Forum: Tragedy of Tokitae started in 1970 with orcas’ capture
Published 1:30 am Saturday, September 2, 2023
By Ann Distefano / Herald Forum
I was so saddened to hear of Tokitae’s death (“Tokitae the orca dies Miami Seaquarium after half-century of captivity,” The Herald, Aug. 18). I have been hoping for years that the Miami Seaquarium could finally find it in their (cold, cold) heart to return her to her home waters.
Roadblock after roadblock kept the move from happening. Concerns that she would contaminate the pod if she should get close enough; concerns that the pod would contaminate her; concerns that she would be lonely without her prison staff with her; concerns if she would be able to hunt for food. My only thoughts were that she may be able to enjoy some time in her home waters, that she really could still speak her native language, that maybe the pod would recognize her and welcome her home.
The rare opportunity to learn even more about our precious orcas and how smart they really are. All that hope is now gone.
Hearing that she passed away brought memories of my aunt rushing over me. My aunt Elizabeth Dolan was a very unique person for her time. She was a single working mom of two daughters in the 40s and 50s. Quite unusual then and supporting her family with no child support. She was extremely brave in dangerous situations and weirdly reclusive in situations one would think would be easy.
She was the head of X-ray at Everett’s General Hospital for many years. In the mid ’50s she bought property on Penn Cove and built a kit cabin. It was her weekend getaway, summer vacation and then her retirement home.
It is situated directly across the cove from the capture pens used to kidnap Tokitae and others away from their family in August of 1970. Auntnie (a mispronunciation by my brother that has lasted 90 years) went to the cabin after the capture and looked out on the massive pens only a few hundred yards across the cove. I don’t know if she had specific opinions at that moment about the whole affair, but the next day she looked out on what seemed to be a lot of frantic activity in and around the pens.
It showed no signs of stopping and there were no captors in sight. Finally, she and a friend and the friend’s yappy little dog got in her rowboat and went to investigate. As they got closer to the pens they realized an orca calf was trapped in the net below the surface. They tried using their oars to free it, but it was too far down to reach. Orcas inside and outside the pen were trying to free the calf but were having no success. At one point an orca surfaced close enough to her rowboat to be touched, and she stroked it. When she was telling this story I asked if she was afraid they would hurt her. She said firmly, “No, they knew I was only trying to help,” but she thought they may have had an eye on the dog that was pitching a noisy fit. She was even considering throwing them a snack. Not a single person was monitoring the pens and she and her friend sadly rowed back to the cabin. There wasn’t a phone at the cabin and she didn’t know who to call anyway.
The rest of the weekend was a somber one.
There were no reports of deaths in the pens, so she had always hoped the family was able to save the calf. Auntnie passed away at her cabin in 1997 at 84 years of age.
Fast forward to 2014 and I am visiting Maui and the documentary “Blackfish” was being shown. I watched the film riveted on scenes in Penn Cove, and there in the distance, through the rain was Auntnie’s cabin. However, the real revelation for me was the confirmation that orcas had died during the capture, four young whales and one adult. They were gutted and filled with lead to sink them to the bottom of Penn Cove so they would never be found. Later, finally, the captors admitted there were deaths in addition to the number they took from Puget Sound. I had never really doubted Auntnie’s story, she was not a person known to elaborate her adventures, however, this revelation completely confirmed her story for me.
And now I mourn the death of the last survivor, sentenced to life in a very large bathtub, never seeing her mother and family again. If only…
Ann Distefano lives in Marysville.
