K44 Ripple

Skagit K13 and Ripple K44 Photo by Sara Hysong-Shimazu, Story by Debbie Stewart

It was a glorious Independence Day in 2011. Azure blue skies with a few wispy clouds provided a canopy over Tahoma and Kulshan bursting from the horizon like sentinels shielding a carefully guarded secret of evergreen and marine jewels. My mother and nephew were in town visiting (I was in the last couple of weeks of a six-month temporary work assignment with my permanent home in Austin, TX). We had a lot of activities planned for the week and one of the highlights we were most looking forward to was a whale watch. As our good fortune would have it, members of all three Southern Resident orca pods had gathered to the southwest of San Juan Island.

The Southern Resident orcas were new to me. Until about six weeks prior to this day, I was unaware of the capture period. I was unaware of the different orca ecotypes. I was unaware of the many tribulations facing the Southern Residents with lack of prey, toxins, noise and how these things impacted the reproductive capabilities of this endangered pod.

I met J2 Granny, the oldest living orca and matriarch and her companion L87 Onyx and many other members of all three pods. I heard their stories. I started to understand their culture, language and rich social bonds. It was nice to see them foraging, socializing and presumedly having a good day for a wild orca. I could feel something awakening in me. A hint of something yet to come that these orcas would not go quietly from my life even as I prepared to depart the Pacific Northwest for what I expected to be forever. And little did anyone know that they had a big secret in store that would be revealed very soon.

Less than 48 hours later, on the morning of July 6, the secret was revealed. K27 Deadhead was seen with a newborn calf K44 born sometime in the previous few hours. It was great news! However, by this time, I also knew that he had an uphill battle ahead of him to survive his first year. I spent the next many months following Orca Network sightings for news of the pods and reports of K44 and his family. At long last on April 26, 2012, K Pod was back in Puget Sound and K44 was with them! I felt elation and relief.

K44 was been given the human name of Ripple. For me there could not be a more apt name as Ripple has left an indelible impression which swelled into a wave that washed me to the shores of Puget Sound on this very day in 2015. I have been inspired to become a certified naturalist, a board member of a local non-profit dedicated to whales, and spend countless volunteer hours toward causes related to orcas and the Salish Sea ecosystem.

Ripple is nearly ten years old now. He remains K27’s only living calf and the last calf born to K-Pod. I have only seen him a handful of times in his young life, but those memories are vibrant and precious. Some days it is difficult to come to terms with the endangered status of the Southern Residents and the failed policies that have led us to this place. But alas, that wave was started by a “Ripple” continues to inspire and propel me forward.

K40 Raggedy

K40 Raggedy ~ c.1963-2012 Photo and story by Monika Wieland Shields

K40 Raggedy was part of my first-ever “close encounter” with the Southern Residents. It was July 2001 and my parents and I were aboard the Bon Accord on a whale-watch trip out of Friday Harbor. We met up with a superpod near Open Bay, and the boat had been shut off for an hour as we watched groups of whales in every direction intermingling with one another and spyhopping, tail slapping, and breaching. Three whales suddenly popped up aiming for the boat and I slid down off the roof of the Bon Accord, video camera in hand. As K18 Kiska, her son K21 Cappuccino, and likely daughter K40 Raggedy circled the boat I could look directly down and see them underwater. Raggedy surfaced directly in front of me and the video recording captured my sixteen-year-old voice, shaky with excitement, exclaiming, “I got wet from the spray! Oh my God!” Needless to say Raggedy had a special place in my heart from that moment on, but she would remain a whale full of many more questions than I ever got answers.

Why is she K40?

From the get-go I wondered how we had a whale numbered K40 when there were, at the time, no whales K35 through K39. It turns out this is because she, along with the rest of her family group, were originally designated as L-Pod whales. Before 1977 they were always seen with L-Pod. Then, between 1977 and 1981 they started being seen with Ks, and after 1981 were almost always seen with Ks. Michael Bigg suspected they might be Ks due to their acoustic call types, and in 1986, coinciding with the birth of K21 Cappuccino into this family group, the switch from L to K was officially announced, the only time any Southern Residents have had their pod designation changed. Raggedy's family was our first clue that matrilines are probably more stable than pods, as we've seen other whales and groups of whales seemingly shift pod associations for both short and long lengths of time.

Why was her fin so ragged?

Raggedy’s name came from the five notches on the trailing edge of her dorsal fin. While it’s not uncommon for Southern Residents to get notches in their fins, we know very little about how they acquire them, and that remains true in Raggedy’s case. While Bigg’s killer whales may acquire some of their scars from their marine mammal prey fighting back, that wouldn’t be the case for the fish-eating Southern Residents. While some theorize entanglement scars might be a possibility, the whales do often rough-house with each other as evidenced by the rake marks from orca teeth they often have on their bodies. It’s possible these notches come from play or even discipline from other whales, but we will never know for sure how Raggedy got her notches.

What’s her relationship to the rest of her family?

While there is a genealogy written out for Raggedy’s sub-group of K-Pod (the K18 and K30 matrilines), it seems the mother-offspring relationships have never really been clear as the family associations were reorganized several times. What is known is that, despite living to be nearly 50 years old, Raggedy was never seen with a calf, leading to speculation that she was probably infertile. Unlike other females without offspring of their own, I never saw Raggedy babysitting or playing with calves of other whales. This always led me to wonder if it was possible that maybe she never wanted offspring if she didn’t have the natural mothering instinct.

30+ years after Raggedy’s sub-group was first misidentified as part of L-Pod they have remained somewhat “rogue”, clearly K-Pod whales by their acoustics and dominant associations but still sometimes breaking off for weeks or months at a time to travel with J-Pod, L-Pod, or even off on their own. After the death of K18 Kiska in 2004, Raggedy and Cappuccino were the only remaining members of this sub-group, but they then seemingly recruited K16 Opus and her son K35 Sonata to their wandering ways.

Raggedy went missing in during the summer of 2012, leaving the adult male K21 Cappuccino as the only living member of their family group and essentially sealing their matriline’s fate of eventual extinction. Cappuccino is one of the rare males to find a way to survive after losing his close female relations, with a continuing solid bond with Opus and her son. As a male now in his 30s, I’m hopeful that even if there are no more female members of their matriline, he will still ensure their line continues on into the future by fathering calves of his own. Every time I see Cappuccino I think about Raggedy, the whale who was his closest companion for the 8 years following his mother Kiska’s death. That is how I will always remember her: right beside the towering fin of Cappuccino, one of the easiest whales to identify regardless of the conditions due to her one-of-a-kind dorsal fin.

K34 Cali

K34 Cali, male, born 2001. Story and photo by Amanda Colbert

It was July 5th, 2019; I embarked on one heck of a last-minute adventure, ferrying over to Friday Harbor on a holiday weekend. I was anxiously awaiting the offloading of vehicles knowing Southern Residents were on the other side of the island and had been for quite a while. They could decide to move away from San Juan at any moment. Thinking about that possibility while knowing I was dead last in line to disembark had my anxiety running high. Things couldn’t move fast enough!

A couple hours before, Southern Resident vocalizations had been picked up on Lime Kiln’s underwater hydrophone. It was members of J Pod and K Pod! I was lying in bed listening to their excited chatter through my phone, wishing I could be there. I started reading comments on a sightings thread about their behavior-they were “west side shuffling,” meaning meandering up and down the west side of San Juan Island. In that 15 minutes of wishing and reading, I made a split-second decision: I was going to try to get over there in time to see them for myself. I didn’t know if I’d successfully get my car on the ferry, or get home later that night, but something told me I had to try.

When I finally drove off the ferry, I bee-lined it to the west side to find the only open parking spot left along Land Bank, a publicly accessible area of bluffs that overlook Haro Strait just shy of Lime Kiln Lighthouse. I barely had my car pulled in, in park, and seatbelt off before I saw the first group of fins. They were RIGHT offshore. I practically sprinted my way down the side of the sloping bluff, camera in hand, in time to watch as a steady parade of orcas went by, heading north. I’d counted maybe 20 or so, but there could have been more—I was late to the party!

The first few orcas I spotted were mostly females and younger whales. But the second group that came by was made up entirely of both adult and immature males. There were tall, sturdy-seeming dorsal fins in the mix, along with wavier, shorter ones—the kind that are just starting to straighten out along the trailing edge as they grow larger. The adult males seemed to have an overall air of poise about them, while some of the immature and juvenile males seemed to be more playfully tagging along behind. I imagined it would be like if a grown orca had kid brothers or kid cousins. But then there was one male who appeared to be having the time of his life—K34 Cali. Spyhops and tail slaps and partial breaches—oh my! Never had I ever seen so much behavioral action in one encounter. This giant goofball instantly had my heart. His joy was palpable. It made you want to dive in and join him!

I remember overhearing another onlooker use the term “boys club” as this group continued by. It did truly seem like one exclusive pod. Some males were content with traveling at a leisurely pace, keeping up with the group. And then there was Cali, again. He began randomly rolling to one side to slap the surface with his pec fins every few surfaces. At one point, he’d riled up two of the juvenile males, and in response, they came porpoising up out of the water, creating spray on either side of their bodies. It seemed the young ones would not be outdone on the splash factor. Suddenly, Cali attempted a partial breach, the first two-thirds of his body projected upward, as if in a spyhop, but he quickly leaned left and came crashing back down. A large, foamy ring was left in the place where he disappeared back under the surface. Another orca spyhopped, looking around at their surroundings before moving on. Was it possible they aware of the mostly female, human fan club that had formed on the bluff just above them? Could they hear our excitement and “oohs” and “ahhhs”? Could the orcas be showing off? I chuckle just thinking about it, now. More than likely they were overjoyed just to be in each other’s company, but it was fun imagining they were egging us all on and soaking up the adoration.

As the group continued north, one of the leading males began to bring his large tail flukes up above the water and crash them back down to the surface. I could literally feel the reverberation from the percussive slapping sounds that this behavior resulted in. This was a new way I was experiencing the Southern Residents. No wonder it’s thought they can communicate things in this manner. I sure felt something, and I don’t hesitate to say it felt jovial. My money was on that crazy Cali again, but I’d not sited any distinguishing markings to properly identify him.

Some of these whales decided to hook it right into Deadman’s Cove for a sidebar foray. Others began moving along the seawall on the south side of Lime Kiln State Park, still trending north. They were moving farther away from the bluff I was standing on, but I was fixated. They all meandered a bit before eventually changing course, dazzling the large crowd that had formed to watch them with other social behaviors, and surprising some kayakers that were rafted up tightly to shore. Some orcas from this group kept trending north, but others turned around and began heading back toward the bluff I was viewing from. In anticipation, I crept as far down the bluff as I could physically go and waited.

At that point, the group heading back in my direction submerged themselves. I waited to see where they might reappear, but it seemed like they were spending more time under water. Suddenly, and without warning, the first big “whoosh” broke the surface, heading right for me, and again it was K34 Cali, not even 50 yards out.

Where did you come from? I thought, not seeing him in the original group that turned to come back. Sneaky orca.

Again, he seemed to exuberantly enjoy playing near the surface. At one point he surfaced among the bull kelp, draping himself in it. Slick, streaming strands flowed out behind him, caught on either side of his dorsal fin. He brought his massive tail flukes up above the surface, as if to uncoil the slimy greens from his body before positioning himself to dive under the surface. I thought that would be the last I’d see of him that close, but he surfaced one more time, just below the bluff I was standing on. Had I been lower, I’d have felt the misty exhalation on my skin. I had never been this close to a wild whale before this, and even knowing what I know about orcas, was just utterly blown away by his sheer size, the textures of his skin, the distinctions in his big, beautiful, open saddle patch, and the goofy grace at which he expertly cut through the water. I felt like I was watching poetry I could never accurately describe to someone who didn’t see it for themselves.

The whole experience was 45 minutes. And every second that went by was 100% worth the craziness and intensity of trying to get to San Juan Island to be part of their lives, that day. I’d first come to know, respect, admire, and appreciate the Southern Residents through J17 Princess Angeline, but July 5th, 2019, I fell head over heels for the goofy, outside-the-box, lover of life, K34 Cali. I’m so grateful for the exhilaration in those moments he gave me, and even more grateful for the chuckles and smiles he still gives me as I recall that encounter, and imagine the splashing and thrashing he’s probably doing, right now, somewhere out in the big blue beyond.