NORWAY: SWIMMING IN THE SHADOWS OF ORCAS

IN THE DIMLY-LIT DEPTHS OF WINTER, SOME 250 MILES INSIDE THE ARCTIC CIRCLE, THE FRONTIER TOWN OF SKJERVØY SERVES AS A BASE FOR ORCA SAFARIS, LED BY INTREPID DIVING GUIDES WHO TAKE TRAVELLERS INTO THE CREATURES’ ICY WORLD. WORDS: BRONWYN TOWNSEND

“Drop!” commanded Jonas, instructing us to enter the inky water of the fjord. Quietly, quickly and with as little splash as possible was the brief. Keeping our presence to a minimum was essential if we were to complete our mission. Throwing my left side over the rubbery wall of the rigid inflatable boat, I slid into the freezing waters deep inside the Arctic Circle.

Five days had passed since our first dive, our success rate standing at zero. But today, the conditions are in our favour. It’s mid-morning, yet the sun hangs low in the sky, suspended just beyond the craggy peaks of Kvænangen. Long shadows stretch to the rock-strewn shoreline, golden light painting the snowcovered mountain tops in sorbet hues of peach and salmon. The salty Arctic air is sharp with every inhale and a gentle breeze seeps through a breach between the seals of my drysuit and buff, making any attempt at curbing the subzero temperatures seem futile.

We’ve been following the annual herring migration, hoping to share the sea with the orcas that engage in feasting frenzies in the early winter. They’re late this year, though. Jonas has been asking other guides and all were experiencing the same difficulties: brief sightings, the occasional humpback fluke, but few reports of orca arrivals. Navigating the waters surrounding Skjervøy in far northern Norway, we spend the short daylight hours of the Arctic winter riding the constant roll of the tide, waves gently lapping at the boat’s exterior.

Just a short distance from the main harbour, an explosion of water rising from the surface catches our attention. Droplets like honey in the warmth of the sunlight rise and fall, a sign we can finally get acquainted with our guests. Easing closer, we watch for more indications of who we’re meeting. Slowly, the members of the pod reveal themselves. The dorsal of a large male slices through the sea, followed by the shorter dips and dives of smaller curved fins — females. Then, an urgent gulp for air from the newest member of the family, a calf barely more than three days old, completes the tally. Eight in total.

It’s time. Pulling on my fins, I flip-flop my way to the edge of the boat. Swinging my right leg over, I straddle the side, pressing the seal of my mask against frozen cheeks. Turning to Jonas, he reminds us that the orcas are in transit, and we’ll have less than a minute with them. On his signal, we drop.

Bubbles fizz around me as I plunge into the frigid sea. I focus my gaze, trying to adjust to the darker surroundings, desperately hoping for a glimpse of the animal that’s so far eluded us. Gradually, a series of black-and-white figures dance in from the left, gracefully gliding through the water with a leisurely flick of their tail. I don’t dare to blink lest they disappear. Slowly, their silhouettes fade into the depths, bidding a silent farewell.