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.

J19 Shachi, The New J-Pod Matriarch

J19 Shachi and J41 Eclipse. 2005 ©Monika Wieland Shields

J19 Shachi 1979 female

Story By Monika Wieland Shields

When I first got to know Shachi, she had no living offspring and was going on ten years without having had a documented calf. I probably would have given her long odds at becoming the next matriarch of J-Pod, but in hindsight, some of the clues were there. She certainly associated with some of “the greats”, including the undisputed matriarch J2 Granny, the oldest Southern Resident male and prolific father J1 Ruffles, and her likely grandmother J8 Spieden. I can only speculate what knowledge Shachi may have learned over the years from these J-Pod elders.

Shachi’s life changed forever in the summer of 2005 when she gave birth to J41 Eclipse, one of the few calves known to have been born in the Salish Sea. I remember so clearly hearing the reports over the radio from whale-watchers in Rosario Strait: “There was no calf here yesterday, right? There’s definitely a calf today!” A couple days later when J-Pod came north past Lime Kiln on one of those glassy-calm early mornings, I had one of my most memorable whale encounters of all time. Granny, Ruffles, and Spieden in the lead, followed by Shachi with little Eclipse in tow. Right in front of my perch on the rocks, Shachi gave three tail slaps while her still-wrinkly pink calf popped to the surface beside her.

That encounter would cement Eclipse and Shachi as my favorite Southern Residents, and I would have so many unique encounters with them in the future. They’re the two whales who circled the kelp bed my kayak was rafted up in a few years later, for one. I was also fortunate enough to be on the water the day Shachi’s first grandchild was seen. Eclipse, who was later determined to be the youngest Southern Resident mother on record, was only ten, so at first we assumed J51 Nova was another calf born to Shachi after a ten-year gap! Nova would surface sandwiched between mother and grandmother, and there’s no doubt that he was well cared for by both as he started to grow up.

When Granny passed away in 2016, everyone had a guess as to who would take her place as the leader of J-Pod. J16 Slick was the oldest living female, but was also often a bit of a rebel, breaking her family group off from the rest of the pod, and wasn’t, at least in my observation, a strong associate of Granny’s. For me, the new matriarch would be indicated by which whale would be in the lead when J-Pod went north up Haro Strait. Granny was symbolic in this regard, sometimes being a mile or more ahead of everyone else. We always joked that her attitude was, “I’m going to the Fraser, the rest of you can come or not,” and that firmness of purpose was always enough to get the rest of the whales in line to follow her lead. Other whales would often waffle back and forth, looking uncommitted to going north, but if Granny went, the rest would eventually follow.

In 2017, Slick and Shachi were both in that role of “first whale up Haro Strait”, so it wasn’t immediately clear to us who the new matriarch would be, and for all we know it was up for debate among the whales, too. But in the years since, it has more clearly become Shachi who is out in front, though her sway over the rest of the pod is still not as strong as Granny’s. At times, Shachi will do the “Granny thing” and head north with a purpose on her own. But when the rest of the pod doesn’t follow, milling around on the west side of San Juan Island instead, she invariably doubles back. I remember one occasion in the summer of 2020 when she was the only whale to pass me at Lime Kiln going north, while the rest of the pod were visible only as occasional blows to the south. She made it maybe a mile north of the lighthouse before breaching a couple of times – an unheeded call to the rest of the pod? An act of frustration? - before flipping south herself and swimming with purpose back to rejoin the other whales. Later that month she decided to go north regardless, but J-Pod ended up splitting into three groups, with only 8 whales following her all the way through Active Pass! Perhaps it takes a while, even within J-Pod, to earn the respect commanded by Granny.

Welcome Home Superpod

Welcome Home Superpod. Story By Katie Watkins, Photo of Southern Resident Orcas by Susan Marie Andersson

We had just moved to Whidbey Island, mostly on a whim and dedication to long-time friendships. We found ourselves living in a house with my two best friends and their families, 12 of us all together, for five months until we all found “proper” housing. Being packed into a house was an adventure in and of itself, but we had also found an incredible spot, sitting on top of the hill above Libbey Beach, with an unobstructed view of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. I spent most of my non-working, non-momming hours on that porch, scanning the surface for whales. We had been following Tokitae’s story for the year before we moved over and I was bound and determined to live out all of my childhood dreams of living with orcas. We spent months watching and seeing nothing (well, save for a few sea lions that us inlanders promptly mistook for whales every time). We started following the Orca Network posts, but were really unfamiliar with most of the locations that were mentioned. Then, one day, we saw that they were heading south and were starting to be seen in the distance from Fort Casey. Hey, we knew that place! We were having a very lazy weekend day and most of us were still in pajamas, even though it was past noon. So, we sent out some scouts (the ones with the least kids to be contained) and waited eagerly by the phone. We got a call ten minutes later and I’ll never forget what came next, “We’ve got orcas.” The whole house went into chaos and frenzy, putting on the closest available shoes and coats and gathering the cats, aka children, into various cars. I couldn’t tell you who rode with whom. I like to think we took a headcount, but I can’t promise that. We caravanned down to Fort Casey and threw children out of car seats and onto the grass. Then, we ran up the hill like a stampede of hastily-dressed rhinos. At the time, we were all novices and owned maybe two pairs of very weaksauce binoculars between the lot of us. But, as soon as we got to the crest of the hill by the armory, we could tell that we weren’t going to need binoculars. What I had been imagining as my first sighting of orcas was quickly dispelled. THIS is how you know there’s orcas. It’s so obvious. The onyx black of their dorsals was so incredibly easy to spot and their movements as a family were coordinated and magnificent. They were everywhere you could see, from east to west and north to south. Too many to count. We were fighting over binoculars, screaming out shouts of joy, and, I can imagine, looking just like the orca newbies that we were. Pure joy.

We learned later that this was a Superpod, and then we learned what that meant—a large family gathering of our local southern resident orcas. All three pods were present that day. Granny (J2) at the helm. We had read about her incredible legacy. It was my first superpod, and it was also my last. That was the fall of 2014 and we never saw all three pods together like that again. I feel incredibly grateful that we had that moment, and that it was our first orca sighting ever. What a way to come into the world of the Salish Sea. But, I also get a deep sadness when looking back on that memory. We see them less and less, and we know that their future is incredibly fragile. All this makes this memory more delicate and something to treasure forever—the day our superpod met theirs.