McGeer. Since this was the height of the Cold War, dolphins weren’t just studied; they were being trained by Americans and Russians as potential underwater spies. “I thought if we’re going to kill a killer whale, then I’d better get a look at the brain and compare it with the brains of other species.”
McGeer was too busy to spend time on Saturna—he had smaller brains to deal with as a politician—but he was touted in all the media coverage. His involvement gave the endeavor an air of gravitas, and other specialists lined up for their piece of orca pie. This was the era of slice-and-dice science—the way to study an animal was to catch, kill, and dissect it. Dr. Gordon Pike, a marine biologist, called dibs on most of the internal organs. Researchers at Vancouver General Hospital wanted the heart and lungs.
Because the hunt was expected to be historic—or at the very least, a great way to capture headlines—members of the media accompanied the team.
Jack Long, a documentary maker for the National Film Board of Canada, was initially on hand to record the historic mission. After Long left the island, Vancouver Sun newspaper columnist Jack Scott arrived to chronicle what he described as “the most obsessive whale hunt since Moby Dick.” Scott filed a series of special reports on the adventure he dubbed “Murray’s Operation Killer Whale.”
Vince Penfold, the aquarium’s assistant curator, was brought to Saturna as a lookout.
The final members of the crew were the five men serving on the sixty-five-foot coast guard vessel the Chilco Post. It was their job to finish off the specimen once Sparrow shot it. Scott explained:
The plan is this: On the far side of the cliff, beyond Chilco Post’s view, one of the lookouts will race to the high ground of the lighthouse when the action begins. He will wave a yellow rainslicker. This will be the signal for Chilco Post to get into the act. It will run at full speed out through angry waters to the Boiling Reef, around the headland and engage the harpooned whale in combat, following its flight by means of the enormous marker buoys attached to the end of the harpoon’s line. When the stricken whale surfaces for air, as, of course it must, the crew of Chilco Post, braced at the gunwales will pump a hail of rifle bullets into it.
Then Scott warned of the possible consequences. “No one can say for sure how a killer whale will react if the harpoon does not strike a vital spot and, moreover, there’s every likelihood that the other bulls in the pack, or ‘pod,’ as it’s properly known will attack the ship itself, as they have been known to do in the past . . . Since a bull killer whale runs to 25 feet in length, and has a mouthful of teeth and a disposition that can only be described as perfectly dreadful, the possibilities are downright chilling.”
Scott was trying to sell newspapers by amping up the drama, but he’d captured the zeitgeist. The Vancouver Aquarium was hunting a monster, and these hunters were risking their lives.
CHAPTER FOUR
A LIVING NIGHTMARE
“Since the whale in question is the strongest, bloodthirstiest, most unpredictable creature in the seven seas, the party could get rough. We’re after Orcinus Orca, better known as the killer whale, the only creature other than dear old Homo Sapiens, which kills for the sheer lust of killing.”
JACK SCOTT, VANCOUVER SUN, JUNE 2, 1964
IF YOU WANT to harpoon a killer whale from the safety of the shore, there is almost no better place on the planet than the northeast tip of Saturna Island, known as East Point. For as long as anyone can remember, orcas have gathered year round off Canada’s southernmost Gulf Island, not far from the edge of the imaginary line in the Pacific Ocean that has marked the Canada-U.S. border since 1872.
In 1964, most of the hundred or so inhabitants of this small hilly island lived on the other side, roughly fifty miles away, near the ferry terminal at Lyall Harbour. The only connection between East Point and the rest of Saturna was a rugged dirt road. Almost no one lived here except the two lighthouse keepers and their families and the past lighthouse keeper and his wife, who’d recently built themselves a small retirement home.
Beyond the cliff, just before the notorious Boiling Reef, which was the reason for the lighthouse, there was a thirty-seven-fathom drop. In addition to being a hazard to boaters, the reef is a resting area for the roaring Steller (or northern) sea lions, which can grow more than ten feet long and weigh more than 2,500 pounds. Steller babies—and the seals that share their resting spot—are a favorite food of transient killer whales.
The lighthouse—really more of a light tower—with the houses nearby, was surrounded by lush green grass that looked like perfect grazing territory for the island’s wild sheep. In the spring of 1964, Sun writer Jack Scott said that the grass was blanketed with flaming orange California poppies. He described the whaler’s campground as “so theatrical in appearance . . . as looking like a bad set for an improbable movie.”
Saturna was “discovered”—as white folks used to say—in 1791, when a legendary Spanish schooner, the Santa Saturnina (believed to be the first European vessel constructed in North America), was exploring and charting the Gulf Islands. In 1869, the first British settler, Peter Frazier, set up a homestead, paying the Crown one pound per acre. The Salish knew the island as Tekteksen, which means “long nose”—a reference to the shape of East Point.
On May 20, the aquarium’s intrepid team arrived at the long nose in boats and floatplanes. The men were starting to get their bearings when Vince Penfold spotted a pod of killer whales arriving to greet them. It was 6 AM, and it looked like their adventure might be over before breakfast.
This wasn’t a big surprise; the hunt was expected to take less than a week. The whalers raced to the bluff, but the whales were gone before Sparrow’s gun could be mounted. Although they never got to take their shot, everyone was thrilled. The whales were here.
Pete Fletcher knew the best place to set the harpoon—on the sandstone platform he and June called “the water sample rock.” Every day, one of them stepped onto the stone at the edge of the water and dipped a cedar pole with a thermometer and collection bottle attached into the ocean to check temperature and salinity. Samples were sent to the Department of Fisheries, where scientists hoped to learn more about the habits of the salmon stocks that frequented these waters. While the Fletchers collected their samples, they’d often see killer whales surfacing, sometimes almost too close for comfort.
Sparrow and his crew covered the rock with a thick wooden plank and attached the harpoon gun. The recoil from a few early test rounds confirmed that it needed to be secured more carefully. The men collected large stones to weigh down the platform, and then anchored it with a series of chains. The harpoon had the same effect as it had on Sparrow’s boat. No whales appeared. During the four previous summers, there had never been a week without a whale sighting. The aquarium had a chance at landing their whale a few hours after arriving, but the hours became days, then weeks.
While everyone was waiting to catch their specimen, the captain of the Chilco Post used a hydrophone to collect the strange sounds of the killers that weren’t venturing close enough to be shot. The coast guard was experimenting with audio recordings in the hope that playing the apex predator’s cries would frighten the sea lions away from valuable salmon.
One afternoon, the Post pulled close enough to the camp to share the recordings over a loudspeaker. Everyone was startled by the symmetry and rhythm of the squeaks and squeals. There were patterns that sounded like calls and responses, an almost musical structure that seemed less like random noise than language. Could these creatures be communicating
