by David Kirby
Calls: Referred to technically as burst pulse calls. Killer whale calls are very rapid streams of sound pulses that sound continuous to our ears. Most sound somewhat like human cries or screams, some sound a bit like a squeaky door or creaking floorboard. Many of the calls used by killer whales are “stereotyped” or produced repeatedly by a given group of killer whales. Certain killer whales even use sound as a kind of family badge, and researchers have discovered much about their family relationships by simply listening to the sound of their calls.
The vast majority of data available on wild orcas was collected from the Northern and Southern Resident whale communities of British Columbia and Washington State. That’s mostly because these animals swim close to shore, often near populated areas. Orcas can be spotted from the shores of Seattle, Tacoma, Port Angeles, Bellingham, and the popular San Juan Islands in Washington State; and Vancouver, Victoria, Nanaimo, Campbell River, and other cities in BC. These venues not only offer easy access to the whales, they are scenic and pleasant places to live: Researchers who study orcas tend to gravitate more toward this region than, say, Iceland.
As a result, we know a great deal about the Southern and Northern Resident communities, which today number some 353 in total,2 and far less about other populations (though that is changing), including the Transient and Offshore orcas who share the same region of the Pacific Northwest as the Residents. While it is tempting to ascribe “Resident” and “Transient” attributes to killer whales in Norway, Iceland, Antarctica, and elsewhere, scientists say there are just not enough data to support such comparisons, with the exception of New Zealand and possibly Alaskan orcas.
For the past forty years, field scientists have exhaustively documented these Pacific Northwest animals, which they break down into three distinct ecotypes:
Residents: The most highly studied whales of all, these orcas are divided into two groups: the Northern Resident community, which ranges from mid–Vancouver Island north toward the Alaskan panhandle, and the Southern Resident community, which typically ranges from mid–Vancouver Island south to Puget Sound in summer and fall and, in the winter and spring, as far south as Monterey, California, and also north of Vancouver Island. The two generally do not mix. These whales live in extremely stable and large groups, or pods, marked by tightly knit family units dominated by females. They communicate at a highly sophisticated level and eat mostly fish.
Transients: These whales differ from Residents primarily by what they eat: other marine mammals, including dolphins, porpoises, seals, sea lions, and even larger whales (and sometimes sharks). Transients have been known to bat their prey around before finally consuming it. They travel in small groups (three to twelve whales), and their range is far greater than that of Resident orcas, though it does overlap. Transients do not mix with Residents, having split from their cousins, genetically speaking, tens of thousands of years ago.
Offshores: Little is known about this population, which tends to stay about thirty miles off the mainland coast, though they have been spotted in inland waterways on rare occasions. Offshores can travel in huge pods numbering up to seventy to a hundred orcas. Scientists believe they mostly forage on Pacific sleeper sharks and schooling fish.
In recent years, researchers have compiled new data on killer whale populations in other parts of the world, including Iceland, Alaska, Norway, the UK, Japan, and Russia in the northern hemisphere, and New Zealand, Argentina, Antarctica, and the Indian Ocean’s Crozet Archipelago in the southern. There are several other ecotypes, and perhaps even separate species entirely, besides the Northwest American whales.
Orcas can be found in all oceans of the planet, even in the tropics. Various studies have estimated their total population at anywhere between fifty thousand and one hundred thousand, perhaps half of them around Antarctica.3 Most populations seem to be stable (though data are limited), but the Northern Resident population of British Columbia has been listed as “threatened,” and the Southern Residents have been added to the more serious “endangered” list. Part of the reason is a reduction in fish stocks, which environmentalists say is due to pollution, salmon farming, and the damming of rivers that wild salmon must navigate to spawn upstream. New Zealand orcas are also in peril.
Then there are the captive killer whales; minuscule in number when compared to their wild counterparts, each is a political and emotional lightning rod. As of this writing, forty-two captive orcas are at theme parks and aquariums in Canada, France, Spain, Japan, Argentina, and the United States, which has twenty-two whales—twenty of them at the SeaWorld chain of attractions in Orlando, San Antonio, and San Diego.4
This book illuminates the intensifying debate over keeping killer whales for “public display,” and whether captivity is too stressful on some animals, leading to health problems such as impaired immunity, increased infections, and other serious issues, as well as behavioral problems such as aggression toward one another, and violence—at times deadly, as we shall see—against humans.
At play here are two vital questions:
1. Is captivity in an amusement park good for orcas: Is this the appropriate venue for killer whales to be held, and does it somehow benefit wild orcas and their ocean habitat, as the industry claims?
2. Is orca captivity good for society: Is it safe for trainers and truly educational for a public that pays to watch the whales perform what critics say are animal tricks akin to circus acts?
Not surprisingly, people who support SeaWorld and other marine-themed entertainment parks (pro-caps in the lingo of this particular argument) answer affirmatively to both questions, while anti-caps insist the answers are resounding noes.
People opposed to captivity include some scientists, academics, veterinarians, and environmentalists, nearly all animal activists, a handful of former orca trainers, and a worldwide network of people who say that killer whales are too big, smart, sentient, mobile, and close to their families to be kept in tanks and trained to perform for tourists. They assert that keeping killer whales in captivity is cruel and unusual, dangerous for animals and people, and should be phased out.
On the other side are aquarium and amusement park owners, managers, and investors, current and former trainers and staff, industry trade associations, some scientists and veterinarians, and most government officials, especially those whose constituents benefit from having a large oceanarium in the area. They argue that captive whales educate the public about wild whales, that the quality of life for captive orcas is superior to that in the ocean, and that whales in these collections receive world-class care, dine on “restaurant-quality fish,” and are free from the worries of pollution and dwindling food supplies found in the wild. Captive orcas, they imply, are simply better off. They are supported by millions of fans who spend billions of dollars each year on ticket sales, food, beer, and merchandise at the parks.
One faction views SeaWorld as a Garden Hilton for killer whales, and the other views it as a Hanoi Hilton for killer whales.
Those divisions aside, people on both sides of this battle sincerely care about these animals, and many of them truly love orcas. One such person was orca-training supervisor Dawn Brancheau, who was living out her life’s dream in Florida, working with nearly every “Shamu” (a stage name given to performing orcas) at SeaWorld Orlando. Dawn was killed during a “relationship session” with SeaWorld’s twelve-thousand-pound bull, Tilikum, following the popular “Dine with Shamu” lunchtime show. The notorious whale had already been involved in two other deaths. Now he had claimed his third victim. “Tilly” brutally rammed, dunked, bruised, and lacerated his adoring trainer. Tilikum was not just “playing.” This was a killing.
Four people have died in a pool with killer whales. Dozens more have been attacked, some left with lifelong injuries. SeaWorld calls these events rare accidents; critics call them preventable tragedies, the inevitable outcome of what they claim is the stress of captivity. Killer whale shows are not going to be closed down anytime soon, but opponen
ts are pushing hard to convince the public that they are as outdated and inhumane as the circus dancing bears that still perform in parts of Russia and China.
What’s more, the killing of Ms. Brancheau woke up a previously inattentive media to a gripping story and a bruising national debate—one that would soon drag the courts, Congress, and even the Obama administration into the roiling conflict.
Is captivity for orcas, on balance, a good thing? Readers must make up their own minds. But regardless of whether one is pro-cap, anti-cap, or somewhere in the ambivalent middle, one thing is abundantly clear: Dawn Brancheau’s death at SeaWorld, on February 24, 2010, forever changed this emotionally charged debate.
Prologue
The young orca trainer, an attractive woman with a bright smile, enchanted the tourists who came to gawk at the killer whales on this cool and gloomy February day. They gasped in awe as the trainer, an athletic, hometown celebrity, sent the orcas flying into the air with a few discreet flicks of her hand.
By lunchtime, she would be dead.
For now, the obedient animals pumped their powerful flukes and hurtled themselves upward from the depths of their cold-water confinement, rocketing through the surface into elegant arabesques and water-pounding breaches. The killer whales leapt forward around the small pool in tight unified arcs—repetitive airborne maneuvers not typically seen in nature, but theatrically referred to as “bows” in marine-park parlance.
The whales swam with military-style precision. The two older, dominant females (who rule orca society), easily distinguished by their smaller size and more diminutive dorsal fins that curved rearward into a point, flanked the large adolescent male in the middle. His dorsal fin had once grown straight, on its way to a natural elevation of five or six feet above sea level. But captivity had caused the erect, triangular fin to topple over, the force of gravity having pulled the mighty appendage downward, folding it onto his back like a giant slab of black taffy cooling on the sill of a seaside candy factory.
The trainer went through her well-rehearsed paces, and so did the whales. They returned each time to the low-lying stage to collect fistfuls of thawed smelt scooped from a metal bucket—a reward for each properly executed “behavior,” the industry name for an animal trick.
The audience cheered its approval, mesmerized by the black behemoths with the beguiling white patches next to those unknowable dark eyes, yards of glistening porcelain skin lining their enormous underbellies. Each time they surged from the water, people held their breath. There is nothing quite like seeing a live orca show. And today’s had been a good one.
“Do you think it’s over now, or do you think there’s more?” Nadine Kallen, visiting from Calgary, asked her friend Corinne Cowell and sister Silvia, a student at a nearby university.1
“I don’t know, but here she comes now,” Silvia said of the trainer, who was ferrying a metal pail of fish toward the corner of the arena where the three women were watching the show.
“I am so jealous. I wish I had her job,” said Nadine, a student at Alberta College of Art and Design. “Me, too,” Silvia sighed.
The trainer was now offering some well-earned treats to the big male with the collapsed fin. This common postperformance ritual was another positive reinforcement telling the whale he’d done a good job at work—and to please keep it up. The “play session” was a trust-building gesture, an incentive after each show, like a tip given to a favorite waitress in anticipation of good service tomorrow.
The trainer held fifteen-inch-long herring over the water, and the hungry male popped up vertically through the surface to grab them. Nadine, Sylvia, and Corrine were six feet away; they could see the whale’s conical teeth, pink, soft palate, and massive jaws, just inches from the trainer. But the women believed there was nothing dangerous about the move. They knew the term killer whale was an anachronistic misnomer from a less enlightened era of human misunderstanding about wildlife. After all, they had been to SeaWorld before; they had seen for themselves that people can swim with, surf on, and launch into the air from the heads of these gentle pandas of the sea. Orcas were docile as dalmatians.
Then it happened.
The pretty trainer began walking along a narrow ledge between the pool and a safety railing that kept the public from stumbling into the chilly salt water. The ledge, slippery from the show, was two feet above the surface. Suddenly, the trainer lost her balance and stumbled. One foot dipped into the brine as the opposite leg kept her body perched on the ledge. “Oh, no! She slipped!” Nadine cried.
The woman scrambled to get up. But one of the whales, the male, had another idea.
The instant he saw a foot break the surface, the male was riveted. He was not accustomed to seeing trainers in the water. This was an exciting development, and eight thousand pounds of curiosity got the best of him. Just as the trainer hauled herself up and pulled her foot from the brink, he grabbed it. The whale pulled her into the water. She cried out, more in surprise than pain. But it was too late. The orca had decided to deny access to the narrow ledge to safety. A new and amusing game had just presented itself, right there in his watery living room. He was determined to win it.
The trainer freed herself and swam toward the edge of the pool, but it was no use. There was no way to climb from the tank: no ladder, no foothold. Before she could cry out for help, the male grabbed her again and pulled her into the middle of the water.
Now the game had drawn the attention of the two females, who circled the skirmish with rascally delight, screeching in high-pitched bursts of clicks, crackles, and calls. But the big male had no interest in sharing this new toy with his bossy tankmates. He dragged the panicking trainer down to the bottom of the forty-eight-degree water and held her there.
“She’s gone under!” Nadine cried. The three women held their breath as the trainer disappeared beneath the surface, which was dark and mottled under the gloomy winter sky.
Maybe it’s okay, Nadine speculated. Maybe this is part of the performance: a short swim with the orcas, perhaps, at the end of the show.
Silvia had no idea. No one could see what was happening down there.
“Is she all right?” Corinne asked.
Soon they got their answer. The trainer pierced the dark surface and emitted a heart-rending scream. “Help me!” she cried to the other young trainers on duty. “Karen! Please! Help me. My god, help me!” she shouted to her colleague, twenty-five-year-old Karen McGee, who, along with other staff now on the scene, tried everything they could to distract the whales and rescue their imperiled friend.
Someone deployed a shepherd’s hook attached to a long pole for the trainer to grab on to, but the whales, as though they knew if she reached the device, it would be game over for them, kept her away from the hook. They also kept her from a life ring tossed into the pool.
Some staff tried hand signals in a vain attempt to command the orcas to return to the stage. Others used paddles to slap the water’s surface—an audio signal telling them to do the same thing—or banged metal fish buckets to distract the animals. On occasion, a whale would respond to a trainer’s “stationing cue,” specifically designed to pacify marine mammals that grow too aggressive and keep them immobile. But their obedience was only momentary.
The staff also tried luring the whales into their overnight holding pen (a dark metal tank inside an enclosure called the module) with a proffering of filleted salmon, but the orcas had clearly decided that they and they alone would dictate the endgame of this electrifying new sport.
The orca grabbed his trainer again and yanked her back under. Many seconds went by. He resurfaced, bouncing the woman on his rostrum (where an orca’s nose would be, if it had one) like a giant seal with a beach ball. The victim continued to cry out. The two chittering females circled the water with intensifying interest. Now all three whales joined in, handing off their screeching plaything like a human rugby ball.
The rescue team members, who seemed unequipped to deal with such an em
ergency and were now shouting in panic, made a last-ditch and futile effort at deploying a large net across the pool to separate the rampaging orcas from the victim, who was losing strength by the minute.
Instead, the male grabbed the woman once again and dove to the bottom, chased by the two females. They stayed under a long time. Nadine, Sylvia, and Corrine craned their necks to see. A heavy quiet fell on the arena. Gone were the woman’s screams and the shouts of the staff, the splashing and thrashing in the water, the god-awful screeching of orcas. Nothing was left but stunned silence, broken by heavy breathing and someone sobbing softly in the distance. The whole drama lasted maybe fifteen minutes, but it seemed like a lot longer.
Security staff finally escorted the dozen or so guests left away from the horror in the pool. Nadine, Corrine, and Sylvia refused to leave the pool area and instead huddled outside the gate, anxiously awaiting word on the trainer’s fate.
It seemed to take forever to retrieve the corpse: The male had refused to relinquish his trophy. Finally, a weighted net dragged the trainer up from the depths. Her clothes had been ripped from her body, which was peppered with ten lacerations from the teeth of killer whales.
The three women peered through the gates as emergency technicians pulled the trainer’s naked body up from the water. There was no attempt at resuscitation. Nadine had never seen anyone die before. She was only eighteen.
As the three women prepared to leave the park in shock and sadness, TV news crews had already arrived. One woman was trying to hawk her home video of the killing to local TV crews. Another approached grief-stricken staffers to ask if the gift shop would still be open.
The date was February 20, 1991, and the place was SeaLand of the Pacific, just east of Victoria, British Columbia. The victim was Keltie Lee Byrne, twenty-four, a champion swimmer and seasoned athlete. The female orcas were Haida II, named for the Haida Nation of the Pacific Northwest, and Nootka IV, Nootka being an old European name for the Nuu-chah-nulth people, whose territory encompasses Nootka Sound, a spectacular fjord carved into the west coast of Vancouver Island.
