FREE SPRINGER!

Far to the north, where the water runs chilly and beds of bull kelp hug the rocky coast, the orca whales are back. Since the days of the Indians, members of northern and southern resident pods have returned to the area around this time of year, mostly to mate and feed. The whales called "killers" travel hundreds of miles from the open ocean to the area between Johnstone Strait and the Strait of Juan de Fuca, spanning Canadian waters and our own, at the mouth of Puget Sound. Today they are as much a part of Northwest culture as Mount Rainier, the Space Needle, and traffic on the floating bridges.

This year, however, the whales' home waters are a little colder than usual. First, while the population of the three southern resident pods that frequent U.S. waters continues to decrease, the only whale that anyone seems to care about is a wayward orphan from one of the northern groups, scooped from the polluted waters off Vashon Island this spring. Perhaps more alarmingly, the federal organization that governs local marine life refused last month to protect these clearly declining southern residents under the Endangered Species Act, a law that would have all but ensured their survival.

The issues present a complicated paradox—it was undoubtedly important to save an orphan poisoned by the effects of human overpopulation, but intervention diverted an unbalanced share of public interest, federal money, and media attention from the whales that needed it most. Now, as researchers celebrate the successful reintroduction of the whale known as Springer to her pod, many fear that it may be too late to save more than this one whale, and that without similarly aggressive intervention on behalf of the southern residents as a whole, the population could be headed for extinction within the next 50 years.

"That orphaned whale is a little messenger telling us that our orcas are in grave danger," says Ken Balcomb, who has studied the resident groups since 1976 and now serves as executive director of the Center for Whale Research in Friday Harbor. "Instead of recognizing the breadth of this problem, learning from our mistakes, and trying to change the ways our presence negatively impacts the health of these whales, we're ignoring the message and focusing on the welfare of the messenger."

ALL FOR ONE

By now, the story of the Vashon orphan is as familiar as the saga of Microsoft. Nicknamed Springer by scientists, the whale was first spotted off of West Seattle in January. Clearly malnourished and suffering from a skin disease, the 2-year-old showed a particular fondness for floating logs and the Evergreen State ferry, frequently nuzzling against the boat when it was docked for the night. Scientists immediately identified the whale as A-73, so named for her birth order within her pod, a whale who lost her mother and a number of other family members in 2001.

Nothing captivates the human imagination like the struggle of a survivor, and the plight of this whale was no exception. "There's no question that people were drawn to this truly remarkable individual," says Helena Symonds, co-director of OrcaLab, a Canadian research organization on Hanson Island near Blackney Pass. "These are social creatures, and the notion that an animal [as young as Springer] could survive without its family for so long is pretty amazing."

Springer's story became the feel-good animal tale of the year, and thousands flocked to catch a glimpse for themselves. Lines on the Fauntleroy ferry were longer than anyone could remember in years. Kayakers and other recreational boaters ventured out in record numbers. Whale-watch outfits cashed in, too, chartering "See Springer" trips that sold out every time.

But as traffic around Springer increased, her condition worsened. Her skin disease spread from her mouth to her blowhole, she stopped eating, and she appeared lugubrious, even catatonic. When scientists determined that the whale could not get better without a change of scene, officials from the National Marine Fisheries Service (NMFS) decided to intervene. NMFS freed up money from the Prescott Stranding Grant program and arranged to have the whale transported to a makeshift holding pen near Manchester for further tests and observation.

With the announcement of a federally funded rescue, private donations came pouring in, stoking the attention of local and national media. In Bremerton, The Sun covered the animal like a celebrity. Seattle papers and TV stations joined in with daily updates, clamoring on the editorial pages for a swift and painless effort. On June 13, the day NMFS came to capture the whale, KOMO and KING staged live feeds, broadcasting real-time WhaleTV all day long. Even Peter Jennings got in on the action, closing his national newscast that same night with a fluffy feature from the waters of Puget Sound.

"People from Portland, Ore., to Portland, Maine, were talking about this whale," says NMFS spokesperson Brian Gorman. "It was like Free Willy all over again."

On the one hand, this hullabaloo helped save Springer. Yet the glut of attention prompted a vicious cycle of public relations and spending on the governmental level—the more concerned about the whale people seemed to get, the more resources NMFS had to expend to handle the situation. On the day of the rescue, Gorman worked 16 hours straight. Sources add that the rescue cost more than $60,000—the single most expensive marine mammal intervention since the effort following the Exxon Valdez oil spill in 1988.