Bright Ocean Sun

Through the persistent rain of Washington State, the Sun shines bright on the Salish Sea. Cormorants move silently through the air, while gulls laugh and dive under the chilled cover of water. Ferries bus commuters and sightseers along the evergreen coast. A small section just off of the unfathomable expanse of the Pacific Ocean, these waters house seals, salmon, and majesty. Underneath the shroud of liquid, large shadows speed by, choosing when they want to be seen—when they want to be heard. Often, triangular points of shadow cut above the surface, shiny, black skin kissed by chilled winds. Finally, a sound. Pufft! And an explosion of breath. White eyepatches gleam as the shadows meet sunlight: the Southern Resident killer whales. 

L Pod visits Puget Sound often. Their youngest members, L126 and L127, Ken and Scuba— alphanumeric codes in tandem with their written names—breach clumsily next to their mothers. The cousin calves both reached two years old this year, a welcome milestone for a struggling population. Famine has struck the J, K, and L pods, with their primary food source, Chinook salmon, dwindling significantly over the past few decades. While humans stare from boats, ogling the whales’ beauty, the beasts struggle to feed themselves and their calves. Infant loss is all too common among the Southern Residents. Famously, J Pod member J35, Tahlequah, lost her newborn calf and carried the infant’s body with her for seventeen days in what’s known as her “Tour of Grief.”

As Ken and Scuba practice their skills, a larger shadow moves nearby. In her old age, she has only barely slowed down, still moving with the same powerhouse force that saved her in 1970. Cloaking herself in an air of awe and mystery, L25, Ocean Sun, surfaces to take a breath. As quickly as she emerges, she disappears, enveloping herself in the salty seawater that once housed her daughter. No one knows what she is thinking, but everyone knows what she remembers. A mother can never forget her child, her loss, and the torture that they both endured. 

Penn Cove houses horrifying memories for L Pod, memories that Ocean Sun experienced all too close. A tiny notch in a sliver of sea, the area does not seem intimidating to the naked eye. In fact, it is barely noticeable. But to the dark-blue eyes of L Pod, the suffering seemed too great to ever return. 

On August 8, 1970, a herd of ships arrived in Penn Cove. These ships were not there to fish, but to hunt. 

Nearby, L Pod swam alongside J and K Pods, the other two Southern Resident groups. Ocean Sun, forty-two years old at the time, swam alongside her daughter, four-year-old Tokitae. Surrounding them were the other pod members, the juveniles on edge. Keen senses don’t lie; something was wrong.

Nets deployed into the crisp seawater, surrounding the group of whales. The boats moved accordingly. Explosives detonated and deafening airplanes flew overhead. Killer whales, apex predators, corralled like cattle by human ranchers. Five were killed in entanglements, their drowned bodies discreetly disposed of so as not to be included in the total capture number. Seven more were stolen—calves taken from their mothers, loaded into boats, and shipped across the country. Among them: the young Tokitae. 

The fate of the other six calves is not as well documented as that of Tokitae. After being ripped from her mother, the four-year-old Southern Resident was brought to a concrete tank in Miami, Florida, an environment entirely different from her native waters. They stripped her of her home, her pod, and her name. Tokitae, a Chinook word meaning “bright day, pretty colors,” was changed to Lolita, a stage name, after the controversial novel of the same title. The Miami Seaquarium, which permanently closed its doors on October 12, 2025, housed one other orca in Tokitae’s tank—a male called Hugo. Coincidentally, Hugo was another Southern Resident killer whale. For ten years, the two shared a small concrete pool, until Hugo’s self-inflicted death in 1980. After his passing, Tokitae was alone; the last in Miami to speak her language, the last to remember the Salish Sea. 

Meanwhile, Ocean Sun swam. She was wild, but not free. After the capture of the seven calves and the murder of five, Ocean Sun’s L Pod no longer felt the freedom to claim the whole Salish Sea. Following the horror they endured, they never returned to Penn Cove. Who could return to an area of such nightmares? Where families watched their own be swept up by nets, where siblings watched each other drown in what were once their safe waters? Penn Cove was abandoned by L Pod, a cursed bay. 

In Miami, Tokitae continued her life alone. There were no other orcas for her to interact with, only Pacific white-sided dolphins shared her pool. She was not compatible with these tankmates, who ganged up on her often. At one point, dozens of dolphin attacks were recorded on her in a single day. Crowds of humans gathered to watch Tokitae’s show as she performed tricks under the name Lolita. In her struggle with human-led life, performances were her only enrichment throughout the day. The rest of her time was spent in that shallow, concrete circle. Over time, activists took over, calling for Tokitae’s release to the Salish Sea. Her captivity was hotly debated, with advocates fighting the Miami Seaquarium for decades over the issue. A nonprofit organization, Friends of Toki, was founded and gained nationwide support in demand of Toki’s release. The Lummi Nation, indigenous to Tokitae’s home and to whom she was considered family, called for her return to their waters. As more captive orcas died throughout the country, Tokitae became one of the only wild-born killer whales remaining in captivity. At this point, she was the oldest. 

Eventually, there was a breakthrough with the Seaquarium. In early 2023, the location announced its preparation to send the whale back to her native waters within the next two years—the waters where Ocean Sun still shined.

The plan was to airlift Tokitae to an open sanctuary in the waters between Washington and Canada. The sanctuary’s location was never confirmed, and updates were sparse. By 2023, she had been away from her natural habitat for fifty-three years and would, ironically, need to be re-taught how to hunt by humans onsite. Those in support of Toki’s journey nationwide were hopeful for her and Ocean Sun’s eventual reunion. People debated whether the two would recognize each other, the likely answer being yes. Rescuers believed that Ocean Sun, whose pod never forgot the ambush at Penn Cove, would not have forgotten the daughter that she fought for. At the time, hopes were high. Tokitae’s human fighters waited in anticipation for updates on this two-year project. 

On August 18, 2023, a blunt, heartbreaking update was released by the Miami Seaquarium via Facebook: Tokitae was dead. Likely due to renal failure, Tokitae passed at fifty-seven years old, in a shallow, concrete pool, under a name that was not her own. She had no idea that she had just barely missed her release, the chance to feel the salty, cold, and open waters of Puget Sound again. The chance to meet her infant podmates, to taste Chinook salmon again. The chance to be reunited with her mother, ninety-five at the time. Tokitae lost it all, and the world mourned. She was not supposed to finally become free under such conditions; nothing went as planned. In the Salish Sea, Ocean Sun was left as the final living member of her matriline. 

A month later, Tokitae returned home under tragically different circumstances than originally planned. Her ashes were returned to the Lummi Nation, her human family. Sk’aliCh’elh-tenaut, as she was named by the Lummi people, was picked up from Georgia—where her necropsy was performed—by a Lummi elder. The cedar box which held her ashes weighed over three hundred pounds, and was decorated with a painting of her fluke, as well as a flag that was flown from a boat where her sanctuary site was supposed to be, inscribed with her traditional name. Her release was held in a Lummi ceremony, performed privately. Ocean Sun swam in those same waters, unaware that her daughter had been returned home. 

The concept for Tokitae’s ocean sanctuary has since been repurposed, blossoming into a working effort to build a sea pen for captive cetaceans to be released to Nova Scotia, an effort known as the Whale Sanctuary Project. This project is currently in proposal stages, and has not been confirmed. The voice for Tokitae did not die down, but instead shifted to support other whales in need. Thus, Toki did not die in vain, and her legacy lives on to support other captive whales in similar situations to her own. 

Over a year after Tokitae’s death, L Pod made a great stride of progress in reclaiming their seas: in a historic homecoming, the group returned to Penn Cove. After fifty years of abandoning the cove, L Pod was called back. Ken and Scuba gallivanting through the bay, unaware of the heft that had closed off this area from their family for so long. And Ocean Sun, finally gaining the strength to return to an area of such tragedy and loss. Her daughter’s ashes, now one with the Salish Sea, engulf her dark shadow, welcoming her home. This homecoming stands as a powerful sign of hope for the future of the Southern Residents. 

Today, Ocean Sun swims at an impressive ninety-seven years old, the oldest orca currently alive. The last member of her matriline, she now travels with the L11 matriline, becoming one with their family. Though the worst chapter of the Southern Residents’ lives—the wild capture of their brethren—has since concluded, Ocean Sun and her fellow Southern Residents face detrimental food supply issues every day as a result of the dwindling number of Chinook salmon. These issues, worsened by the industrial Snake River dams sectioning off the salmon’s spawning grounds, have been constant within the Canada-Washington biosphere for decades. If these supply issues persist, there is potential for a future without the Southern Residents. 

As of right now, seventy-five Southern Resident killer whales remain. Of the three pods, L Pod, claiming Ocean Sun and Tokitae, is the largest, with thirty-three living members. The neighboring K Pod is the smallest, with only fourteen members, the lowest number since counts began. Through distress, hopes still remain high for the success of the critically endangered population. In the face of adversity, all one can do is hope. The Lummi Nation had hope for Tokitae until the very end. Hopes for Ken and Scuba’s health are high, and hope for success of the Whale Sanctuary Project is consistent. Tokitae’s story, and the stories of other orcas like her, have changed the way humans approach captivity as a whole. There is great power within these whales, who slink quietly under the dark ocean surface. 

Even in famine, infant loss, and capture, the Southern Resident killer whales still emerge to breathe. In the darkest of times, there remain bright days and pretty colors. And through it all, the Sun shines bright within the Salish Sea.

Alexa DoVale

Alexa DoVale is studying Education, Marine Biology, and Environmental Science at Roger Williams, and is a member of the class of 2027. Alexa is entering the field of environmental and conservation education, hoping to empower current and future generations to protect our natural world by fostering consciousness of conservation needs. They hope their work inspires readers to engage in conservancy.