8/2/2006: Cellarite seakdivers, from Hoonah Sound, Alaska

[seakdivers]

There is a beautiful waterfall on the Eastern shore of Hoonah Sound, about 2/3 of the way up the North Arm, just before a small island that you can't see on any chart.
That's were we spotted them. By all local common sense, you shouldn't find them here; not this far up into the sound, away from the open ocean. But there they were: four killer whales. There were by certain count three adults and a juvenile. Keep in mind that we see killer whales on a fairly regular basis in Sitka Sound, which has a wide mouth connected to the open ocean. So we are used to seeing them in twos and even twenties. But only from a distance. Except one other time when we were diving a couple of years back in Kanga Bay - but that's another story.
These killer whales seemed to be playing, so we killed the twin diesel engines, and along with them our propellers. Our boat glided smoothly atop the glassy water into what we thought was going to be a killer whale playground, in hopes of a front row view and few memorable photos. They splashed and rolled and dove for about 5 minutes as we coasted to a stop among them.
That's when we spotted the seal, about 15 feet off our aft port. And it didn't look right.
Seals normally behave like elegant underwater birds. They fly through the ocean, and look up at you from beneath the blurry surface on their backs, curious and generally friendly. Or they pop just their heads out of the water and spy on you from a distance of less than fifty feet. Their bodies seem always to be moving or in a state of complete readiness.
This seal wasn't doing any of that. It was in the water on it's belly, with it's back section and head sticking just breaking the surface. And it wasn't moving. It was more like floating. George immediately recognized this and declared the seal dead.
Then we were reminded of the killer whales. Two of them rose from beneath the seal and nudged at it. The seal huffed and rolled it's head towards us.
It was very much alive. Then my wife, Melissa, called out from the top deck. She had the best overall view. The seal was bleeding, she said. It looked as though it's back end had been bitten off.
When the seal didn't dive, and began dog paddling towards our boat without the assistance of it's hindquarters, I could only agree. Just before it reached us, the largest orca sped towards the seal and breached, then slammed down on the seal. It didn't want the seal to get away from it's control.
The seal didn't give up. It somehow reached the surface again and got right up next to us, then disappeared. We could hear it splashing, barking, and breathing heavily. It was exhausted, and hiding under our swim platform.
I went out onto the back deck and watched as the seal tried in vain to hop up onto the platform at least two times. It had big, pleading eyes and made a sound that I'm not sure I could mimic. It wanted to get out of the water; it wanted to get away from all those sharp teeth in the water.
The orcas were swarming beneath the boat, circling. Every so often they surfaced, watching us and figuring us out.
I have heard many stories over the years about killer whales from George, who has been piloting tugs in Southeast Alaska since he was sixteen, and from other relatives who have lived and fished in the area since the 60s. They all agree. Killer whales are among the most vicious and intelligent creatures in the ocean. They hunt for sport, kill for practice, and are experts at torturing seals, sea lions, and the like. To be clear, the primary food for killer whales in Sitka Sound is salmon; that's what they eat. This they were doing for some other reason.
Later, we realized that the killer whales were using this secluded part of the sound to isolate the seal as a training exercise - they injured it to teach the juvenile how to hunt.
For the next 10 minutes, which seemed like an hour, we had an ethical
dilemma. We had imposed ourselves into a situation thinking it was one thing, but by the time we realized it was something else, we had become a part of it. The weather and current were non existent, so we weren't moving without the engine. If we turned the engine on, that would very likely chop up the seal, and may even hurt the killer whales, but then the killer whales would be off our backs. On the other hand, if we sat there, we would have to listen to the seal dying outside for as long as that took. Our best information was that the seal had been mortally wounded, but killer whales were in no hurry to kill it.
At some point I just couldn't stand it anymore. Others who weren't there to see it or hear it can say what they will. But in that time and that place, with the seal as it was trying to get aboard to any kind of safety, and with us unable to move -I made the decision that we should shoot the seal, and asked George to do it. Melissa agreed. George is a much more experienced shot, and could better avoid hitting the boat on accident.
George took his .357 Colt Python to the back deck and waited. The seal's head eventually came out from beneath the swim platform and he put the end of the barrel a few inches from it. Then he retracted the pistol and told us that the seal's hindquarters were intact. There were a couple of lacerations in the seal's fat, and it was definitely injured, but not mortally. Only one of his wounds was actually bleeding. He was just so over exhausted and out of air that he was having all kinds of difficulty staying under.
That plan was immediately scrapped - if the seal was not going to have died from his injuries, we couldn't just kill it. There was still some hope.
It could still rest up in the propeller assembly and then escape.
Know this: The whole situation was intended to tire the injured seal and strip it of rationality through terror. Like wolves, killer whales will often hunt cooperatively in pods. It has been observed that they work together to encircle and herd prey into a small area before attacking. The juvenile was learning about this.
For the next hour and a half, the killer whales continued to fly beneath the boat and make passes at the wounded seal, then circle the boat. After every three or four passes, the biggest one and the juvenile would go about 50 feet off the bow and confer above the surface, like two patrol cars parked with driver's windows facing each other. Then the juvenile would come in and make some passes on their own. All while the big one would sit motionless with it's eyes and nose at water level - watching. This pattern repeated itself continuously.
During that time, we actually toyed with the idea of trying to help the seal onto the swim platform with our halibut net. However, it was very possible that one of us could have been knocked into the water with the now pissed off killer whales. It's important to bear in mind that initially we could have been seen as neutral observers by the killer whales. But that big one, the one figuring us out, I think that it became very clear to him or her which side we had chosen.
To be sure, our decision was at some point deliberate. The killer whales were essentially bullying and even torturing this seal. The killer whales could have picked that seal off at any time, and they didn't. But there was something about the boat they didn't want to violate. As close as they were, they never once even grazed the hull. And believe me when I tell you they were close.
At the end of the second hour, the killer whales took a steady but leisurely heading towards the south, in the direction of the open ocean. They weren't in any hurry, but they obviously had somewhere more important to be.
Fifteen minutes later, we were able to coax the seal out by turning over the engines without engaging the props, then starting the skiff, already in the water and tied off at the back. It came out, looked around, and then jetted off towards shore at a depth of about fifteen feet.
We made our way back down to pull and reset the shrimp pots. When that was done, we returned to the head of North Arm, where we anchored for the evening.
It gets dark at about 11pm this time of year. At about 8pm, we spotted no less than three sows with two cubs each in the grass near a stream that was jumping with salmon. The decision was made to head in and get a closer look.
At this point, we were still feeling fairly immortal, having survived the killer whales and having helped to protect the seal (bearing in mind that the orcas could have tipped the boat at any time and had us for lunch).
I got my 30-30 Winchester and George loaded up his 454 Freedom Arms. George also set out a jug of fuel for the skiff to take with us, as we were pretty low. How low he wasn't sure, but it would be bad to get stuck out there on empty with a charging bear.
On the way in, fog gathered over the water at about two feet. We aimed for the deepest part of the water heading in - a groove made by the stream emptying into the sound. At low tide it would be exposed. It was no more than three feet deep.
That's when the seals came out. There were 20 - 30 of them. They all swam out to meet up and encircle the skiff. Their little gray-brown heads and big, round, black eyes were all that we could see, apart from their wake as the moved. I don't know what it meant, but it seemed like they recognized us, and weren't unhappy to see us in the neighborhood.
As for the bears - we got ashore, got too close, and took some bad pictures. Eventually we felt we were pushing our luck. It was time to get back to the boat. The last picture I took that night was of the back deck as we approached in the skiff, the forgotten jug of fuel still sitting there.
The lesson - things aren't always what they seem. Sometimes they're
different. And sometimes they're even way more different than that.