otherwise empty tank day after day? In 2001 Bjossa was moved to SeaWorld San Diego ending the orca exhibit at the Vancouver Aquarium once and for all, though I never forgot about her.
As time passed since those visits, my interest in orcas and protecting them did not fade. I walked to the library to rent documentaries, I signed petitions to free captive whales, I read the works of Alexandra Morton and Erich Hoyt, soaking in every bit of information I could. Somewhere along the way the name Paul Spong and OrcaLab was mentioned. I identified strongly with the cause and admired the work that had been done by Paul and the team. I dreamt of a life of protecting the whales and their right to their natural habitat as every Free Willy kid did back then. While life took some turns that led me down a different path for a while, during the Covid-19 Pandemic I was once again faced with the rare opportunity of having nothing to do that was last experienced in childhood. In this boredom I took yet another deep dive into the world of whales, marine biology, and conservation. Through podcasts, books, and documentaries I came to the conclusion that enough was enough, I wanted to do more. In 2022 I enrolled in a BSc in Biology at Carleton University and began applying for summer internships right away. OrcaLab was the dream but I never expected to be sitting on the deck come July.
Flashing forward to 2024, I have now spent two summers at the lab with too many memories to sum up in a single blog post. It has truly been an honour to experience assisting in research at OrcaLab. I have learned so much from the many dedicated team members including a wealth of whale knowledge and unique stories that drove each individual to the same rocky shoreline of Hanson Island. With a much greater understanding of the true nature of wild orcas and their strong family ties, I can’t help but feel a heaviness in my heart for the whales and dolphins who still remain in captivity. On the other hand, I feel a renewed sense of determination to protect the whales that continue to endure the many challenges that we as settlers in North America have put in place for them. In a world that feels tremendously overwhelming it is easy to feel hopeless and lose faith in humanity, but it is in those times that surrounding yourself with the right people is more important than ever.
At OrcaLab I have found inspiration that has helped me solidify future goals and aspirations in the world of whale research and conservation, I have found lifelong friends, and I have carried Bjossa in my heart every step of the way.
One story I will end on is how one whale in particular taught me that loving wildlife from afar is possible if you’re patient enough. During my summers at OrcaLab one whale stood out to me and for good reason, his behaviour was always a stark contrast to what we typically witnessed day to day. During the summer of 2023 the Northern Residents decided not to show up until mid-August, unprecedented was the word I kept hearing. While many of us had arrived 1-2 months earlier, we were desperate and becoming somewhat paranoid, every little sound on the hydrophone had you questioning reality “was that a call?” We repeated over and over. But all was well, as the humpbacks kept us quite busy. We scanned the waters for blows, snapped pictures of their flukes, and occasionally witnessed breaching. Playing a game of “whose dorsal fin was that?” We would flip through the catalogues and celebrate when it was one we hadn’t yet seen that season. But one whale stood out to me for his evident personality, BCZ0339 Inukshuk. If he wasn’t breaching 3-10 times in a row he was tail slapping or pec slapping, both producing gunshot-like sounds echoing through the pass (alarming if you don’t know what they sound like). These events would sometimes last 20-30 minutes, and more often than not it was Inukshuk. While the humpbacks typically prefer the waters quite distant to the lab, every so often we were lucky and they would come within 20 metres or so from the deck, in many of those encounters Inukshuk was ID’d. I observed the widest range of humpback behaviours I had ever seen and with one singular whale. Interspecies interactions with sea lions and dolphins, intraspecies interactions with mothers and calves, what I can only describe as a headstand followed by a cartwheel just next to our little boat Sonic. While these behaviours are certainly not a performance for humans, I did grow fond of him during these many encounters and learned that with enough time and effort you can feel a connection and love for wildlife at the distance they deserve. Getting as close as possible doesn’t allow for the unfolding of their true nature before your eyes. This summer I permanently documented this story in the form of an Inukshuk fluke tattoo to remind me of all of these moments and the value of land-based research, in that patience magic happens.
By Serah Rounds-Zavitz | @porpoisefulexistence
