there I see a group of whales coming right to where our harpoon gun was and I said, ‘Sam, I think we’ve got a chance to get a whale.’”
Burich didn’t even look outside the tent as he replied, “Bullshit.”
There was no time to argue.
Bauer ran down to the harpoon gun, filled it with gunpowder, stuffed in the capping, loaded the harpoon, and took aim. That’s when Burich raced down the hill with Bauer’s gear. “He’s got my camera,” says Bauer, “and he says ‘I can’t use this shit.’” Bauer, who was equally reluctant to use the harpoon, took his camera and scrambled for the perfect spot to shoot the scene. Burich scrambled for a spot to shoot the whale.
After weeks of practice, this was only Burich’s second encounter with a live target—but that was one more shot than Bauer had taken.
The bigger whales seemed to sense trouble and swam just beyond the range of the harpoon. But one of the smaller ones stayed closer to shore and seemed to meet Burich’s gaze.
Burich knew he could hit this beast. He had no choice. He braced for the recoil from the forty-two-gram gunpowder charge, aimed at the waterline slightly ahead of the small whale, and pulled the trigger. Then the whale disappeared into the water. Burich was devastated. He reached for the line and started to haul it back in.
Bauer, who was perched on the bluff below, had a better view. Burich had hooked a whale.
Burich was sure Bauer was wrong, but Bauer was certain he’d seen the harpoon hit the killer. No matter what Bauer said, Burich wasn’t convinced. He knew he’d missed.
When they pulled at the line, it seemed heavier than usual, almost taut. The debate was settled when the orange floats attached to it began flying toward the ocean. As the Scotchmen hit the water, there was no doubt—they had a whale on the hook. Burich shouted in triumph, “Oh my God, you’re right.” Their ears still ringing from the blast, the whalers sprinted to their boat, the Corsair 2.
Meanwhile, the lighthouse keepers shared the news with their fellow islanders. Everyone had been waiting for this moment—they all wanted to see the aquarium catch the creature. Roughly two dozen men, women, and children raced to East Point to see the dead whale. Some gathered on the beach, some arrived in small boats, and it seemed that all the men had rifles. “I never realized there were so many .303s on Saturna Island,” says Bauer. “All of the sudden, the beach was full with all these people with all these guns.”
Plan A was to kill the whale with a single shot from the harpoon, then drag the carcass to the pen.
It was time for Plan B—for Burich to shoot the orca with his rifle. If the harpoon hadn’t killed it, his bullets would. The men watched in astonishment as the whale appeared. It wasn’t moving—but two larger whales were holding it gingerly, keeping it afloat.
Burich and Bauer couldn’t believe what they were seeing. When the American soldiers slaughtered whales in Iceland, they saw healthy whales approaching bloody ones and assumed they were arriving to tear their family members to shreds and feast on their remains. But instead of surfacing with strips of flesh in their mouths, these killers were supporting the injured whale. Instead of savagery, Burich and Bauer were witnessing compassion, empathy. Suddenly, the definitive killer whale textbooks had all the scientific value of King Kong.
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