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Behind The Lens: Entangled Orca — A Fight for Survival – Photos and text by Amos Nachoum, Big Animals Global Expeditions
The fjord lay still under the early winter sky, its waters reflecting the muted light of a sun too low to offer warmth. I slipped into the icy deep, the weight of my drysuit pressing me into the silence. Ahead of me, a pod of orcas glided
movements were labored, its tail dragging slightly behind it. I adjusted my camera settings for the low light and swam closer, careful not to startle it. Then, I saw it clearly: a fishing net tan- gled tightly around its tail, its rough fibers cutting deep into the animal’s flesh. The net trailed behind it like a dead weight, a man-made anchor tethering it to struggle. The orca’s strength was unmistakable, but even in its slow, deliberate strokes, I could sense the toll the net had taken. I deflated my drysuit and dove deeper, leveling myself with the orca at about 20 feet. As I raised my camera, my hands trembled – not from the cold, but from the gravity of the moment. I framed the shot, capturing the stark contrast be- tween the sleek, vital body of the orca and the crude, tangled
through the water – eight of them in tight formation, their sleek, black-and-white bodies cutting through the depths like living shadows. I only took me a second to realize that some- thing was wrong. There was no curiosity, no playful interac- tion as I had experienced countless times before. Instead, they kept their distance, moving with a deliberate, almost solemn rhythm.
net that dragged behind it. The image was one of strength and suffering, of survival against odds. Sadly, all I could to was capture the moment with my camera because I did not have the proper equipment to cut the net free. That evening, back on the mothership, Pierre, Olav, and I reviewed the images. To us, the
For 45 minutes, I swam after them, each kick of my fins slower than the last as the cold crept deeper into my body. My breath, loud in the quiet of the water, seemed to amplify the barrier be- tween us. The orcas never came close, their formation unbroken, their movements purposeful. Fi- nally, exhausted and shivering, I surfaced and climbed back into the skiff.
net was a symbol of human carelessness, its presence in the fjord a violation of the natural world’s harmony. "We have to try to help," Pierre said, and we all agreed to spend the next day trying to free the orca from it's entanglement. The next morning, we searched for hours, our skiff cutting through the still, frigid waters of Tysfjord. When we finally found the pod again, the injured orca was still there, moving more slowly than the day before. Pierre and I slipped into the water, this time without cameras, but with knives in hand. We dove repeatedly, pushing ourselves into the freezing depths to reach the animal. Each time, it stayed just beyond our grasp, swimming deeper into the fjord. The net, at least 30 feet long, was firmly wrapped around its tail, impossible to remove without closer contact. As the hours passed, the orca’s struggles were visible, its strength waning, and our at-
Back on board, I reviewed the images I had managed to capture. Pierre Robert de Latour, our dive master and a renowned expert on orca behavior, studied them with me. At first, nothing seemed unusual – just fleeting glimpses of the pod moving as one. But then, on one frame, I noticed some- thing: a faint line trailing behind the orca at the center of the group. The others appeared to surround it, as if guarding their injured companion. It was blurry and indistinct, but I had never seen anything like it. "We need to follow them," I said, and Olav, our skipper, turned the skiff back toward the pod. The chase lasted over an hour, the icy wind biting through my wet drysuit and chilling me to the bone. When we found the pod again, I slipped back into the water, the cold shocking me into full focus. Twice, I spotted the group in the dim blue light, but each time they evaded me, disappearing into the shadows of the fjord. On the third dive, with daylight fading fast, I caught sight of a lone orca moving slowly, separated from the rest. Its
tempts to free it proved useless. We eventually ascended to the surface, our hearts weighed down by the futility of our efforts. A Call to Responsibility
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