Living on Vancouver Island teaches you how to look for whales, if you’re into that kind of thing, of course. You learn pod patterns, you track tides and wind, but most importantly, you keep notifications turned on for the Facebook Messenger group that shares live activity on whale sightings. Over the past three years, we’ve had several close encounters with killer whales from shore. This one, however, would become unique.
On a warm April day, word came that a large pod of killer whales was travelling south from Qualicum. My camera bag always ready, it was a quick drive to Nanoose Bay. There, on the shore, binoculars on my face, I scanned the horizon for a familiar black curve against the waves. After twenty minutes, faint blows appeared far out. They grew in size and sound as the animals approached. Excitement rose with each breath.
But something felt different. Instead of travelling in small groups, with males on the edges and females and calves tucked in the middle, these whales moved in a long, parallel line across the horizon. The pattern clicked. These were Southern Resident killer whales, the J Pod, not transients. Residents feed almost exclusively on Chinook salmon and spend much of their time in Washington waters. And when they do visit this coast, they often travel farther offshore than Bigg’s (transient) whales, which cruise closer in, hunting seals and sea lions.
Seeing Southern Residents is already rare, as endangered species, whale-watching boats cannot approach them, nor can private boats. But seeing them hugging the shore felt unique, almost unreal. As the pod neared, it was time to shoot. The Canon R5C came out. The trusty EF 100–400mm followed, but something else was different; however, this time it felt wrong. The lens was shorter than usual. The EF-to-RF adapter was missing. Suddenly, I recalled that moment a few days earlier when I had used the lens with my old Canon 5D Mark II. The adapter never made it back into the bag.
There was a brief moment of disbelief. A high, silent curse. And the Killer whales were approaching. There I stood on the rock, flagship camera in hand, a long telephoto on the other, with no way to connect them. That day, wildlife photography happened with a 24–70mm lens.
What could have been a technical disaster became something else. At 70mm, composition mattered less. Despite how close the whales were, there was no reason to overthink framing; it would still be too wide. So I kept the camera at body height, low, and broadly framed toward the whales, firing almost blind, while my eyes stayed locked on the black fins. Most of my whale encounters have been through a viewfinder. This time, the encounter became less about taking images and more about seeing.
The Southern Residents are some of the most endangered orcas in the world. Fewer than 75 individuals remain across J, K, and L pods. Calves are lost to malnutrition, and their primary prey—Chinook salmon—is scarce. Knowing that, watching JPod pass by within meters of shore, even without the perfect lens, felt like witnessing something fragile and fleeting.
-Robin
This post was adapted from a blog, read the original here.
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