Earn the moniker “Killer,” and you’re probably capable of some pretty maniacal things.

Coordinated assaults on adult gray whales.
T-boning great whites to snack on their livers.
Spinning turtles before eating them.
Filleting herring and leaving the half-alive remains.

These beastly bodies of blubber live at the top of the food chain, with no superior.

Which begs the question: why jump in the water with them? So eagerly, in fact, that when we first found the animals, I tossed myself off the Zodiac without my mask or snorkel.

There’s the desire to capture an image. Mixed with trust. And maybe a bit of naïveté.

One grip around my foot, and I’d find my way to the bottom of the fjord.

In reality, though, the trust isn’t blind.
For all the stories of attacks on ships, there are no recorded incidents of an orca attacking a human in the wild.

The next logical question is: why haven’t they?

It could be learned behavior. Maybe we don't look like typical prey. Or maybe they've figured out we don’t offer much nutritional value.

Orcas are among the most intelligent animals on the planet. Some consider them to be the bridge between the material and spiritual worlds.

When a bull swims directly toward you, there’s no fear of what comes next.
He glances at you—ten tons of awareness—before gliding past your fins to go about his business, as you go about yours.

Nothing is said, but something is understood.

Maybe they just aren't that into you.

Or, perhaps, something deeper is at play.