SAS: The Secret Arctic Society
I grew up around water. My whole life was shaped by it. Water sports, afternoon swims, catching our dinner. A five-minute walk down the road from some of the most beautiful, warm, clear Caribbean waters people dream about visiting once, if they’re lucky. It was the kind of childhood that feels almost fictional now, even to me.
But after years of working in the dive and marine science industry, my relationship with the ocean began to change. Tropical places didn’t look the same anymore. What once felt vibrant started to feel fragile, complicated, and at times, heavy. The world of marine conservation can do that to you. My love for the ocean didn’t disappear, but it did grow tired.
Then came an invitation to join an expedition with The Seabirds. One I never imagined myself on, though colleagues had gone before me. They told me again and again that the Arctic would change everything. That it would rock my world and shift my perspective. I smiled, nodded, and hoped they were right.
The Arctic is quiet, but not silent. Sound carries differently there. The low hum of distant boats echoes and bounces off the walls of the fjords, a reminder of scale and distance. On my first night aboard our expedition ship, I slept with my AirPods in, adding a little ambient noise to the stillness. The next morning, I leaned out of my porthole and let the forty-degree air snap me fully awake.
Soon after I woke up, we got the call. Orcas nearby. Drysuits on. We loaded into the zodiac with fins, masks, and cameras, moving quickly. I spotted the first pod about a hundred feet away. The boats stayed respectful, never directly over the whales, as spouts and spy hops broke the stillness around us. Dozens of dorsal fins flashed. It felt unreal.
When I slipped into the water for my first encounter, one orca peeled off from her pod for a brief moment. A young female. She came close enough to acknowledge us, then slipped back under the surface with a single, effortless flick of her tail. They weren’t as large as I had imagined, but they were infinitely more powerful. Graceful in a way that makes everything else feel clumsy. The visibility that day stretched nearly fifty feet, and within seconds, she was gone. Vanished into the blue.
The cold kept you awake. Not in a miserable way, but in a sharpening way. The kind of cold that makes you alert, present, and deeply aware of your surroundings. Breath visible. Cheeks stinging. Eyes wide open.
The days that followed felt like a slow unfolding. After that first orca, the Arctic kept revealing itself in layers. We saw families moving together, calves tucked close, and massive males occasionally breaking away from their pods for short moments, their dorsal fins rising out of the water taller than a grown man. Powerful and calm, as if reminding us they were there.
Then came the moment I’ll carry with me forever.
We were in the water when a humpback broke through the surface of a herring bait ball. Thousands of fish packed tight, their scales catching the light and turning the water into glitter. Birds circled above, whales moved below, and suddenly this immense body rose through the chaos. Silent. Enormous. Moving with a grace that felt impossible for something so massive. That was the moment the tears came. Not from fear or sadness, but from the sheer weight of witnessing something ancient and alive in perfect alignment with its world.
We were also lucky enough to witness bait balls more than once. Elusive and fleeting. Food everywhere. Life everywhere. The sounds of highly intelligent animals communicating beneath the surface. Clicks, calls, and movement. Conversations we weren’t meant to understand, but were
somehow lucky enough to overhear. The abundance was undeniable. A reminder that when an ecosystem is allowed to function, it thrives.
The Arctic stays with you. You don’t just visit it, you carry it home. Its vastness, its restraint, its depth of beauty. I understand the draw now. It feels like being let in on something rare, like belonging to a secret club of people who have seen it and know it changes you.
Somewhere between the quiet, the cold, and the constant movement beneath the surface, my love for the ocean found its way back. Lighter. Clearer. And a little more hopeful than before. Thank you, Norway. I will never forget you.
