Gloria Pancrazi, co-founder of Coextinction, and I held our breath, waiting. Suddenly, a 12-ton killer whale broke the surface and came crashing down on the water. We tore our gear out of the car and raced towards shore. We learned it was the JPod and among them was J50, or Scarlet, the three-year-old whale whose story had captured the world in earlier in 2018 due to her ailing health and the NOAA efforts in trying to treat her. We continued to watch from shore for about 45 minutes, filming the whales forage. We saw more breaching, tail slapping, and spy hopping. It was the first and last time our film crew saw J50.

Dr. Ken Balcomb, who has been studying the Southern Resident Killer Whales for over 40 years, told us about her birth: “Her mom had trouble passing her and another whale bit the little baby not very hard but just enough to pull it out and left these tooth rakes on her that you can still see.” She began the baby boom; several other whales were born after her following a long run of infertility in the pods. They called her the happiest whale in the world, breaching and playing almost constantly.

Only 72 Southern Resident Killer Whales remain, composed of three pods, J, K and L. These whales have been made famous by films like Free Willy and Blackfish. They spend their lives in close-knit, matriarchal family groups, constantly socialising, vocalising, and foraging for salmon. Mostly Chinook or King, which makes up 85% of their diet. These whales gained international recognition in the summer of 2018 as J35, Tahlequah, carried her dead calf for a record 17 days and over a thousand miles. She captured the media’s attention on what experts called a record-breaking tour of grief.

The Southern Resident Killer Whales are socially complex and emotional in ways far more advanced than humans. But they are starving to death as their main source of prey, Chinook Salmon, are disappearing. According to the EPA, there has been a 60% decline in Chinook population since 1984. But it’s not just food, their population is under the threat of many different issues from toxicity to noise disturbances, many odds have been stacked against them.

Our young and passionate Coextinction film crew, led by Gloria and Elena Routledge, set out to tell their story, one that is intertwined with an entire ecosystem on the verge of collapse and a relationship with man that goes back thousands of years. I joined the team a month before filming began. I was a recent graduate with a degree in Photojournalism and a minor in Environmental Studies. When I first heard about the project, I reached out on a whim, not thinking I would get any response. But after a few phone calls and meeting the incredible team over Skype, I packed my bags and headed west.

I was familiar with the Southern Resident Killer Whales. The summer before, I was collecting long term data for NOAA on the relationship between vessel disturbance and whale behaviour. Interning for a program called Soundwatch, their mission was to educate boaters, reduce disturbances and vessel incidents in the highly trafficked waters of the Salish Sea. With more than 11,000 cargo ships passing through each year, the world underneath the water is constantly roaring. The realm of the Southern Resident Killer Whales is one composed of sound. They rely on vocalisation to communicate and use echolocation to forage for fish in the dark, evergreen waters of the Salish Sea.

Over the period of three months, we completed over 40 interviews with world renowned scientists, politicians, First Nations leaders, and activists. These whales mean so much to so many different people. And as we spoke with Jay Julius, Chairman of the Lummi Nation, we learned just how interconnected the story of his people and this species were: “They really show us what family is, what love is, what teamwork is, they should you what survival is, they show you what strength is, what respect is, they show you so much. They teach you how to hunt, how to provide, they teach you how to mourn when another is mourning. Help them out, be there with them. So I don’t know why they are called blackfish but I know they’ve taught me a lot. To me, they are qwe lhol mechen (family).”

These orcas are no strangers to population loss and recovery. In the early 1970s, only 66 individuals remained. This was during a time commonly called the capture era, when it was still legal to take orcas from the wild. It was mostly the younger, smaller whales who were removed from the population. Separated from their families and shipped to aquariums all over the world, many died and if they lived it usually wasn’t for long.