Seabirds have long been considered indicator species, useful for gauging the health of a marine ecosystem as a whole. They can be observed more easily than fish, whales, and other creatures living under the surface of the ocean. For most of our history, humans had very few ways to make observations beneath the waves. Seabirds, however, have always been visible to us. Though they live and breed above water, they feed almost exclusively on fish. They form an arm of the marine food web that sticks up above the water, where we can see it with the naked eye.

In recent centuries, technological advancements have made it just as easy to take measurements under the water, observing entire marine ecosystems in situ, but so too have they multiplied the number of ways in which we can study seabirds.

The Evolution of Tools and Methods

The 21st century saw a number of advancements that affected the field of seabird biology. There was a boom in the popularity of solar panels, improving remote camera setups. Drones, or remotely piloted aircraft systems (RPAS), were approved for commercial and private use. Machine learning, particularly neural networks, became mainstream tools. And of course, the quality of images taken on digital cameras continues to improve.

All of these tools came together on the project that became my master’s thesis (and that of three other students). Together we studied breeding success at three mixed Double-crested Cormorant and Pelagic Cormorant nesting colonies, but my project focused more particularly on comparing methods of surveying.

Remote Island Realities: Mitlenatch Island

The three colonies sit on a spectrum of remote to urban environments. Mitlenatch Island is a tiny island in the Salish Sea, only about one kilometer long by half a kilometer wide. It sits in the north of the Salish Sea between Vancouver Island and mainland British Columbia, Canada. Both Vancouver Island and the mainland are covered in rainforest, but Mitlenatch Island is in the rain shadow of Vancouver Island, making it a tiny semi-arid blip in the middle of the sea. It is accessible only by small boat and is a provincial park and nature reserve with only a couple public trails. I have been to Mitlenatch Island six times, but many volunteers in its stewardship trust have visited countless times over many decades.

Where they haven’t been, however, is the Double-crested Cormorant nesting colony atop the cliff at the southwest corner of the island. It is far from the public trails, and we needed a permit from BC Parks to access that part of the reserve. One week after moving to British Columbia, I was clambering up those rocks to install a camera to photograph the cormorants for my master’s degree research.

Many seabirds nest on cliffs because they afford protection from predators. But this cliff was accessible to numerous predators: crows, ravens, gulls, and even otters can get close enough to snatch eggs if the parent is away from the nest. And as we found in the photos on the camera that first year, the cormorant parents all left their nests nearly every day for the same reason: bald eagles. A bald eagle pair nests on Mitlenatch Island, less than 200 m away from the cormorant colony. Every time either of them overfly the colony, or any of their young that are still around (juvenile eagles may stay with their parents for a few years while they mature), every last cormorant flushes from the colony.

Years of Discovery and a Breakthrough

In 2021, the first year we set up the camera at the Double-crested Cormorant colony, we observed that not a single chick hatched. We didn’t get any photos of eggs either, but we assumed that some had been laid given the normal courtship and incubation posture we saw the cormorants in. When we returned that fall to collect the camera (not knowing what we would find on it, as it doesn’t transmit the photos), we spotted eggshells a stone’s throw away from the colony. Not somewhere they would have ended up after hatching. We assumed predation of those eggs. Some predation is expected, of course, in any population, but we were astonished to realize not a single egg had survived to hatch.

What happened to them? The camera showed evidence that pressure from the bald eagle family was causing the cormorants to flee from their nests daily, only returning once the threat had passed. It captured numerous photos of an empty colony with eagles seen in the background. In 2023, the camera finally captured proof: a photo of a crow, with an egg in its beak, flying past the camera while all the nests were empty.

Then, in 2024, for the first time since installing the camera, we saw chicks. Something had gone right for the colony this year, but what? The eagles were still around, with their family of four flying around the island. We don’t know what made the difference that year. Our options for observation were limited to our post-mounted camera and the kayak-based surveys done by the stewardship trust. Mitlenatch Island is too remote for frequent visits.

Middle Ground: Gabriola Island

Gabriola Island is much larger at 14 km long by 4 km wide and is less remote—being accessible from the city of Nanaimo by a 25-minute ferry ride. It is also between Vancouver Island and the mainland, but unlike Mitlenatch Island it has permanent human inhabitants, and is bypassed constantly by boat traffic both large and small. The Gabriola Island cormorant colony is on a sheer cliff face facing the city of Nanaimo and a busy shipping channel, but atop the cliff there are only a few quiet dwellings. Here, too, we installed a single static camera to photograph the colony from above. Unlike Mitlenatch Island, however, we had a vantage point 1 km away in Nanaimo from which we could take long-distance photos, too. We took these once or twice per breeding season. The Gabriola Island colony successfully reared chicks throughout my time working on the project, but wasn’t nearly as productive as the third colony site.

Urban Success Story: The IMSN Bridge

The largest colony not only in our study, but in the entire Salish Sea, is found on the mainland at the Ironworkers’ Memorial Second Narrows (IMSN) Bridge in Vancouver. The IMSN Bridge connects the city of Vancouver with the Lower Mainland’s north shore, and is one of only two road bridges that do so. The cormorants nest on the crisscrossing support beams below the road surface and have vehicle traffic passing overhead 24/7. A rail bridge passes parallel to the IMSN Bridge less than 100 meters away, and a shipping channel passes right below. It’s unlikely for the IMSN Bridge cormorant colony to ever have a quiet day. But there’s one thing that doesn’t seem to give them much trouble: eagles.

In all our observations of the bridge colony, 2–4 times per week for five breeding seasons, we have never observed the cormorants flush from their nests. There are certainly bald eagles in the area, with at least one nest within 1 km of the bridge. But they don’t seem to frighten the cormorants on the bridge like they do those on the cliffs.

Why not? The question of why animals do anything is always difficult. It’s possible the horizontal surface overhead makes the cormorants feel safer, or even that it hides the eagles from their view when they are close enough to normally be a concern. Whatever the mechanism might be, it appears the bridge offers some measure of predator protection to the cormorants.

The Power of Access and AI

Aside from apparently being less accessible to eagles, the IMSN Bridge colony was more accessible to us as researchers. We students took it in turn to visit the colony (averaging 2–4 visits per week between the four of us) and photograph it from a ground-level vantage point below the bridge. We used a robotic mount, tripod, and 200x zoom lens to take a mosaic of photos, to be stitched together into a panorama later. We also experimented with the use of a drone, or RPAS, to photograph the nests from above. Because the bridge colony was so accessible, we ended up with more panoramas than we could process. Finally, we developed a convolutional neural network (CNN) to count the cormorants and nests in the panoramas. The CNN can scan a panorama much faster than a human, and after months of tuning, is about as accurate as a human too. With our Nanaimo-based vantage point, it might be possible to someday make a similar model for Gabriola Island, but Mitlenatch Island is too far from any other landmass for it.

A Changing Field with Expanding Possibilities

The three colonies we studied have varying degrees of accessibility and different sets of survey methods. Ultimately, there is no single method that can be used at every colony. At the IMSN Bridge, which is owned by the provincial government, we were unable to get permission to install a stationary camera. We didn’t have the time or resources for frequent visits to Gabriola Island or Mitlenatch Island. Hiring a licensed RPAS pilot was prohibitively expensive to do for the duration of the project. Any seabird colony study will run into limitations on what methods are feasible for them. Even so, we are spoiled for choice in comparison to past decades. New methods can improve the quality of data, the amount and types of data it’s possible to collect, and the speed at which they can be analyzed. With an abundance of data and software tools to process it, we can investigate new and more complex questions with the time we would once have spent on manual entry and calculations. Where our options as seabird biologists were once limited to recording data with pencil and paper from a boat or bird blind, a whole world of new possibilities has opened up.

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About the Author

Rose Wilkin is a lesbian conservationist based in Vancouver, BC. She monitors the Great Blue Heron colony in Stanley Park and previously studied various cormorant colonies in the Salish Sea. Rose received her Master’s degree in Ecological Restoration from Simon Fraser University in collaboration with the British Columbia Institute of Technology. Her thesis focused on cormorant monitoring methods. Her forthcoming paper based on this work will appear in Ornithological Applications. Seabirds have been her lifelong passion, and she considers it a privilege to study them in her career.

 

I used to measure success in cost savings and efficiency gains. My days were spent analyzing data, reassuring stakeholders, and ensuring goods moved smoothly from point A to point B. It was a career that made sense on paper – stable, well-paying, and rewarding. But over time, I started to feel a disconnect. I couldn’t shake the question: what impact am I actually making?

That question nagged at me, growing louder with each passing month. Then, in 2023, I decided to take a break. I left my corporate job and spent time traveling abroad, hoping to learn about myself and the world around me. Along the way, I explored the oceans I had only seen in documentaries, earning scuba diving certifications and witnessing firsthand the beauty and fragility of marine ecosystems.

Underwater, I found the passion I had been searching for and the clarity I had been chasing. Everywhere I looked, there was vibrant life. Schools of fish wove effortlessly through the water. Occasionally, one would stop to acknowledge me before continuing on its way. Corals, anemones, starfish, crabs, and urchins adorned the ocean floor, creating a mesmerizing tapestry of color and movement.

I felt such a connection to everything around me, like I was a part of it. I wasn’t just observing nature – I was immersed in it, welcomed by it. It made me question the role we choose to play in the natural world. Do we have to remain outsiders and disruptors? Or could we begin to see ourselves as part of a larger environmental community, with the responsibility to protect it?

Unfortunately, our impact so far has been detrimental. Coral reefs, which support 25% of all marine life, are bleaching and dying due to human-caused issues like acidification and rising ocean temperatures. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) projects that up to 90% of our coral reefs could disappear by 2050 if current trends continue. Key species are losing their habitats, shellfish can no longer form their shells, and populations are at risk of extinction from overfishing.

Our oceans are suffering, and we can’t afford to let that happen. Aside from being beautiful and full of fascinating life, the ocean supports humanity. It regulates our climate, produces oxygen, and provides food security for billions of people. It’s not enough to admire the ocean, we must act to protect it.

I am now a graduate student studying Ocean and Coastal Resource Management. In other words, how we govern, protect, and sustainably manage the ecosystems that exist in our oceans and where land meets sea. I’m learning about how we can build policies and practices that work with nature rather than against it.

Unlike my corporate career, where efficiency was the goal, this new path is filled with ambiguity and open-ended questions. The transition hasn’t been easy. It’s daunting to step away from a familiar world into one where outcomes are harder to measure and career paths are less defined. But I’ve also realized something crucial: my experience in the corporate world wasn’t wasted time, it was preparation.

Strategic thinking, managing complexity, and building partnerships are skills just as essential in conservation as they are in business. Professionals across traditional industries are uniquely equipped to take on environmental work, and shifting careers can lead to deeper meaning. That feeling I had underwater, of being part of something larger and worth protecting, is what continues to guide me.

Ultimately, the crises we face – rising temperatures, pollution, biodiversity loss – affect every single one of us, whether we realize it or not. Addressing them, protecting the systems that sustain life, should be an urgent global priority.

Healing the environment isn’t the job of scientists alone; there are broad, collective efforts to conserve and restore natural ecosystems. These efforts need storytellers to shift public opinion, analysts to track progress, economists to shape financial strategies, and policymakers to drive systemic change. In other words, they need people from every profession. They need you.

Critics of leaving corporate life may argue that stepping away from stability is a reckless move, one that sacrifices financial security and career progression. There’s some truth in that concern. But what’s often overlooked is the cost of staying: stagnation, disillusionment, and the feeling of contributing to something that no longer aligns with who you are.

Maybe the ocean isn’t your thing, and that’s okay. Our parks, forests, rivers, and wetlands need just as much attention. The skills, passion, and urgency required to protect each of these places are the same. What matters is choosing to engage, wherever your connection to the natural world lies.

Of course, not everyone can pivot careers, but purpose can also be found in staying. It can be found in pushing for sustainable practices, launching green initiatives, and advocating for policy changes within your company. You can also volunteer with, or donate to, environmental groups. Every action matters. Whether it’s by changing careers or embedding sustainability into your current role, you can be part of the solution.

If you’re seeking inspiration, just look around. I’ve found mine in countless people who work tirelessly and selflessly to protect our planet. One of the most meaningful moments of my journey so far was meeting Dr. Sylvia Earle at the Goldman Environmental Prize Ceremony, and having the chance to personally thank her. Though our exchange was brief, it left a lasting impression.

Dr. Earle has been a trailblazer in ocean exploration and conservation for decades. Her advocacy, research, and storytelling helped shape how the world sees and values the ocean. She is a personal hero of mine, and a reminder that change can begin with a single person. People like Dr. Earle, and so many others, prove that one voice, one career, one commitment can ripple outward and make waves. I’ve already experienced so many moments that reaffirm my passion for this work, and I know more inspiration lies ahead to keep me moving forward.

To anyone feeling stuck or unfulfilled, do yourself a favor and ask: does your current path align with your values? Does it make you proud? The world needs people who understand both business and sustainability, who can bridge the gap between commerce and conservation.

When I think about my future now, I feel incredibly optimistic. The challenges in protecting our ocean are enormous, but so are the opportunities. My journey is still unfolding, but for the first time in my career I know I’m moving in the right direction.

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About the Author

McKenzie Ploen is a graduate student in Ocean and Coastal Resource Management and a
former corporate supply chain strategist. She writes about sustainability, purpose-driven work,
and marine conservation.

A lot of the time, we humans like to consider ourselves unique, evolved, and somewhat separate from our animal cousins. We, however, have a lot more in common than we think. While our culture has historically had a negative attitude towards homosexuality, for over 1,500 species of animal, homosexual behavior is natural. Cetaceans (i.e., whales, dolphins, and porpoises) in particular have been recorded expressing an entire spectrum of queer behaviors. This group of species are considered more emotionally intelligent than humans, suggesting that their thoughts and emotions are more complex and developed than our own. Which leads to the question – what can whales tell us about human queer identities?

The Anti-Nuclear Family

While the Spice Girls may have coined the term Girl Power in the late 1990s, whales have been living this slogan since time immemorial. A society led by ‘single’ females is one that may be unconventional to us yet is traditional beneath the waves. Matrilineal social structures, where females are head of the family and a male’s main contribution is reproduction, is standard across many species of cetacean. Back when Northern Resident killer whale C1 (Namu) was accidentally captured in nets in British Columbia in the 1960s, and subsequently transported to Seattle aquarium in a floating sea pen, the media considered the whales following Namu to be his wife and children. In fact, these whales were his mom and siblings. Some of the first people to study killer whales also thought that pods were led by the largest male in the group (i.e., patriarchal), when in fact these males are in fact largely dependent on their moms for their whole lives. Whale families are more akin to human family structures led by single moms, lesbian moms, or moms raising their kids with a village of family and friends. There is something to be said about the world’s most emotionally evolved species being led by females.

‘Bromances’ and ‘Gal Pals’

As a lesbian, I have been victim of the ‘friends’ or ‘sisters’ generalization when my wife and I are doing something as basic as renewing our health cards or going out for dinner. This human bias also translates to the underwater world of whales. Killer whales typically stay with their moms their whole lives, but sometimes, male whales are seen outside of their immediate family group. There are instances of two or more male, adult killer whales travelling and associating with each other for years, like shark-eating Port with Starboard off South Africa, T128 (Flotsam) with T125A (Jetsam) in the Northeast Pacific, and W001 (John Coe) with W008 (Aquarius) off the west coast of Scotland. Whether these whales are together through circumstance (i.e., roommates) or more (i.e., lovers), these associations are typically labelled ‘brothers’ or ‘friends’. Similarly, female sperm whales are considered to form life-long friendships with other females. They are even known to share the equivalent of ‘inside jokes’ through unique dialects across generations, redefining our human standards of BFFs. As this species is deep diving, we as humans only get to observe this species for the brief moments they are at the surface, meaning there could be a lot more going on between these besties than meets the eye.

From assumptions to observations, whilst captivity limits the ability of whales to exhibit natural behaviors, it’s one benefit is the ability to observe whales up close and personal – for science. Lesbian sex between killer whales has been observed in captivity, and whilst the reason behind this behavior is not 100% confirmed, some scientists have suggested that same-sex genital contact in female dolphins is driven by their ability to feel pleasure via their evolved clitorises. Females however are not alone in this. Homosexual behaviors are more commonly observed between male whales (maybe because it is more obvious…). In western Australia, male bottlenose dolphins regularly take part in sexual contact with other males to strengthen long-term alliances and maintain social structure. Bottlenose dolphins off western UK waters have also been reported to exhibit similar behavior. Dolphins, however, are not alone in this. Humpback whales were in the news recently for exhibiting the same behavior off the coast of Hawaii. The first time that sex between two humpback whales was photographed and it happened to be between two male whales. Similarly, male killer whale ‘bachelor’ groups have been observed rubbing body parts together, including their “sea snakes”. Whilst we can only attribute physical sexual observations to whales due to the limitations of field research and our understanding, it is possible that whales exhibit more than sexually-driven attraction for the same-sex. Female humpback whales have previously been recorded singing (usually a trait exclusive to male whales) during the breeding season. Whether this is because the whale wanted to deter nearby male whales, attract a female, or because the whale identified as a male – we will never know.

It’s in Their DNA

An important part of the 2SLGBTQIA+ rainbow includes the ‘I’ – intersex individuals. As well as being born with sex characteristics that are not “typical” for male or female bodies, they are also more likely to identify as queer than non-intersex people. For humans, there is a general lack of research for intersex-identifying individuals, so it is no surprise that there is similarly an incomplete understanding in the world of whales. One of the earliest observations in cetaceans was of an intersex fin whale back in the 1960s, and in recent years, there have been numerous additional observations of wild intersex whales including common dolphins, beaked whales, beluga whales, and southern right whales. The era of DNA-based assessment of whales has driven the discovery of intersex individuals, showing that in cetaceans, intersex is more common than historically thought. Suites of DNA tests, when used in parallel, essentially show that XXY or XYY are possible variations of sex chromosomes instead of being considered ‘anomalies’ through a heteronormative lens. In my own research, we use these exact tools to try and figure out the sex of wild whales from the DNA they leave behind in their ‘wake’ – i.e., flukeprints. While this approach can tell us if the DNA signature is male or female (sometimes with ambiguous results), I am often left wondering how the animals perceive and identify themselves. Lastly, in the whale research world, if we do not know the sex of a whale we are monitoring, most refer to them as they/them – the singular pronoun. Gender-neutral pronouns exist in the animal world as they do in the human world and using them is really not that difficult.

So, there it is. A light-hearted look at the queer lives of whales and how it makes us think more about what it means to be in the 2SLGBTQIA+ community. I of course caveat with the above as daring to look through a non-heteronormative lens (at the risk of anthropomorphizing), to get you thinking about how our queer identities are not all that different from our animal cousins. In fact, it is natural and should be celebrated as part of the diversity of life.

 

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About the Author

Dr. Chloe Robinson (she/they) is a scientist, conservationist, and science communicator. She currently holds the position of Advisor & Technical Lead for the Whales Initiative at Ocean Wise, where she leads conservation programs aimed at protecting vulnerable whale species. As a scientist, they primarily focus on developing and implementing environmental DNA-based approaches for closing data gaps on whales and their prey, having published 25+ peer-reviewed articles on the application of non-invasive methods for monitoring biodiversity. As a conservationist, she leads the Whale Report Alert System (WRAS), which reduces the risk of ship strike for large whale species across the west coast of North America. As a science communicator, she has won awards for their contributions to public engagement and science dissemination. She identifies as a gender non-conforming lesbian and a passionate advocate for Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion (EDI) in science. They have spearheaded initiatives such as a workshop series at the University of Guelph to increase 2SLGBTQIA+ visibility in STEM, a Pride seminar series at Swansea University, and the annual Big Gay Whale Watch on Vancouver Island. Chloe considers themself lucky to be an uninvited settler living, working, and playing on traditional territories of the lək̓ʷəŋən (Lekwungen) peoples (“Victoria’, Canada), where she lives with their wife, son, cats, and many whale neighbours.