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Sea Kayaking -
Articles
On a San Juan Safaris Trek...
Splashed by Whales
Astounding Orca Watching in Washington's
San Juan Islands
By Thom Gunn - written for Great Outdoor Recreation
Pages www.gorp.com
Individual orcas can be identified by
their distinctive fins. This is L3, a 53 year old female from
the Puget Sound.
The big male orca cleaved through the sea not fifty feet from
the bow of our sea kayak. His bulbous head surfed by us –
black, glistening and blowing. I'd seen it before, at the Vancouver
Aquarium's cement pool. But we were a mile offshore of Henry
Island in northern Puget Sound, in a broad stretch of water officially
listed as Haro Straits but known to locals as "the Orca
Highway."
This animal was wild and free.
And very unexpected. Everyone –
the ferry captain and guides – warned us our chances of
seeing orcas were slim to none. The ferry captain hadn't seen
an orca in a year. Neither of our guides, Andrew or Zach, had
seen whales since the season began in June.
It had taken more than five hours to
travel the thirty miles from Anacortes to Friday Harbor. Having
arrived two hours early for the ferry – as suggested during
summer season – I'd baked in the ferry parking lot, been
serenaded by crying babies on one side, and rap music on the
other. Because of early morning fog the ferry was an hour late.
Actually, I suspect the entire San Juan Island universe runs
on a clock democratically voted on by its citizens and subject
to wild mood swings.
Side bar...
The San Juans are a collection of two
hundred or so islands that hang like a rocky crescent in Northern
Puget Sound. This is the un-Washington; not your wet-Douglas-fir-blanket-kind-of
place, it is distinguished by golden rock, bleached fields and
even the pine trees of the Methow Valley and Northern California.
This has created such a Grecian come-hither look that the islands
have, in the opinion of locals, suffered an invasion of Californians
in the 70's and 80's and Microsofties in the 90's. Waterfront
land that once only drew taxmen is now bringing multiple-million-dollar
bids – in cash.
the story continues...
This creates a Brigadoon-like other world where no stoplight
or fast-food joint exists. I wish I hadn't been so late. The
ten mile lane from Friday to Roche Harbor winds through a countryside
of small farms and sunny fields – a road to take slow and
enjoy. Roche Harbor, once the largest lime works west of the
Mississippi, whose wharves held 20,000 barrels at a time and
whose owner often hosted Teddy Roosevelt, has in the last fifty
years been transformed into the Northwest's most handsome marine
colony.
I'd arrived breathless, just before
six, thirty minutes late for the day's last "sunset tour."
"You've got plenty of time,"
smiled the tanned kayaktress behind the counter on the San Juan
Safari's float.
I checked over my essentials: sun block,
wind breaker, binoculars, camera, extra film, water bottle. Three
hours paddling during the dinner hour might make one hungry.
I ran up the plank to the little store and bought a candy bar.
I looked longingly at the mocha and ice cream booths just beyond
the yellow brick road, but both had lines and there was no more
time to wait.
The turquoise-topped sea kayaks, two
and even three holers, were lined up in their customized narrow
berths. Twenty people of all sizes, shapes, and ages began to
slip on spray skirts, buckle up life jackets and take their positions
– leaving just four of us on the dock.
A young hunk was telling me of the small town in Michigan where
he came from when an older woman grabbed his arm and announced,
"We're going together."
It was like being the last chosen for
square dancing in third grade. But this was my lucky day and
as we paddled out of the bay I learned my partner, Inez, was
a dancer from Paris.
She was also the wife of one of our
guides. Somewhere, it seems, in the job description under guide
are the following requisites: young, handsome, and patient. Above
all, patient.
As we mastered our kayak's rudder and
double-bladed paddles, tried to avoid dock, pilings, larger craft
and each other, Zach, our guide, estimated he'd been rammed by
guests at least once each trip.
By the time we'd slipped out of the
harbor's maze and assumed a rough formation as a pod most of
us, even the parents and children, had mastered the basics.
Inez, in front, established a rhythm
and, like dancing, I followed her lead, adding a longer stroke
and twist at the end to help us glide. No wind left the water
glassy. It was a beautiful evening, rare this particular summer,
and the sky was robin's egg blue and accented by cloud feathers.
I expected the sunset would be the high points of this excursion.
Just off Henry Island we schooled up in a raft of kelp, much
like sea otters once did in the Pacific. Andrew, our other guide
– with a masters in zoology – gave us a brief lecture.
As a native, the most startling piece of information was that
this almost two acre mat of bull kelp was just one year 's crop.
Every winter, storms scoured it off the rocks and blew it up
on the beaches.
Looking around, we spotted a head lying
very still amidst the bobbing kelp bulbs. A seal. On the shore
side, a river otter darted underwater. While it is difficult
to outfish seals and otter, this is where I would look for rockfish
and ling cod.
On shore, above an inviting sandy beach,
stood a cedar cabin. Two flags, Canada's and the United States
flew above it. Surrounding this picture at about fifty feet intervals
were no trespassing signs attached to trees and rocks.
We'd passed a similar retreat with a
'for sale' sign.
"Two and a half million,"
Zach said, arching his eyebrows. "I'm going to buy it with
my tips."
Mother, J10, and son, J18. Mom is 37
years old, her offspring 21.
From here the guides suggested we continue
down the shoreline. "Well, we might as well do something,"
I thought. "We've two more hours to kill." But we hadn't
paddled for more than a few minutes before Zach's radio went
off. After consulting it, he turned to us and said the whale
boat, a distant spec on the horizon, had found a whale, heading
toward Canada.
Inez and I turned out from the shore and raced to intersect the
whale. "There!" shouted Inez when we were still about
a half mile away. "See the fin?"
I saw nothing. It was like when my father
described a pheasant amidst corn stubble, or an elk's head peering
out from behind a tree. Unless you've seen it before, you don't
know what to look for.
"Time to book!" I shouted
to Inez. We paddled faster and felt no strain. I looked around
and the rest of our pack was way back. We had a small chance
and we had to go for it.
Side bar -Orca Facts
Largest member of the Dolphin family.
Originally named "Killer Whales" by the Spanish whalers
who noted them killing whales and said, "Look at the whale
killers!"
Unlike other populations of orcas, the three pods in the San
Juans, only eat fish, principally salmon. There are, however,
transient orcas who occasionally visit and eat marine mammals.
Size: 20 to 30 feet
Weight: up to 10 tons
Swim speed: Cruises at 3-5 knots; can swim in bursts to 30 knots.
Range: Animals swim 60 to 90 miles a day in the wild. (maybe
a mile in captivity. )
Diet: Salmon; 200 pounds a day.
Life-span: Scientists believe several females are near ninety.
( Granny, in J Pod, is thought to be 88.)
Family Units: There are three pods – J,K and L – comprising
89 animals that travel through the San Juans from May to October.
They are matrilineal and interelated and according to the whale
museum, seem to enjoy each other's company. Orcas remain with
their pod for their entire lives.
Health of Population: Has gone down to 89 animals in 1998 from
98 in 1995. Scientists think dwindling salmon stocks, toxic pollution
and increased vessel traffic have played a part in this reduction.
How to tell the difference between males
and females? Males have large dorsal fins that stick up higher
in the water.
Further Information:
Whale Museum - Since 1979 the best resource on Orcas, located
in Friday Harbor. 1 (800) 94-orcas
the story continued...
As the lactic acid began to build up in my arms, I saw something.
At our distance it still only looked like a black finger rolling
over into the water. But it was headed our way. We'd come out
beyond the corner of the island and in the great southern beyond
a long snow dappled line of mountain appeared: the Olympics.
Our kayak surged forward fueled by the surrounding splendor and
anticipation.
We covered the next three blocks quickly,
guessed we were in the right neighborhood, rested our paddles
and studied the water. "Too bad we didn't bring any whale
chow." I said to Inez. "That's all right," she
replied, "I will just use love." And with that, she
raised her hands and began wiggling her fingers at the water,
like a magician pulling something out of a hat. "Pphhoooooo!"
announced the orca, as he parted the water at the very spot.
He surfed by us in all his splendor and we were dumbfounded.
His eyes were focused straight ahead on his. He rolled over and
sounded. "Oooooh-la-la!" shouted Inez, "I can't
believe it." We watched him move closer to Canada, up-over-down,
stitching his way north.
When we stopped vibrating, we looked
around and saw our flotilla a half mile south, between us and
the shore. In the water behind them we could just make out the
foam wash of two more whales approaching. Just before reaching
the other kayaks, the whales dove. Inez and I, both guessed they
would surface somewhere between us and stared for the first breaking
wave. We were both wrong.
Phoooooooo! came up on our back side.
There they blow. As we turned, we could see their tails power
them back down and the waves rocked our kayak. They were heading
off to join that first male.
Wow! What a show. We thought it was
over. But it had just begun. We tried to locate where they were
by their blowings, which sounded like some champion swimmer doing
the butterfly had just surfaced on your shoulder. But since the
sounds were jerking us around in every compass direction, it
occurred to me that this clarion call was echoing off the islands
around us.
"We are surrounded by whales!"
Inez realized first. There were orcas entering the passage to
the south and leaving it at the north. Plus, on either sides
of us animals appeared. As the parade passed by us, we tried
counting fins, as they quickly flipped over.
"One, two, three, four. . ."
Our count was interrupted by a calf
that came flying out of the water, wiggling in the air.
At first I thought it was a black fish,
but no way would that prey be hanging around here among these
predators that rule these aquatic surroundings.
Tribes of orca are known as "pods."
The whale museum reported that two babies were born last spring
to J pod which hangs out in an elliptical territory from Port
Townshend to the Strait of Georgia. These must be the ones, and
like kids everywhere, they are playing.
As in a troupe of elephants, there is an apparent order here.
A bull, indicated by the tall dorsal fin, leads the way, females
and babies in the middle of the pack.
This is one of three pods comprising
85 animals that frequent the waters around the San Juan Islands
from May to October. They feed mostly on salmon, up to a couple
hundred pounds a day for the larger males. As might be expected,
increased toxicity in the water and decreased food supply has
led to ten fewer animals in the past five years, and these pods
are listed as threatened by the Canadian government.
The ruler of the waters shows off.
According to the whale museum at Friday Harbor, all three pods
are inter-related and seem to enjoy their occasional get-togethers.
Scientists believe orcas can live well past fifty and that two
of the females in these pods are near 90.
the story continues...
We take it all in for another thirty
minutes, our heads on swivels and our hearts in our throats.
Just when we think it's over, the big bull turns back toward
the pods, and with a burst of speed over 30 miles per hour, jumps
totally out of the water in a breach, the world's biggest belly-flop.
It's the exclamation point for our experience.
Nobody knows for sure, why precisely,
the whale does this. But Inez and I get the message: "I
am the bull of these waters, the biggest, fastest, toughest creature
in the sea. I scarf salmon and halibut, and can kill seals and
sea lions with a single blow Follow Me!"
Side Bar - How To Get There
Drive: The ferry to the San Juans leaves from Anacortes, 78 miles north
of Seattle and 110 miles south of Vancouver B.C. From Seattle
take exit 230 off of I-5. Twenty miles to Anacortes, which you
pass through following the signs.
Ferry: 8 boats a day leave Anacortes for the four principal
islands in the San Juans: Shaw, Lopez, Orcas, and San Juan. During
the summer you should be safe scheduling your arrival two hours
before the ferries leave. This is considered one of the most
beautiful ferry trips in the world, so enjoy the 90 to 120 minute
trip; time varies depending of number of stops, fog, etc. For
specific costs, departures and arrivals, check out: http://www.wsdot.wa.gov/ferries
To Fly From Seattle: Several services fly to the San Juans.
the story continues...
The water show isn't over until ten past eight. And then the
sky begins its show, written in pinks and golds, Zach, the guide
catches up to us. "You shouldn't have just taken off,"
he scolds, "If a whale hit you it would shred the boat."
In an old guide trick, the words are
tough but the voice displays no anger. We smiled at him.
"What a way to go."
He smiles back.
Our troupe paddles the two miles back
to Roche. The tip of Mount Baker appears in the east reflecting
the sunset. Along the way Inez tells me about being a dancer
in Miami and meeting Zach when her body was wrecked. He was a
massage therapist. Last summer they'd kayaked in Alaska. This
was her first trip out this year. I told her about my wife and
children. She asked where I was staying. There were so many inviting
places, meadows and lakes, on the way to Roche, I tell her, I
still hadn't made up my mind just where I would camp out.
We were bonded.
As it turned out, I decided to head
back home to Whidbey Island. As I left this fairy tale colony,
the restaurant lit up with white Christmas lights like on the
Riviera, I realized the last ferry left in six minutes. I sped
up until the little Toyota drifted across the center line and
it occurred to me. Hey, this is San Juan Island. Everything is
hours, sometimes years behind. I arrived officially ten minutes
late but was an hour early. I took my place behind a tow truck
pulling a Mercedes.
"What's the matter," I said
to the beefy driver. "Somebody couldn't make the payments?"
He laughed.
As I walked over to the Anchor tavern
and picked up an order of fish and chips, I could still hear
him laughing. Things are different up here.
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