Beluga Whale

Hello. I am a Beluga Whale, and my story begins in the vast, chilly waters of the Arctic. My name comes from an old Russian word, ‘bely,’ which means ‘white one,’ a fitting name for the color I would one day become. But when I was born around the year 2005, my skin was a soft, dusky gray. For the first two years of my life, I stayed right beside my mother, learning everything I needed to know. I was part of a pod, which is what we call our family. In our world beneath the ice, the pod is everything. We are a tight-knit community, traveling together, hunting for food, and navigating the currents as one.

Long before my time, back in the 1800s, human sailors who heard our constant chatter gave us the nickname ‘canaries of the sea.’ We are always talking to each other, though not with songs like a bird. Our language is a complex symphony of clicks, whistles, chirps, and even moos. This constant communication allows us to share our feelings and warn each other of danger, but it serves an even more critical purpose. We use sound to ‘see’ in the dark depths of the ocean. This amazing skill is called echolocation. I produce high-pitched clicks from a special organ in my forehead called a ‘melon.’ When these sound waves travel out and hit an object—like a fish, a rock, or the underside of the sea ice—the echoes bounce back to me. From these echoes, I can form a detailed mental picture of my surroundings, allowing me to navigate and hunt with precision even when I can’t see a thing.

My body is perfectly designed for the challenges of living in the Arctic. To survive the freezing water, I have a thick layer of fat called blubber, which works like a warm, insulated coat that I wear all the time. Unlike many other whales you might know, I don’t have a dorsal fin on my back. Instead, I have a low, tough dorsal ridge. This is a brilliant adaptation because it allows me to swim effortlessly just beneath the massive sheets of sea ice without getting my back caught or injured. Another special feature is my neck. It is incredibly flexible, much more so than most other whales, which lets me turn my head almost 90 degrees. This mobility is very useful when I’m searching the seafloor for delicious cod and salmon to eat.

Every summer, my entire pod undertakes a long and important journey. We travel for many miles from the deep, cold ocean to the warmer, shallow waters of river estuaries. This might seem like a strange destination for a vacation, but we go there for a very specific reason: it’s time to molt. Throughout the long, dark winter, our brilliant white skin can become old and stained with a yellowish tint. To restore our sparkle, we spend our days in the estuaries, rubbing our bodies against the smooth gravel on the riverbeds. This feels wonderful and helps us scrub away the old layer of skin, revealing the fresh, bright white layer underneath. It’s also a massive social event where hundreds, and sometimes thousands, of us gather together.

While my ancestors thrived in these waters for thousands of years, my generation faces new and complex challenges. During the late 20th and early 21st centuries, the human world introduced more noise into our ocean home. The constant underwater hum from ship engines and other activities can make it difficult for us to hear one another and to use our echolocation effectively. Our habitat itself is also changing dramatically. The sea ice, which is central to our way of life, is melting faster than it ever has before. For some of my relatives, these changes have made survival very difficult. In 2008, the beluga pod living in Cook Inlet, Alaska, was officially recognized as endangered. Since then, humans have been working to protect them, a struggle that reminds everyone how fragile our beautiful Arctic world truly is.

We belugas can live up to 70 or 80 years, a life filled with family, migration, and sound. My story is just one of thousands that are currently swimming through the Arctic seas. We are more than just white whales; we are guardians of the Arctic and indicators of its health. When we are thriving, it is a sign that the ocean is thriving, too. My greatest hope is that our clicks and whistles will continue to echo through the northern waters for centuries to come. Our song is a constant, beautiful reminder of the vibrant life that depends on a healthy, protected planet.