When Orcas Speak
Listen Carefully
Originally published on Medium by Sarat Colling
Sarat Colling is a critical animal studies writer, environmentalist, and vegan focused on animal agency and resistance. With a master’s in Critical Sociology and a long career in environmental and vegan advocacy, Sarat has special interests in animal rights and decolonization.
Off the coast of Muros in northwest Spain, the Flying Polishman sailed through the rolling waves of the Atlantic. Aboard this 43-foot vessel, five sailors hoped to harness the winds southward. Unbeknownst to them, beneath the waves, they were being keenly observed.
As the yacht crossed the continental shelf, where the ocean floor drops, the helm began to turn wildly. Katarzyna Osak, who had been lying seasick in the cockpit, remembers the first encounter: “Béla, who was at the helm, felt a sudden tugging. After the second tug, he turned to see an orca swimming behind the boat, aiming at the rudder beneath us.” The captain ordered the sails to be lowered. As the boat came to a standstill, a pod — two young orcas and a baby — surfaced, their exhalations misting the salt air.
The crew knew that orca encounters could occur in these waters. They had heard the reports: an endangered subpopulation off the Iberian Peninsula interacting with boats — mainly small sailboats and yachts — since 2020. Mariners had reported these interactions from the Strait of Gibraltar, a bustling marine crossroads, up the Atlantic coastlines to the Bay of Biscay. They told of boats being damaged and, in some cases, even sunk. Yet, on September 14, 2022, the crew was caught off guard, as they had neither heard recent accounts nor spotted any orcas themselves.
The orcas were deliberate in their actions. The older ones began to ram the rudder, interrupting the yacht’s rhythmic swaying in the six-foot-high waves. After fifteen tense minutes, a brief calm settled in. “We thought they’d moved on,” Osak recalls. But as she leaned over the side of the boat, battling nausea, an orca surged up just meters away: “She was heading in my direction, which happened to be the direction of the rudder — she was not in the slightest interested in me.”
In the wake of this encounter, the yacht was unable to steer and taking on water. A damaged portlight was identified as the source of the ingress, which Osak suspects may have resulted from the combined pressure of waves and the orcas pushing the boat. The crew worked to prevent the flood and radioed for assistance. The orcas departed, only to return an hour later, this time escorting the tow vessel, and resume ramming the rudder. But, as the lifeboat began towing the yacht, their behaviour shifted: They swam playfully alongside, leaping like dolphins and exuding a palpable sense of joy. “It felt more like they were having fun,” Osak reflects. “They still occasionally rammed the rudder, but mostly they just accompanied the boat in its speedy journey being towed back to land.”
Upon reaching the shore, the Flying Polishman joined a growing number of vessels mysteriously incapacitated by orcas. The Atlantic Orca Working Group (GTOA) has documented more than 500 incidents in the past three years alone. These incidents vary greatly, from non-contact observations to significant interactions, with orcas sinking four boats and damaging around 300 other vessels. Encounters last mere minutes to over an hour, with one to nine orcas typically approaching from the stern. The focal point is usually the rudder, and their tactics — ramming, chewing, and piercing — frequently render vessels inoperable. On occasion, young orcas have been witnessed emulating their elders.
A matriarch known as Gladis Blanca, whose scars signify encounters with fishing lines, was among the first whales to engage with vessels. According to the GTOA, at this time, she was the sole adult in a youthful cohort of eight. As the behaviour spread through her pod and beyond, the orcas captured global headlines and stirred speculative dialogue. On social media, trends like #TeamOrca portrayed them as anti-capitalist saboteurs and fueled the narrative of an “orca uprising.”
Now, the circle of participating orcas has grown to fifteen individuals. Despite being on the brink of collapse, this small cetacean community has made its presence known, inspiring many to consider the agency of the more-than-human world. Yet, their motivations and actions may not fit neatly into the narratives we construct: These orcas bring their own complexity to the surface.
For eleven million years, orcas have inhabited the ocean’s depths. Our understanding of their societies and behaviours continues to grow. They engage in vibrant social rituals, from jubilant greeting ceremonies to sophisticated hunting strategies. In a strait north of my Gulf Island home, they partake in an unusual ritual of rubbing against pebbled beaches. Across the globe, pods have their own unique dialects, while their tactile communication — a language of tail slaps, breaches, and physical touch — binds the community together.
Iberian orcas’ recent interactions with boats are further deepening our perceptions of these complex marine mammals. Beyond physical voices, orcas possess cultural voices, which manifest in their behaviours and rituals passed down over generations. Such voices serve social enrichment and community well-being — as well as innovation, adaptation, and even resistance to human-made threats.
Animals are constantly communicating with each other and the world around them. As explored in my book Animal Resistance in the Global Capitalist Era, amidst an era marked by anthropogenic threats, human allies have the delicate task of listening to animals’ voices and responding in turn. Whether their actions are symbolic communication or adaptive responses to environmental changes, the orcas are speaking.
Listening to them requires us to seek understanding. Why has this behaviour surfaced, and what motivates it to persist? Do orcas view vessels like the Flying Polishman as a threat to neutralize or an intriguing object to play with? Could this activity be a teaching for younger pod members?
To hear the perspective of an orca expert, I spoke with Erich Hoyt, a research fellow with Whale and Dolphin Conservation and co-chair of the IUCN Marine Mammals Protected Areas Task Force. Hoyt wrote the first edition of Orca: The Whale Called Killer at my father’s coastal restaurant in the 1970s, a work that advanced our understanding of orca societies, communication, and behaviours.
“We don’t know why it’s occurring,” Hoyt says, “but I think the most plausible explanation is that this behaviour developed from initial curiosity followed by play. It is something they like doing.” Hoyt draws parallels to cultural fads within orca communities, such as when orcas in Puget Sound carried salmon on their heads in 1987. Despite having no clear survival value, this novel practice carried on for about a year before fizzling out.
Hoyt elaborates on how orcas learn through imitation, absorbing everything from unique vocalizations to complex hunting techniques. At Peninsula Valdés, he witnessed orca mothers teaching their young intentional stranding. “It looked just like practice,” he observes.
Essential as such training is for hunting, Hoyt speculates as to whether the Iberian orcas’ targeting of boat rudders might be their version of practice for the real target — bluefin tuna — to prepare them for hunts that can last up to forty minutes. “After all these incidents are largely happening when the boats are moving and, as they are largely sailboats, they’re often silent,” he says. Over time this pattern could be imitated by other orcas as play. Yet, while playful behaviours can hone skills, he ultimately believes, “It is more likely to be simply curiosity leading to play leading to a fad.”
Alfredo López Fernandez, a biologist and co-author of an influential Marine Mammal Science study on the Iberian orcas’ behaviour, has been monitoring the interactions closely with the GTOA. He suggests two theories as to why it began. The first is that of “self-induced” behaviour. “They invent something new and repeat it,” he says. This view matches the profile of younger orcas and aligns with Hoyt’s perspective.
The second theory posits that the interactions began as a defensive response to an “aversive situation” with a vessel. López explains that one or more orcas may have had a traumatic experience, likely an entanglement in a fishing net, and began targeting rudders as a defensive strategy. While there is no leader, as the only adult involved in early encounters, Gladis Blanca is considered a likely instigator. She has also been known to interact with fishing boats and sailboats as far back as 2015, albeit without physical contact at the time.
Each year, the Iberian orcas migrate in pursuit of the Atlantic bluefin tuna, arriving in the shallow waters of the Gulf of Cádiz in early spring, coinciding with the tuna’s entry into the Mediterranean for spawning. As summer arrives and the tuna return to the Atlantic, the orcas position themselves to intercept their prey in the Strait of Gibraltar. This journey is fraught with threats, from pollution to elevated noise levels and potential vessel collisions. The Strait, teeming with yachts, leisure boats, whale-watching tours, and fishermen from morning to night, can bring the orcas into proximity with hundreds of vessels.
Years of intensive fishing operations have threatened the tuna and put the orcas at risk. Since the 1990s, orcas linger around boats in anticipation of snatching the tuna when they are hauled up. Some have injuries, most likely from fishing equipment. Last year, a boat carrying fishing lines caught an orca, and this year, an orca was observed carrying a line hanging from her body. These interactions have sparked animosity among some fishermen reluctant to share their catch. López says, “All this has to make us reflect on the fact that human activities, even in an indirect way, are at the origin of this behaviour.”
As ethologist David Nieto Maceín suggests in an interview with Marc Bekoff, the orcas’ behaviour may involve both self-defence and play. Orcas’ defensive responses may have developed into proactive strategies, with some individuals finding the interactions amusing. “What they choose to do likely depends on which whales are involved and context,” he observes.
Whether motivated by curiosity, self-defence, or an interplay of these, Iberian orcas’ interactions with boats demonstrate their assertiveness while navigating anthropogenic threats and form a dialogue within their community.
Weaving through these theories is the concept of cultural transmission. Orcas learn from one another and pass down knowledge over generations. Many of the involved orcas — bearing the prefix “Gladis” in homage to the term “orca gladiator” — form an intricate family network. Matriarchs such as Gladis Blanca and her mother, Gladis Lamari, guide the community, disseminating knowledge and influencing younger orcas. Gladis Blanca’s interactions may have influenced her young, Gladis Filabres and Gladis Tarik, and possibly her siblings, Gladis Clara and Gladis Dalila.
Their dialogue extends to strategic foraging practices. A study in 2004 found that six out of 42 tunas at a Cádiz fish market bore evidence of cetacean bite marks. This detail drew the attention of Ruth Esteban and her team at the University of Cádiz, who have been researching orca behaviours in the Strait of Gibraltar since 1999. They discovered that two specific groups out of five had acquired the skill of swiping tuna from the dropline fishery. Shaped by maternal kinship, this practice was learned and taught within these families, including that of Gladis Blanca.
The orcas’ struggle and creative solutions call upon us to listen. In her evocative work Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals, Alexis Pauline Gumbs explores the transformative and revolutionary power of listening. She discusses how by quieting down and tuning in to the world around us, we open space for “trans-species communion.” Take, for example, the Hydrodamalis gigas, a now-extinct sea cow. Although not known for vocalizations, like other members of the order Sirenia they could listen and lived in harmony with their environment. Sadly, the species was discovered in 1741 by a German naturalist and became extinct within twenty-seven years due to relentless hunting on European voyages for fur and sealskin. Gumbs identifies how the dangers of “being known” or “being discovered” led to their tragic exploitation and extinction.
In the spirit of trans-species communion, orcas require our attentiveness. While about half of the world’s orcas, predominantly residing around Antarctica, have had minimal contact with humans, others have suffered the consequences of being known. As we dive deeper into this orca-centered narrative, we encounter marine beings who struggle, adapt, and resist. Their behaviour requires us to listen intently, to recognize that actions like foraging from fishing lines are adaptations that reclaim their ancestral space. The Iberian orcas’ interactions with boats illuminate a broader story — one of marine mammals asserting themselves against human and vessel threats in their ocean home.
In the coastal waters of the Pacific Northwest, whales faced a different kind of struggle. While the orcas of the Salish Sea had long coexisted peacefully with the Coast Salish peoples, from the 1960s to the 1980s, they found themselves targeted by a colonial capitalist threat: the burgeoning marine park industry. These parks’ endeavours to capture and subject whales to a life of exploitative entertainment were relentless and pervasive.
One of the earliest orca captures occurred in the Haro Strait in 1962, a case documented in Hoyt’s Orca. Captors pursued an orca they planned to display at Marineland of the Pacific. During the frantic chase, a companion (possibly a son) intervened, drawn by her distress calls. Exhibiting fierce solidarity, he repeatedly charged the captors’ boat. Despite being ensnared in a hoop net and dragged by a rope caught in the propeller, the targeted orca also fought back, slapping the vessel with her flukes. The harrowing incident ended with the intervening orca being shot at and driven away, while the captured orca died from multiple gunshot wounds.
The tactics used in the tragic Haro Strait capture were fundamentally different from later methods. Hoyt tells me that subsequent captures typically employed large seine nets. While the orcas occasionally broke through them, most attempts at escape were unsuccessful and they would eventually give up.
However, by the 1970s, another form of defiance emerged: orcas began to anticipate and circumvent their pursuers’ efforts. In regions such as Puget Sound and southern Vancouver Island, some orcas became wary and evasive, abandoning traditional territories associated with captures. As Hoyt explains, this behavioural change was contingent upon elder orcas’ experience in avoiding capture. “Some pods learned to avoid certain areas, but that would depend on the older ones remembering,” he says. Elder whales’ wisdom was instrumental in forging effective resistance strategies.
Across centuries, marine mammals have displayed similar forms of resistance. In the 16th century, historian Andrea Navagero noted that North Atlantic right whales, targeted by Basque whalers in the Bay of Biscay, would actively “rush toward boats and strike them with [their tails].” In the 18th century, sea cows acted similarly; they would capsize boats or sever ropes to free their kin. One endured attacks to stay by his captured companion’s side. During the 19th century’s surge of commercial whaling, sperm whales learned to evade harpoon attacks and shared this knowledge with their kin. Meanwhile, southern right whales in the Tasman Sea cultivated a “culture of evasion,” altering their behaviours to avoid — and occasionally sink — ships, and passing on this knowledge to other whales. While their resistance was sometimes successful, overall, these marine mammals were slaughtered on a vast and devastating scale for capitalist industry.
During the era of Pacific Northwest captures, capitalist enterprise found new expression in the likes of Don Goldsberry, the notorious SeaWorld collector. Goldsberry deployed explosives, high-speed vessels, and helicopters to corral orcas into coves. In response, orcas learned to recognize these threats and developed new evasive tactics such as creating diversions to protect their calves. During pursuits, pods would split up, with some adults serving as decoys while the mothers and babies swam in another direction. On August 7, 1970, a tragedy hit Whidbey Island’s Penn Cove when adults serving as decoys were unable to divert the enclosing helicopters. Four orcas were killed when they became balled up in the nets, and many young, including Tokitae, were captured. Those released wouldn’t leave their families: They stationed themselves nearby and cried out to their loved ones across the nets.
This atrocity coincided with a cultural turning point in our relationship with whales. That same month, bio-acoustician Roger Payne released his seminal album, “Songs of the Humpback Whale,” revealing the complex and paradoxical ways society viewed these animals. The album celebrated the haunting beauty of humpback songs, transforming antiquated perceptions of these marine giants and catalyzing the “Save the Whales” movement. By the late 1970s, research by John Ford illuminated orcas’ intricate acoustics by identifying unique dialects within various pods. Their voices could no longer be ignored.
In 1976, the tide of public opinion turned against orca captures, leading to a ban in Washington State. Still, the threat was far from over: Goldsberry shifted operations to Iceland, with no less violence. The grim reality persisted for captured orcas. Since 1961, approximately 176 orcas have died in captivity. While free orcas swim as much as 80 miles each day, imprisoned orcas languish in confinement. The physical and psychological torment sometimes leads to defiance; captive orcas have injured more than thirty people since the early 1970s.
Tilikum was one of these orcas. Abducted from the Icelandic coast at age two, he was confined, abused, and forced to perform for three decades. Tilikum’s suffering led to his involvement in three human deaths. The 2013 documentary Blackfish shared his story, igniting public outcry that forced SeaWorld to end its orca breeding program. Tilikum’s actions not only called attention to his own suffering but also sparked a social movement against the marine park industry.
Recognizing marine mammals’ agency in the face of anthropogenic threats deepens our understanding and invites us to forge solidarity with them. As they actively engage in their own struggles for justice, these aquatic animals shape their lives and influence social change. Even when their resistance to artificial, human-imposed boundaries is unsuccessful, it is a powerful call to dissolve such barriers. Animals’ quests for freedom and flourishing guide us towards a collective vision of social justice — one that reckons with burdens placed on the natural world by our capitalist system.
Today, orcas contend with new anthropogenic threats. The Iberian orcas show their own assertiveness amidst these challenges. Whatever their motivations may be, they remind us that orcas aren’t indifferent to human presence in their marine home, and expand our understanding of who can be considered a driver of social change. As agents of change in a social and political context, their actions highlight the human impact on their lives.
Genetically distinct from their Northeast Atlantic kin, Iberian orcas are critically endangered on the IUCN Red List since 2019. With a dwindling population of about 35 individuals, their calves are dying and they are in crisis. In addition to food scarcity, vessel and fishing injuries, and the risk of human retaliation, they face internal threats. Poisonous substances such as PCBs contaminate their food, their bodies, and even the milk of orca mothers. Underwater noise from shipping and other marine activities interferes with their communication and ability to locate prey using echolocation.
Toni Frohoff, a behavioural biologist specializing in human-cetacean relations, has witnessed first-hand the threats faced by cetaceans who interact with marine equipment. Frohoff has studied solitary cetaceans who have initiated contact with humans and played with marine gear, occasionally damaging outboard motors and fishing equipment, without aggression.
She suggests that the Iberian orcas may be threatened by an underlying issue: “human exceptionalism,” saying, “modernity’s prevailing assumptions that humans are superior to (and thus entitled to more than) other animals will continue to have devastating consequences for these marine beings inhabiting their ancestral waters.”
Consider the story of a solitary orca named Luna. As a young orca, Luna was separated from his pod in 2001 and found himself alone in Nootka Sound, British Columbia. In search of social interaction, Luna fearlessly engaged with boats. While many found his playful antics charming, others perceived him as a nuisance, especially when he caused property damage. Luna’s actions broke down the artificial barriers that humans impose on animals, leading to a broad range of responses, including death threats. Sadly, in 2006, Luna suffered a fatal encounter with a tugboat propeller. At the time, a permit application submitted by Frohoff and a colleague for relocation to his pod sat in bureaucratic limbo.
Frohoff was hired by the Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nations to study Luna’s unusual situation. Although in a different context, Luna’s actions — and the threats he faced — hold parallels with the Iberian orcas. The risks are immense: “No matter how beloved these individuals were to their adjacent human communities, there was always someone threatening to harm them. They almost always suffered,” says Frohoff. Humans have constructed a boundary so strong that no amount of friendliness can shield these animals from the danger we pose.
The actions of the Iberian orcas have resonated across the digital mediascape, sparking dialogues that both challenge and reinforce this boundary. Some express concern about threats the orcas face, from the constant roar of engines to the dangers of longline fishing. They foster crucial dialogue about capitalism’s ecological harm. Others, however, cast the orcas as antagonists, fueling the risk of human retaliation.
A disturbing incident in August accentuated this danger. Spanish authorities intercepted sailors using what appeared to be firecrackers against orcas in the Strait of Gibraltar. The event was recorded by bystanders aboard a whale-watching ship.
This episode brings forward a pressing concern: The orcas’ increased visibility, both in the ocean and online, makes them more vulnerable. How, then, can we amplify their voices, while countering sensationalism that perpetuates human exceptionalism and may put them at further risk?
Some sensationalist news media has unfortunately framed the orcas’ interactions with boats as vengeful and terrorizing attacks. This portrayal perpetuates a colonial narrative that paints them as fearsome “others,” reinforcing historical misconceptions of cetaceans as monstrous. From folklore to film, orcas have been vilified as menacing beasts, perpetuating their persecution by the fishing industry and others who saw them as fearful. And yet, no wild orca has ever lethally harmed a human.
While their behaviour may have a defensive origin, the notion that Gladis Blanca’s community is out for revenge is unlikely. There are some well-known instances of animals taking revenge — such as an Amur tiger stalked and killed a poacher who had wounded her, or baboons who threw rocks at a vehicle that had run over their kin — but these are not common occurrences. Free-living orcas are seldom aggressive towards humans. As Hoyt notes, although Pacific Northwest orcas suffered countless bullet wounds and had their families torn apart, they have shown restraint in thousands of subsequent encounters with small boats and divers.
Iberian orcas continue this pattern. Although smaller than their Pacific Northwest counterparts, they are formidable mammals, weighing up to 6000 pounds and reaching lengths of 21 feet. They could sink more boats if they so desired. When I ask Osak about how she thinks the orcas perceived The Flying Polishman, she recalls that despite damaging the rudder, they seemed to be holding back. “An animal of this size and strength could easily do more damage if inflicting serious damage to boats was really their intention,” Osak reflects.
Given this complexity, we must remain cautious when representing orcas, striving to understand these marine mammals on their own terms without sensationalism or oversimplification. As cognitive ethologist Marc Bekoff suggests, biocentric anthropomorphism, anchored in careful observation and emotionally descriptive language, can provide insight into animals’ lives, encouraging us to challenge our assumptions and encounter the unexpected. Using this approach, we recognize orcas as agents of social change while respecting their unique lived realities. This understanding urges us to mobilize for or alongside them.
Allies of orcas have an opportunity to amplify their voices. Research and education that seeks to understand orcas from their perspective fosters shared understanding. The GTOA’s FriendSHIP: Orcas initiative offers a multifaceted approach. Educational workshops, a mobile tracking application, and photo-identification cataloging spread knowledge about Iberian orcas, while collaborative artistic endeavours and international forums engage a wide audience and counter sensationalist media portrayals with orca-centered narratives.
Beyond education, tangible protective measures are crucial for fostering a flourishing ocean home. In 2017, Spain’s Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries introduced a comprehensive plan to safeguard the Iberian orca population, addressing everything from recovering the bluefin tuna population to researching orcas’ genetic structure. Unfortunately, the government has failed to execute any of the proposed measures and has not even updated the Iberian orcas’ conservation status to match an assessment recommended by Portugal and the IUCN.
But the urgency of the situation demands immediate attention. Hoyt advocates for increased research funding to better understand the nature of boat interactions with orcas and find ways to prevent them. He warns, “It may not be long before mariners begin to shoot these orcas who are dismantling their rudders. These orcas will continue to be at even greater immediate risk as long as they continue interacting and damaging boats.”
To mitigate these threats, Frohoff emphasizes that we urgently reevaluate our attitudes. “We must gauge, monitor, and adjust the degree to which our sense of human exceptionalism determines our actions and reactions to the orcas,” she advises. “These waters are the orcas’ only home.”
Osak suggests that the onus is on humans to adapt. Despite any inconvenience or costs incurred by sailors, “We are still guests in these waters and should strive for solutions that would keep both the orcas and the boats safe — with orcas’ safety coming first.”
In this light, the words we use to describe orca interactions are crucial, as they shape public opinion and, ultimately, these animals’ safety. Instead of adversarial terms like “attack” or “aggression,” we should adopt more nuanced portrayals acknowledging that humans, when at sea, are in the home of marine life. Being mindful of our language challenges anthropocentrism; we need to dismantle the power structures that perpetuate violence towards animals.
The orcas’ struggles mirror our own, reflecting the consequences of humans’ unrelenting pursuit of profit at the environment’s expense. The solution requires individual and collective focus. The Gladis orcas raise the challenge: Leave fish in the sea, shun toxins that pollute its waters, support sanctuaries where whales swim free, and advocate for ocean conservation.
By listening to their voices, we engage in critical dialogue about animal rights, multispecies liberation, and our shared future in the ecological aftermath of capitalism. Their assertive actions inspire us to forge solidarity across species and transform understanding into meaningful action. If we strive to mend the damage, future generations of orcas can flourish in the open seas, free from interference.
Kim Hightower is the associate editor for PAN Works.
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