The "F" pod surfaced. We were in awe. Stretching for at least 2 kilometers in every direction dorsal fins rose and vanished, sleek in the morning sunshine. Poseidon offered for view his pied denizens of the deep. Like geysers their breath rose. Twenty five killer whales or-- as the politically correct would say, "orcas"-- surrounded us. The eldest son's fin rose nearly two meters above the stainless sea. Grandma, the matriarch, ruled. Her wish was their command. At final count, her pod numbered 42. But, we saw babies, 300 kilo bundles of joy; maybe "F" pod had grown again.

They followed us past a pod of 7 Humpbacks feeding on herring. Up ahead two sea lions were feeding on salmon. Steady as she goes. A lone sea otter casually bobbed on its back on the horizon. This furry morsel floated undaunted as the orcas streamed past on either side.

The combination of the vocalizations of the whales – let’s call it singing - heard from our hydrophones, the visual confirmation of at least one individual, F17, and the lack of appetite for furry sea mammals and other whales, proved beyond a doubt that we were indeed watching the Resident pod "F".

But, all analysis aside, it was just plain beautiful to be escorted up the Icy Straits by these whales. We'll have our pictures and videos and sketches, but our memories won't need printing or processing. They're there to touch and feel forever.