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Tilikum the orca entertained us, but he was born to be wild

 
A female member of J-Pod breaches into the air near the San Juan Islands, Wash. Orcas breach for a variety of reasons, including communication and just plain fun. Everything they do, from play to language to hunting, is learned behavior. Females are in charge.
A female member of J-Pod breaches into the air near the San Juan Islands, Wash. Orcas breach for a variety of reasons, including communication and just plain fun. Everything they do, from play to language to hunting, is learned behavior. Females are in charge.
Published Jan. 13, 2017

As a summer whale-watching guide leading hundreds of tours, I have been witness to the wonder of orcas living as they were meant to live: swimming up to 100 miles a day, jumping for the sheer joy of it, and even responding to humans in ways that can't be explained by science alone.

But I first saw killer whales as a child in Orlando as a SeaWorld passholder. So the recent death of Tilikum, the orca that drowned its trainer in 2010 and lived a tragic life in captivity, brought conflicting emotions flooding back.

As a kid, I fell asleep to whale song every night, wore out my Free Willy VHS tape, and read books, watched Discovery Channel specials and clutched worn plush versions of the animal commonly but incorrectly known as the killer whale. And like so many kids who grew up within driving distance of Orlando, I sat in the cold metal stands at Shamu Stadium, transfixed by the leviathan creatures, the thrust of their powerful tails launching them ­impossibly high into the air. None was more astonishing than Tilikum, who ended each show by drenching squealing fans in a wall of water.

The show included a segment on the relationship between whale and trainer, portrayed as an unbreakable friendship. The trainer would kiss and stroke the whale. The orca would open its mouth to allow its handler to rub its tongue, like scratching a dog behind the ears. The trainer told of SeaWorld whales getting the best of everything while they served as gracious ambassadors for their wild counterparts.

And I believed every bit of it.

I wanted to be an orca trainer more than anything in the world. What could be better than having your very own Shamu? The year I turned 12, a gift from my parents would answer that question with a trip to the Pacific Northwest to see wild orcas. There are a lucky few who can pinpoint the moment they found their passion. Mine came while drifting quietly among the waters of fog-soaked Johnstone Strait, off the coast of Vancouver Island.

Everything was relentlessly gray. The sea was a dark pane of glass, not a breath of wind; the tops of the mountains that had stood sentry to these waters for centuries weren't even visible through the clouds. My parents and I sat shivering in our new down jackets. The boat captain told us to keep our eyes near the shoreline.

A moment of absolute stillness hung in the air. Then, the unmistakable blow of an orca coming up for air shattered the silence. The sound travels miles on calm days. His towering dorsal fin, almost 6 feet tall, pierced the water's surface, closely followed by the fins of his family group, or pod.

We watched for hours, my father diligently recording home video. In the video, he asks me what I think of all this, and when I don't respond, my mother tells him, "Rick, I think she's speechless."

In 2011, I traveled alone to the San Juan Islands in Washington state to begin an unpaid internship as a naturalist, or tour guide, on a whale-watching boat. I spent this past summer, my fifth consecutive season, getting to know the orcas of southeast Alaska as the lead naturalist on 50-passenger tours.

A brilliant captain and mentor of mine remembers a family, reeling from the loss of their father, comforted when whales surrounded their boat, calling out to them, seeming to sense their grief.

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As a SeaWorld passholder, I witnessed both versions of orca life. I watched Tilikum and his trainer, Dawn Brancheau, work together for years. After her death in 2010, I watched the life and spirit fade from him.

At 22 feet long and roughly 6 tons, "Tilly" was the world's largest captive orca. His magnificent dorsal fin flopped lamely to the side. He was unable to communicate with the other orcas in his tank, which came from different pods and spoke different languages. He was often bullied by more dominant females, according to John Jett, a former SeaWorld trainer who worked with Tilly. By all accounts, he spent most of his life after Brancheau's death floating listlessly at the top of his tank, finally dying of an infection on Jan. 6.

In 2013, Tilly became famous because of the documentary Blackfish, directed by Gabriela Cowperthwaite. The film attempts to explain the circumstances behind Brancheau's death using footage of previous captivity incidents and interviews with industry experts and former orca handlers. Millions of viewers were suddenly captivated by killer whales. The public pressure finally persuaded SeaWorld to announce that the orca shows would end.

The name "orca," from the scientific name Orcinus orca, is preferred by experts over "killer whale." Centuries ago, Spanish sailors witnessed orcas feeding on sea lions, dolphins and even other whales, and shouted out, "Whale killer, whale killer!" In English, that became "killer whale."

There are two distinct types of orca: one that eats only fish, and one that eats only marine mammals.

Orcas have language, culture and some of the strongest family bonds in the animal kingdom. MRI scans of their brains show enlarged temporal lobes, indicating a great capacity for emotion. They are a matriarchal society. The oldest female in a pod is unquestionably in charge, and babies, which remain with their mothers for life, are also reared by sisters, aunts and great-grandmothers. Everything they do, from play to language to hunting, is a learned behavior. Different sub-types of orcas speak entirely different languages. Each pod has its own dialect.

The Center for Whale Research, based in the San Juan Islands, has been studying orcas for 40 years. According to its founder and senior biologist, Dr. Kenneth Balcomb, no attack on a human by a wild orca has ever been recorded.

Tilly, an Icelandic orca, was captured at approximately 2 years old; recordings from wild orca captures are punctuated by the guttural screams and hopeless wails of terrified mothers. I saw Blackfish for the first time at a screening on San Juan Island. (Balcomb was in the audience.) The whales' agonized cries hit me like a train. I could never, in good conscience, go back to SeaWorld. I have seen the documentary a dozen times since, with friends and family, and every reaction is the same: "I had no idea."

In 1970, a dolphin named Kathy, one of many that played Flipper on TV, swam into trainer Ric O'Barry's arms and "ceased breathing, sinking to the bottom of the tank," he told New York magazine, adding that dolphins can choose to hold their breath.

Ten years later, a male orca at the Miami Seaquarium called Hugo died; he was frequently witnessed bashing his head into the walls of his tank. His cause of death, according to the National Marine Fisheries Service, was a brain aneurysm.

SeaWorld says Tilly, 36, lived as long as he would have in the wild. Balcomb's research found that males regularly live into their 50s and 60s, while females may reach their 80s and 90s.

The theme park also says it hasn't taken a wild orca in decades, instead relying on a breeding program, but those previously captured didn't fare so well.

Between 1965 and 1973, at least 47 wild orcas were taken from Puget Sound for display in marine parks, according to the Fisheries Service. At least a dozen of those died during the capture, and only one remains today. Lolita, whose presumed mother, Ocean Sun, is still alive, languishes in her old friend Hugo's tiny tank at the Miami Seaquarium. Continuous efforts by activist groups to persuade the Seaquarium to release her into her home waters have failed.

According to the Whale and Dolphin Conservation Society, at least 164 orcas have died in marine parks worldwide, not including 30 miscarriages or stillbirths. And 46 of those deaths occurred at SeaWorld parks.

Orcas are not whales at all; they are the largest member of the dolphin family, and many consider them the most intelligent and socially complex mammals on Earth. Most dolphin species, including orcas, have been observed performing rituals with dying and dead family members. Mothers will carry deceased babies; entire pods will surround dying adults as they approach their final resting places. Like elephants, they can mourn their loss as intensely as humans do.

Had he remained in the wild, Tilly would have died surrounded by his family, maybe even his mother. Instead, he took his last breath in a small, sterile pool in sunny Florida, thousands of miles from home.

Contact Libby Baldwin at lbaldwin@tampabay,com. Follow her at @LibBaldwin.