Orcas Orcas are not whales; they are large dolphins. They are intelligent. They give their calves names, they play with kelp and unfortunate animals when bored, and seem to have language. Once, a Southern Resident orca had a calf, but it died shortly after birth. I can't remember if it had been poisoned by the water it was born in, if its mother's milk was contaminated, or if it had starved due to its mother's malnutrition. Nevertheless, its mother mourned. She took her child's body and perched it on her nose for 17 days. She did not eat during this time. It was as if she was looking upon these land creatures who destroyed her home and told them with undeniable proof, "Look at what you have done to my baby." I have never seen this mourning mother in person. I heard she had another calf years later, healthy and strong. I think back to the orcas of SeaWorld. How, when I was 13, I saw these magnificent animals swimming in their tank, amusing themselves by playing what I can only imagine to be their version of patty cake. One swimming upside down and the other right side up, patting each other with their snouts. I think of how those oversized dolphins, or perhaps their mothers, lived in the same place the mourning mother did. I wonder what these captive beasts with cracked teeth and collapsed fins may think of this tragedy. Would they mourn with her, as I mourned with her? Or would they mourn even more than I?
copyright Sam Garcia 2024 |