In May 1999, my wife and some friends were camping on San Juan Island on the Haro Strait between Washington and British Columbia.  It was one of those mystic grey, overcast mornings with a soft, English-style rain, cleansing the coast and Straits. 

There was no wind; the water was flat like glass, and I was alone when I set out in my sea kayak from Deadman's Cove.  Everything was cathedral silent when I glided into the Haro Strait, and within 20 minutes, the first pneumatic 'puff' of an orca's breath joined me: about 14 whales from K-pod, one of the resident clans, approached my boat, while a small group of friends formed on the crest of our campsite, about 500 meters away on shore.  I pulled out a small tape recorder and spontaneously decided to play some whale calls I had recorded the year before, in the same location. 

The response was uncanny.  The entire pod immediately approached and encircled my kayak - only meters away from my paddle. Spy-hopping and sculling their fins around my hull, making direct, unmistakable eye contact only a paddles-length away from me. The rain fell faster and harder and completely saturated the air, warm and constant, and even while I was in such close proximity to these massive, powerful creatures, I felt no trepidation or fear.

Then suddenly, the rain around me echoed with their new vocalisations and song; squeals and clicks, audible over the water and vibrating through the hull of my kayak.  They were talking, and for over 45 minutes, we shared a special time together in the steady rain on the strait, as my wife and friends watched from shore.  Twice I tried to move my kayak closer to shore, and twice the whales interceded gently, moving between me and the cove, keeping my kayak in their circle.  In time they left, and I returned to the excited questioning and greetings from my colleagues.

It was only later that week that a solemn revelation occurred - something that I will keep in my heart forever from that experience.  In talking to some whale advocate friends, I learned that my recordings that I played to the whales had included the vocalisations of 'K-1', an elder male whale called 'Taku' by some researchers. 

Taku had disappeared and died the previous winter.

That day, amplified by the acoustic damping of the Pacific rainfall, members of K-1's families heard again the calls of their familiar, departed 'Taku' - I'm not sure if I'm proud of what I inadvertantly caused to happen that morning, but I know that it was a unique encounter with our orcas that I will always remember.  )O(