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Black fins cutting clean arcs through the water, moving with a calm that feels almost ceremonial.
The water barely whispers around them. Gulls quiet. Even the currents seem to soften.
To watch a pod of orca move through the water is magical. I was once lucky enough to be right down at the dock when a lovely Mamma and her new baby swam within 20 feet of me.
I squealed out loud at that breathtaking sight. So very special. I have been so very lucky to have many of those experiences growing up on the coast, and they never fail to leave me awe-struck.
Orca, Orcinus orca, are the ocean’s most cosmopolitan dolphins — yes, dolphins — and they have been cruising the seas in recognisable form for millions of years. In the fossil record, their lineage appears clearly by the Pliocene.
A species called Orcinus citoniensis, described from fossils in Italy and dating back roughly three to five million years, shows us that these powerful hunters were already evolving the robust skulls and teeth suited for taking down large prey.
Their broader family tree stretches deeper still into the Miocene, when early dolphin ancestors were diversifying in ancient seas that looked nothing like today’s familiar coastlines.
And yet, for all their evolutionary gravitas, there is something profoundly intimate about seeing them here at home.
The Southern Resident pods, the Bigg’s (transient) orca, the subtle differences in dorsal fins and saddle patches that let devoted watchers recognise individuals as old friends.
Orca are matriarchal, led by wise elder females who carry cultural knowledge — hunting strategies, travel routes, even dialects — passed down through generations. They are not just apex predators; they are keepers of memory.
Their black-and-white colouring may help camouflage them, breaking up their outline in the shifting light of the sea.
They have the second-largest brain of any marine mammal, and distinct ecotypes do not interbreed, even when they share the same waters. Some specialise in salmon, others in seals, and their teeth tell the tale — worn differently depending on diet.
They can live remarkably long lives, especially the females, who may guide their pods well into their 80s or beyond.
Longevity, it seems, has its advantages when you are teaching your grandchildren how to read a tide rip.
When I watch them glide past at dusk, the Narrows breathing in and out with the tide, I cannot help but think of the fossil ancestors entombed in stone and the unbroken thread that connects them to these living, breathing beings.
Deep time meets present moment in a single exhale of mist.
The sea holds their story — and on evenings like this, if you are very still, it feels as though it is willing to share it.
