Suddenly, Canada’s biggest whale news was that Russians might harpoon the B.C. economy. Lorne Hume, general manager of Western Canadian Whaling, warned that local whalers could lose up to $2 million if the Soviets weren’t stopped. They had four or five times as many boats as Hume had, as well as floating factory ships that allowed them to render whales on the water. According to Hume, “this could lead to a situation similar to that existing in Antarctica which has been so overhunted that whale biologists believe it will take 50 years for whales in that area to return to the number they were at before the Second World War.” The Department of Fisheries sent a boat to photograph the Soviets to make sure they weren’t violating international borders by killing whales that only Canadians were supposed to kill.
The circus had left Saturna. Only Burich and Bauer remained— and there were no killer whales in sight. It was as if the whales had read Scott’s stories and decided to remove Saturna from their feeding route. Killer whales were spotted on May 22, 24, 26, and 28, but no new whales came close enough to shore to shoot. For almost an entire month—between May 28 and June 25—there were no sightings at all.
To fill the time, Burich taught Bauer how to use the harpoon and how to carve. The two amused themselves by etching their own twentieth-century petroglyphs of whales and whalers into the flat stones near their camp. They also made a flag displaying a killer whale and flew it over their tent. And they built a pen in a nearby bay where they could study the body of their whale after they caught and killed it, so that Bauer could take the photos and measurements.
For weeks, Burich played his harmonica, sculpted, and scraped images into the sandstone, while Bauer watched the water for whales and other species and collected a few exotic specimens for the aquarium’s displays. They were both fishermen, so they knew how to wait or, to use the term preferred by fishermen, fish. Burich and Bauer would occasionally visit the Fletchers for company and the use of their shower.
ON JULY 15, after almost two months of waiting, Newman contacted Burich via ship-to-shore radio to call it a day. His whale hunt had become a snipe hunt. Instead of the pods of fifty-plus killers that had been recorded over the previous four years, only eight pods—a mere sixty whales—had been seen during Burich’s fifty-seven days on the island. And whale season was winding down.
Burich still wanted his whale. His sculpture would be a tourist attraction that everyone in Vancouver and visitors from around the world would see. And, perhaps more importantly, he didn’t want to let Newman down. But maybe Newman was right and the creatures could sense danger. After eight weeks, Burich agreed that it was time to abandon the quest.
That night, the Fletchers invited Burich and Bauer for a farewell dinner, and Pete broke out the homemade sake he’d been brewing. After a long night of swapping stories and sampling the potent rice wine, Burich and Bauer returned to their tent.
When they woke the morning of July 16, not only were both men hungover, they were cold. The hot summer weather had been replaced with an unseasonal chill, and the waves were choppy. For the first time since arriving, Burich and Bauer put on their coats as they prepared for their last breakfast on Saturna. It was a good time to be going.
Bauer had stopped shaving while he was on the island—he’d mentioned that he was a fan of Burich’s fisherman’s beard—but he wanted to clean up before returning home to his girlfriend. Burich, who looked like Ernest Hemingway in his bullfighting prime, decided his friend should keep the beard, grabbed Bauer’s shaving gear, and hurled it off the cliff. “You want a shave,” laughed Burich. “Go dive for it.”
As Burich returned to their tent to finish packing and take down their flag, Bauer walked to the edge of the cliff to see where his shaving gear landed. It was sinking into the water—thirty-seven fathoms deep.
It was a good thing his girlfriend wasn’t a fan of beards. “As I was standing there I see a group of whales coming right to where our harpoon gun was and I said, ‘Sam, I think we’ve got a chance to get a whale.’”
Burich didn’t even look outside the tent as he replied, “Bullshit.”
There was no time to argue.
Bauer ran down to the harpoon gun, filled it with gunpowder, stuffed in the capping, loaded the harpoon, and took aim. That’s when Burich raced down the hill with Bauer’s gear. “He’s got my camera,” says Bauer, “and he says ‘I can’t use this shit.’” Bauer, who was equally reluctant to use the harpoon, took his camera and scrambled for the perfect spot to shoot the scene. Burich scrambled for a spot to shoot the whale.
After weeks of practice, this was only Burich’s second encounter with a live target—but that was one more shot than Bauer had taken.
The bigger whales seemed to sense trouble and swam just beyond the range of the harpoon. But one of the smaller ones stayed closer to shore and seemed to meet Burich’s gaze.
Burich knew he could hit this beast. He had no choice. He braced for the recoil from the forty-two-gram gunpowder charge, aimed at the waterline slightly ahead of the small whale, and pulled the trigger. Then the whale disappeared into the water. Burich was devastated. He reached for the line and started to haul it back in.
Bauer, who was perched on the bluff below, had a better view. Burich had hooked a whale.
Burich was sure Bauer was wrong, but Bauer was certain he’d seen the harpoon hit the killer. No matter what Bauer said, Burich wasn’t convinced. He knew he’d missed.
When they pulled at the line, it seemed heavier than usual, almost taut. The debate was settled when the orange floats attached to it began flying toward the ocean. As the Scotchmen hit the water, there was no doubt—they had a whale on the hook. Burich shouted in triumph, “Oh my God, you’re right.” Their ears still ringing from the blast, the whalers sprinted to their boat, the Corsair 2.
Meanwhile, the lighthouse keepers shared the news with their fellow islanders. Everyone had been waiting for this moment—they all wanted to see the aquarium catch the creature. Roughly two dozen men, women, and children raced to East Point to see the dead whale. Some gathered on the beach, some arrived in small boats, and it seemed that all the men had rifles. “I never realized there were so many .303s on Saturna Island,” says Bauer. “All of the sudden, the beach was full with all these people with all these guns.”
Plan A was to kill the whale with a single shot from the harpoon, then drag the carcass to the pen.
It was time for Plan B—for Burich to shoot the orca with his rifle. If the harpoon hadn’t killed it, his bullets would. The men watched in astonishment as the whale appeared. It wasn’t moving—but two larger whales were holding it gingerly, keeping it afloat.
Burich and Bauer couldn’t believe what they were seeing. When the American soldiers slaughtered whales in Iceland, they saw healthy whales approaching bloody ones and assumed they were arriving to tear their family members to shreds and feast on their remains. But instead of surfacing with strips of flesh in their mouths, these killers were supporting the injured whale. Instead of savagery, Burich and Bauer were witnessing compassion, empathy. Suddenly, the definitive killer whale textbooks had all the scientific value of King Kong.
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