Arctic Encounters: an orcaholics expedition in Norway

Salana Ayuan Iasis. As a kid, those three words captivated me. Keiko – the orca who played Willy – breaching over Jessie's head on his way to freedom fascinated me even more. That Haida poem, recited by Randolph in Warner Brother's 1993 blockbuster Free Willy, often came to mind whenever I gazed out to sea. I'd always hope that by thinking it or whispering it aloud, an orca would leap out of the water on the horizon. A big dream for a kid digging a sandcastle on a beach in Essex.

Those three words, "Salana Ayun Iasis", are thought to have several meanings. From "Live long", "Be free" or "The sea is speaking". All of these relate quite nicely to the ocean's top predator, but for me, it is "Be free" that resonates the most. This sentiment feels especially poignant now, as another orca has recently died in captivity, and the fates of two others dominate headlines following France's recent ban on whale and dolphin shows. While this ban is undoubtedly a step forward, it raises a pressing question: where will these animals go now? Will they be sold for millions and sent to another dolphinarium to endure a life of performing for human amusement, or will they be relocated to an ocean sanctuary to retire, finally experiencing the ebb and flow of the tides in a natural setting? I can only hope for the latter.

Orcas, or killer whales, have fascinated humankind for hundreds if not thousands of years, and our perceptions of them have changed numerous times. They have been admired, feared, persecuted, revered, and loved. They have been the subject of myth and legend, from the Haida stories of Nastilane, who curved an orca from cedar wood and set it into the ocean, to the Phoenician Navy and their coins symbolising their connections with orcas in the Atlantic and Mediterranean. At the beginning of May this year, I found myself standing outside the 5,000-year-old sacred 'Cave of the Orcas' in Atlanterra in southwest Spain. This rocky outcrop was used by the Phoenicians as a lookout to spot the unmistakable fins of orcas, which would signal the arrival of tuna into the Straits of Gibraltar and the start of their fishing season.

The world's largest dolphins have been featured in many films and TV programmes over the years and the way they have been depicted by Hollywood has also changed. From the villainous male orca fixated on revenge in the 1977 American thriller 'Orca', to the friendly yet lonely performing star of 'Free Willy', to the animated heavily scarred hunters in the 2006 family film 'Happy Feet'. These CGI orcas were referred to as "demon fish" by the late Robin Williams penguin character Lovelace. Orcas have even appeared in some popular music videos; back in 1981, a captive orca briefly appeared in the music video of 'It Must Be Love' by Madness.

At the time of writing this story—fresh from a wonderfully nerdy behind-the-scenes look at two impressive orca specimens at the Natural History Museum that washed ashore in the UK during the 1800s—orcas are once again making headlines. In the Pacific Northwest, Southern Resident orcas have revived a curious behaviour, wearing 'salmon hats,' a trend or fad last observed in the 1980s. Meanwhile, new footage has revealed specialised hunting techniques orcas use to target whale sharks in the Gulf of California. Most recently, at the end of November 2024, Keto, a 29-year-old orca held in captivity at Loro Parque in Tenerife, passed away—the fourth orca to die at the park since 2021. It's becoming clear that not everything is simply black and white when it comes to orcas.

In some parts of the world, for example, in the Straights of Gibraltar, orcas are still being demonised, yet in others, they are being celebrated. At the start of November, I joined many orcaholics in Arctic Norway on an adventure into the Fjords around Skjervøy to get a closer look at one of the planet's most recognisable animals.

After several days of stormy weather, hostels, pot noodles, cancelled ferries, lengthy coach journeys, and just a single £13 pint, I was donning a heavy-duty onesie, alongside friends from Whale and Dolphin Conservation, ready for my first trip out to sea in the Norwegian fjords. I was giddy.

Around eight years ago, the winter herring shoals shifted from Andenes, southwest of Tromsø, to the fjords surrounding Skjervøy, a 474-square-kilometer island. Skjervøy is the 211th largest of Norway's 357 municipalities and home to approximately 2,500 residents. The island derives its name from the Old Norse word Skerføy, meaning 'rocky-ground island'. It is a popular tourist destination for whale watchers and divers alike. Attitudes toward orcas in Norway have undergone a remarkable transformation in recent decades. It's hard to imagine that by the early 1980s, a total of 1,200 orcas had been killed in Norwegian waters due to the belief that they were depleting herring stocks.

Following the winter arrival of the herring shoals and some of Norway's 1,500 identified killer whales, numerous tour operators have established businesses here, including those that offer tourists the opportunity to put on a dry suit and snorkel with herring-feeding orcas and humpback whales. But more on that later.

At about 09:30 AM, our thirty-foot day boat cruised out of the harbour, past the salmon nets and into the fjords. We initially went north towards Laukøya and Arnøya, checking for whale activity in the narrow stretch of water separating these neighbouring islands. The Uber driver who picked me up from the airport a few days before was born on Arnøya and told me that the fishermen there referred to Skjervøy as "Monkey Island" due to their "inferior" fishing capabilities. Safe to say, I didn't bring that up with the locals. There was no sign of whale activity in the area, but I did witness two magnificent white-tailed eagles come into land on a rocky skerry.

We then changed course, heading east, past several impressive fishing boats surrounded by opportunistic gulls, and into Kvænangen fjord. This is where things ramped up a gear. A distant blow signalled our first humpback, but the humpback was soon exceeded by the iconic and adrenaline-inducing sight of several large, towering black dorsal fins. Orcas. There were about 10 in this first pod, with three impressive males. Their fins were rising like inky black sails above the chilly grey water. We followed the trajectory of this pod for a spellbinding twenty minutes or so as we cruised deeper into the fjord and the presence of giants.

Everywhere I looked, spouts were rising like smoke from the salty surface. Beneath these clouds of fishy spray were about 30 humpback whales, all feeding in a fairly tight formation. Then, out of nowhere, two enormous backs appeared from the depths like sleek grey submarines—my very first fin whales. Safe to say, a substantial number of expletives poured out of my mouth as these two 25-metre razorbacks, as they're so nicknamed in the US, cut through the water before disappearing into the inky depths. It always amazes me how beings that are so big can vanish so quickly and effortlessly right before your eyes in a matter of seconds.

There are moments when nature feels so close that it's almost surreal, and this trip delivered one of those heart-stopping experiences. After spending time with some very relaxed humpbacks, we once again saw several jet-black fins coming toward us. The skipper stopped the boat, and we floated in silence with the engine turned off as a pod of eight orcas emerged from the chilly Arctic water, gliding effortlessly toward us. Their striking white eye patches and saddles were visible as they cruised just feet from the stern. The sound of their blows broke the stillness—powerful exhalations that echoed across the sea. I think that it has to be the best sound in the world. And then, in true Top Gun style, they pulled off the ultimate "fly-by," passing so close it felt like they were just as interested in watching us as we were in watching them.

As the orcas headed out of the fjord, we began our journey back to Skjervøy, ready to warm up with a hot chocolate and shower. I also needed to take a moment to lay down and process one of the best days at sea I've ever had.

The perfect morning. Mirror-like water and a stunning sunrise. I was down at the harbour for 09:00 AM and straight out onto the boat with a different tour operator. Due to the storms at the start of the week, I had to play a game of musical boats whilst re-jigging my plans. Heavy-duty onesies were not included on this boat, but it had a much larger heated cabin.

The water was even calmer than the day before, the winter sun rising and reflecting a wonderful pink across the surface. A lone gannet, Europe's largest seabird, clearly had the same idea as the tour operator and flew ahead of us straight back into Kvænangen fjord, where the spouts of humpbacks were already scattered across the seascape—the spray from their blows was glowing in the morning winter sunlight.

A friendly group of 10-15 humpback whales—some, I suspect, were the same individuals I encountered the day before—were feeding in a concentrated area, the sound and smell of their fishy blows carrying across the calm ocean. Before long, the group made a deep dive; their massive 5.5-metre tail flukes rising above the glassy water in perfect unison, like a synchronised swimming routine. The ocean fell silent for six or seven minutes. During this brief stillness, I may have gotten a little too excited about spotting my first-ever little auk, a starling-sized relative of the guillemot, resting on the surface. In my excitement, I shouted, "Ooo, look, a little auk!"—only to accidentally lead the other guests to believe I'd just spotted an orca right next to the boat. Whoops. Thankfully, the humpbacks soon resurfaced close to us, saving me from any further bird-nerd-caused confusion.

Soon after the whales surfaced, I had my first encounter with the wild west of snorkel trips. Within seconds of the humpbacks taking their first breath, several RIBs (Rigid Inflatable Boats) sped over to the whales and then proceeded to dump their guests right on top of the humpback whales. After plunging into the chilly Arctic waters, most of the snorkelers were holding their heads and GoPros above the water, resembling clumsy sea otters as the whales dived beneath them. The tour operator I was with took this moment to leave the humpback whales to it, and we headed further east across Kvænangen fjord.

After a short while, we had a brief yet unforgettable encounter with a small, scattered pod of orcas heading west. Hundreds of orcas had already been reported moving southwest into Lyngen Fjord, following the herring shoals, but this group took a moment to interact with us. A young orca spy-hopped, flashing its white belly, while a large male surfaced just metres from the boat, much to the delight of everyone on board.

On our way back to Skjervøy harbour, we veered north and spotted a white-tailed sea eagle seizing the chance to snatch an easy meal amid squabbling gulls circling a nearby fishing boat. The sun soon began to disappear behind the snowcapped mountains, painting the water in gold and purple as more humpbacks and slow-moving orcas emerged into view. It was the perfect ending to a day steeped in the magic of Norway's wild fjords.

Two days of whale watching in Skjervøy was an unforgettable immersion into the Arctic's rugged beauty. Being able to share the water with pods of orcas as they travelled through the fjords scoffing herring with their families, free in their natural habitat, was matched only by the sheer quantity of hungry humpbacks and even the occasional submarine-sized fin whale.

The breathtaking scenery, from snow-dusted mountains to the glassy, calm, sunlit fjords, provided the perfect backdrop to these magical encounters. Yet, I still had a small knot in my stomach. Don't get me wrong, this place is magical, and it's the best whale-watching experience I've ever had. However, there's a whale-sized shadow lurking here. Minke whales are still hunted every year in Norwegian waters. The meat of which I found in the freezer section of Skjervøy's local supermarket. In 2023, 507 minke whales were killed in Norway, and the heartbreaking thing is that most of the targeted whales are pregnant females, with most of the meat ending up in dog food.

Then there's the sheer number of tour boats. I can't help but feel that the mass of boats and thrill-seeking snorkelers may be having a detrimental impact on the whales. I'll add that both tour operators I joined over the two days were fantastic, as were many of the boats I saw interacting with the whales, yet others were less than conscientious. On numerous occasions, I saw snorkelers dumped on top of humpback whales. From a code of conduct perspective, you should never block the direction of a travelling whale, yet boats were seemingly throwing their guests over the side of RIBs straight into the trajectory of several 36-ton humpbacks. At one point, a humpback began slapping one of its five-metre-long pectoral flippers on the surface. Thankfully, at this particular moment, all nearby snorkelers were still in the RIBs and not in the firing line for a humpback-shaped concussion.

Skjervøy is a phenomenal place; I'd say it gives Canada a run for its money when it comes to whale watching, and it has the potential to be something extraordinary. However, I can't help but feel that stricter enforcement of whale-watching regulations is essential to ensure the safety and well-being of these ocean giants, as well as the adrenaline junkies eager to share the water with them.

This was my first venture above the Arctic Circle, and I'm hooked. See you next year, Skjervøy.