Caught in the Spell of the Predator’s Eye

In the underwater distance, I saw the shark’s glistening tail fall toward the ocean floor. Then its silvery head. The 8-foot fish was being wildly devoured by orca whales. I had never seen orcas in clear water before, certainly never at the Equator, and certainly never in the frenzy of the hunt. But here were the so-called “killer whales” cruising just above me in the tropical seas of Wuvulu, New Guinea, a day after we had first spotted them.

Orcas are the masters of the ocean. Weighing up to nine tons, they can swim faster than 30 m.p.h. With sharp teeth and clenching jaws, they are the ocean’s greatest predator. Unlike larger whales, orcas band together like wolves to hunt. Thus, although they are not the largest marine mammals, orcas can prey on anything, including giant blue whales.

To some, orcas epitomize savagery in the sea. But they are beautiful and graceful animals, sharply black and white, and excitement swept over us when we first saw the male and female the previous day.

At that time, we had no diving gear with us. So we could only weave gently over the orcas in the Zodiac, our motorized inflatable boat. I intended to follow the male, but he made the first move, slipping under the small craft, slowing down as he approached, swimming on his side, fixing his left eye on my startled face. Then he took a fresh breath of air and quickly disappeared. I stood for several moments in the orange twilight, pondering the memory of his probing stare.

I thought our encounter was over. But the next day, amazingly, we saw the orcas again. Exuberant with the luck of a second chance, we maneuvered into position and dove. The orcas, animals that could bite a diver in half, did not avoid us. Neither did they approach--at least not then. They swam, always counterclockwise around the island, in and out from the reef, hunting.

I saw the male ahead of me, crossing from my right to left. He seemed to have a torn, flapping upper lip, but he slipped away before I could get a good look. I waited. He returned, again swimming from my right to left, this time much closer. I could now see that he held a flailing 6-foot manta ray in his jaws, the little pilot fish still swimming with the ray.

My frustration boiled. It was a drizzly morning, and the dismal weather was bad for filming this astonishing sight. But we had to keep trying. As far as I knew, no one ever before had swum with orcas as they chased their prey.

Male and female tore at the ray, ripping it apart. Then the male dove down about 40 meters, turning on his side to grab the last sinking morsel, jostling it like a cat with a mouse.

By then it was midday, but we stayed in the water. The orcas sailed slowly around us in a circle. They seemed in repose, as if taking siesta, yet perfectly aware of our presence.

Many times, I swam under the male, a fluke of its tail right above my head. Many times I wanted to touch it, but never did. Every time I wanted to reach out, something told me not to. Was it reluctance to wake or rouse an animal I thought was resting? Was it fear? Respect? I do not know.

The lull lasted about 1 1/2 hours, until the animals suddenly came to life again, very agitated.

Like a bullet, the female disappeared, returning with a huge live shark clamped in her mouth. I was mesmerized--the No. 1 predator feeding on No. 2. The female seemed to detour, still holding the shark, gliding right in front of us as if to flaunt her prize.

By 5 in the afternoon, we had traveled with the orcas as they hunted for about 24 miles--more than 1 1/2 times around the island. I felt both exhilarated and humbled by the privilege the orcas had bestowed on us.

They could have killed us at any time, yet they did not even try. Though we were the most accessible prey, they never turned their power against us. I don’t know why. I know only that something inexplicable took place that day, as deep to me as the gaze of the orca’s eye.