What the Orcas Taught Me About Being Alive
What the Orcas Taught Me About Being Alive
Written by Adelina Persa, Images by Chris Jimenez
PUBLISHED MARCH 2026, 12 MIN READ
The room is spare. There is a kettle on a desk, humming in the corner. Outside the window, the light barely rises above the mountains. It’s early winter above the Artic Circle, and soon the sun will disappear for weeks.
I pour hot water over another tea bag and wrap my hands around the cup, waiting to get warm. My throat burns. My body aches, wanting the familiarity of my own bed, my own pillow. Instead, I’m here, in Alta, minus fifteen outside. I imagined arriving here full of energy, ready to face the cold, not hunched over a hotel kettle, wondering if I’ve a mistake coming here while still sick. But I am here.
Every year, starting in late November and lasting until January, schools of herring are coming into the northern fjords of Norway. And the orcas come here to feed on them. They arrive in pods, working together to bring the herring into a tight ball near the surface, then strike with their tails, a hunting technique passed down through generations. It is a great wildlife spectacle, and it happens here, in the dark Arctic waters, for only a few weeks each year.
That is why we are here, to get into the water with them, to be close enough to hear and see them. I came here last year for the same reason. But the weather was rough and we never made it into the water with them. We saw them from the boat, but only from the distance. I went home with the feeling of something unfinished, so we came back.
Now, as I am sitting in the hotel room, the thought that this could happen again, coming all this way, twice, and still not get in the water, is worse than my sickness. We are supposed to be getting on a boat tomorrow, and I am definitely not well. But I’m already here. So I go anyway.
The next day, after an hour’s bus ride through heavy snow, we arrive at the harbour, and board our boat. We get a small room with bunk beds, and set up our equipment for the following day: dry suit, hood, gloves, fins, snorkel, mask.
That night, I barely sleep. I lie in the bed listening to all of the unfamiliar sounds, and thinking I didn’t come all this way to lie in a bunk bed, while my body tells me that I should rest.
Alta in early winter. The light barely rises above the mountains. Soon the sun will disappear for weeks, and the orcas will arrive.
The following morning everything looks different. It is still cold, still -15 degrees Celsius, but the sky is clear and the wind has disappeared. This, I am told by one of the freediving guides, is perfect weather to go into the water.
Perfect, that is, if you are willing to accept the cold. I am still sick, but in that moment it does not seem to matter. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the environment, maybe it’s the other people’s energy. Whatever it is, just staying on the boat feels wrong. I didn’t come all this way to be only an observer.
Our boat, anchored in the fjord. Somewhere beneath that dark water, pods are hunting together, moving through territories they’ve known for generations.
The mountains rise on both sides, white against a strange sky. Everything looks both close and impossibly far. We scan the water, waiting.
The fjord water in winter. Dark, cold, and alive with herring. The reason the orcas travel here every year.
Arctic winter. Sparse vegetation fighting through snow, shaped by wind and cold. This is the landscape above the water where orcas hunt below.
A tall dorsal fin cuts the surface. The sharp exhale of breath. Everything else falls away.
To enter the water this time of the year, there are no shortcuts, no hacks. I take the dry suit I picked the previous day and started to get dressed. Pulling on the dry suit doesn’t feel like getting dressed at all. It feels like preparing for a special mission, a descent into another world. The suit seals around you, tight and uncomfortable, and with it comes a clear message: you don’t belong where you are about to go. You are being allowed in, temporarily.
The modern world has trained me well for comfort, for temperature control and predictable outcomes. This is none of that. This is deliberate discomfort, a chosen one.
Once the suit is on, everything else follows: the hood, the gloves, the mask and snorkel. I am comfortable in the water, I dive, I enjoy swimming, the sea is not the thing that frightens me, the cold is. Last year, wearing this same type of suit tought me that I should put an extra wool layer underneath. I move slowly. We all do. In fact, we move like astronauts, stiff, with our legs wide. We look slightly ridiculous. And like that, we step over the side of the boat and onto the zodiac.
The water is almost black as our zodiac cuts across the fjords. The mountains rise on both sides, white against a strange sky, everything look both close and impossibly far. No one speaks much, we all scan the water. Then we hear them, the sharp exhale of an orca’s breath. Then, the tall dorsal fins cuts the surface. I don’t even notice the cold against my face anymore.
At the captain’s signal, we slide into the freezing water.
Mother and calf moving together. Sons never leave their mothers, daughters return with calves of their own. This is a family at work.
Working the bait ball. The herring school tight and dark, the orcas circling with precision learned over generations.
A young orca pauses, turns. They register us but don’t change course. Acknowledged and dismissed in almost the same moment.
The cold hits all at once, and the fear disappears. Below the surface, the darkness softens. From the zodiac we saw the dorsal fins, now we see them whole. Shapes materialise, black and white, moving through the water with a coordination that feels rehearsed. Their bodies weave in and out of an enormous school of herring, working the bait ball with precision. They move without visible effort, gliding as if the water offers them no resistance at all. They register us, but they don’t change course or come close enough to feel intrusive. We are acknowledged and dismissed in almost the same moment. I forget about the cold entirely. All of my focus is to their space, the space they allow us to briefly share.
I feel no fear, no cold, only the strong sensation of being profoundly alive.
They are there to feed, not to waste energy on something else. They are clearly uninterested in us. And here is what strikes me: despite being called killer whales, a name that says more about us than then, there are no documented cases of orcas attacking humans in the wild. Yet they hunt penguins, seals, sharks, even blue whales. They are apex predators, perfectly aware of their power. But they don’t need to prove anything, an idea that feels almost radical in a human world obsessed with dominance and display.
Watching them, I can see this is a family at work. They stay together all of their life, sons never leave their mothers and daughters may go, but then return with calves of their own. Everything they know, they’ve taught each other through sound, movement, repetition and shared experience. What I’m witnessing is memory in motion, a strategy refined over generations.
They disappear into the dark water as quickly as they arrived, as if they were never there at all.
And just like that, the cold returns.
As I climb back onto the zodiac, it comes back even stronger, reminding me of my limits and and my limited time in this place. Even as my fingers get numb and I start shaking, I want more. Another moment. The discomfort feels irrelevant in this moment, almost annoying, an interruption to something unfinished. I will trade warmth for that feeling again, even for a few moments.
But my body had other plans. That evening, the illness hit harder than before. Whatever adrenaline had been driving me was gone. I spent most of the night awake , coughing, aching, knowing I’ve pushed my body past what was sensible. There is a cost to ignoring your own limits, and I was paying it.
But lying in bed, exhausted, unable to sleep, something catches me by surprise. A couple a days ago, this same body felt like an obstacle. In the water, it endured. I used to believe that I had to feel strong and prepared before stepping into something difficult. That being ready was a prerequisite. But I was wrong. I can do more than I think.
The orcas enter my mind. They are out there, moving through the dark with their families, doing what they’d done for thousands of years, whether anyone is watching or not.
The ocean holds animals the size of dinosaurs, communicating in frequencies we barely comprehend. Entire ecosystems and complex social structures unfold beneath the surface of our daily lives, indifferent to whether we notice them or not. They do not wait for us to pay attention. To enter that world, even briefly, requires something simple: curiosity and the willingness to be uncomfortable.
They move without visible effort, gliding as if the water offers no resistance at all. Apex predators perfectly aware of their power.
Snow-covered forest meeting dark water. The edge where two worlds touch. Above the ice, silence. Below, orcas hunt.
A curious calf pauses to look. Learning from the pod how to hunt, how to communicate, how to navigate vast territories.
Birds scatter above the fjord as orcas work the bait ball below. The herring run draws everyone. Life feeding on life.
The pod moving together through darkness. Memory in motion, a hunting strategy refined over generations.
I’ve noticed something in my own life: when things become too comfortable, I stop paying attention. Out here, nothing lets you do that. Everything here demands presence.
I’m sick and tired and I can’t feel two of my fingers properly. But i’m not the same person who sat in that hotel room in Alta, wondering if I’d made a mistake. That person hadn’t been in the water yet.
Maybe that’s why this matters, not just the cold, or the sickness, or the act of stepping beyond what’s known. It’s what’s waiting on the other side. Because somewhere beneath the surface, right now, a pod is hunting together, teaching their young, moving through water they’ve known for generations. They don’t need us to notice. But once you’ve been in the water with them, once you’ve felt that aliveness, surrounded by a world so much larger and older than yourself, you will care.
Written with BlueTip 🦋
GEAR
The photography gear used in this story. Click on the items for more details.
