Life, death and money spent

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For more than a month, a global audience waited anxiously as rescuers raced against time to save a young killer whale trapped in a tidal lagoon off the northwest coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia. The stakes were high for the two-year-old female, named kʷiisaḥiʔis (Brave Little Hunter). After all, kʷiisaḥiʔis had watched her pregnant mother strand and die in the same lagoon on March 23, 2024 – a major blow to the region's threatened population of about 380 mammal-feeding killer whales.

Fisheries and Oceans Canada (DFO) and the nearby Ehattesaht First Nation launched a major joint effort to rescue the young Kʷiisaḥiʔis. Two dozen DFO staff participated, from senior management to the two key killer whale experts, who travelled to the nearby village of Zeballos, British Columbia. The rescue effort was heavily supported by the First Nation, which offered additional staff, use of the tribal office, a drone and two vessels, as well as fuel, food and other logistical support.

Rescuers resorted to all sorts of tricks and tried to lure Kʷiisaḥiʔis out of the lagoon by playing recordings of other passing killer whales and hitting metal oikomi whistles from boats to guide the young killer whale toward the lagoon's exit. All attempts failed. Rescuers even planned to capture the killer whale in a snare and transport it back to the open Pacific by helicopter. In the meantime, they fed the killer whale emergency rations of seal meat to keep it strong.

Then finally some good news. On April 26, 2024, kʷiisaḥiʔis swam out of the lagoon alone at high tide. That was a happy result for everyone – but not the end of the story.

Federal documents received from Hakai Magazine through a request for information that the story of Kʷiisaḥiʔis is not over, but has simply opened a new chapter – a chapter in which the DFO and the Ehattesaht First Nation are now debating how to pay the bill.

While Kʷiisaḥiʔis was still trapped in the lagoon, the small Ehattesaht tribe of about 500 people said they were “overwhelmed by the offers of equipment and ideas from around the world.” But now that the young killer whale is safe, the national GoFundMe effort to raise $500,000 Canadian has only raised about $44,000. And although DFO documents claim the agency made it clear that no one volunteering to participate in the rescue, including First Nations, would be compensated, the Ehattesaht are seeking “$250,000 in compensation from the governments of British Columbia and Canada for their contributions to the rescue.”

The DFO argues that the Ehattesaht Nation is asking for more than it has spent. The documents suggest that the DFO may be willing to compensate the First Nation, but the ministry declined to provide further details on the funding issue with the Ehattesaht. Ehattesaht Chief Simon John did not respond to requests for an interview.

According to the federal documents, the DFO also racked up large costs during the rescue operation. By April 21 — five days before Kʷiisaḥiʔis escaped on her own — the DFO's costs had grown to more than $260,000. That's a significant portion of the Canadian government's $1 million annual budget for rescuing marine mammals and sea turtles in distress. The program, known as the Marine Mammal Response Program, “may need to request additional funding later in the year” to maintain regular programs based on the final cost of Kʷiisaḥiʔis' rescue attempt, the documents say.

As rescue efforts dragged on and costs continued to mount, the DFO cited “strong public criticism” as a reason not to release the young whale into the lagoon, according to the documents. That's a common experience for experts tasked with protecting marine animals, said Jim Harvey, professor emeritus and former director of the Moss Landing Marine Laboratories at San Jose State University in California.

Saving wildlife raises fundamental questions about society's relationship with wildlife. When should humans intervene and when should we let nature take its course? Which species should benefit? And what should be the balance between saving wildlife and broader conservation initiatives?

Every animal in distress is different, but Harvey says public pressure and media attention often force rescuers to act. From a conservation or scientific perspective, however, that's not necessarily the most justifiable option.

As an example, Harvey cites the time in 1988 when, as a postdoctoral fellow with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, he helped rescue three gray whales trapped in pack ice in Barrow, Alaska. That rescue mission reportedly cost as much as $1 million, and ultimately one whale died and two survived.

The point is, Harvey says, that Alaska's gray whale population was in pretty good shape in the late 1980s. “That was a lot of money,” Harvey says, “that could have been spent elsewhere.”

Harvey was not involved in the Kʷiisaḥiʔis rescue attempt. “In this case,” he says, “saving an individual, particularly a female, could actually be a really important thing.”

But in reality, dealing with public pressure is a constant challenge for rescue organizations as they grapple with how best to use their limited resources. On the other hand, public display of rescued marine mammals can be invaluable for raising awareness and funds.

Harvey argues that saving a stranded animal is stronger when humans are clearly responsible for the animal's fate, such as a whale caught in a fishing net. The argument is weaker for natural events such as famines caused by, for example, a food shortage caused by El Niño. But the term “natural” has been greatly strained by climate change, habitat loss and other problems.

The Marine Mammal Center, based in California, is one of the world's largest rescue and rehabilitation organizations for marine mammals. Jeff Boehm, a veterinarian and director of external relations at the center, says: “In the 50 years that this organization has existed, we have seen that in almost every situation we can connect the dots with human action.”

The Marine Mammal Center operates along 620 miles of California's coastline, as well as in Hawaii. The center's 2024 operating budget is $22.4 million, and the organization typically cares for up to 800 marine mammals per year, including California sea lions, northern elephant seals, harbor seals, and endangered Hawaiian monk seals. None of these species are considered endangered, but the public still expects them to be saved.

Even if the rescued animal is not vital to the health of a population, Boehm said rescues offer other benefits. For example, the Marine Mammal Center's rescue work has helped scientists better understand the health risks to these animals, including the effects of toxic domoic acid (a product of some algal blooms) and the incidence of urogenital cancer in California sea lions.

Jessica Farrer, director of research at the Whale Museum in Friday Harbor, Washington, agrees that it is difficult to find the right balance between rescue and broader protection.

“I think we should probably be spending more money on habitat restoration, climate change – the bigger picture – than we are currently doing,” Farrer says. “In the long run, that will probably have a bigger impact. But those are harder problems. It takes more collaboration and more people. Saving a killer whale might give everyone a sense of doing something.”

The whereabouts of kʷiisaḥiʔis are now unknown. In the weeks and months following her escape, boaters along the coast have been watching for signs that she was still alive. The latest and most promising report came on July 5, when a recreational boater filmed a small killer whale matching kʷiisaḥiʔis's description swimming alone near Yuquot, British Columbia, about 50 kilometers south of the lagoon where this story began.