Encounters with Orca in Iceland and Norway

Meeting orca at the edges of the known world

Orca live at the edges of human knowing. Intelligent, social and deeply place-aware, they move through arctic waters with a precision that feels both ancient and utterly alive. To encounter them is hard to summarise in words. For me, it arrived as a moment of recognition, one that rearranged something quietly inside my heart and mind. That overwhelming feeling of awe that renders you speechless. My encounters with orca have unfolded slowly, across years and across geographies, including Iceland and Norway.

From standing on land, with a pod a few miles out to sea, barely able to believe what I was seeing, to later meeting them much closer on the water once my own life had been rewritten by a positive disruption I never expected.

Each orca meeting carries a different frequency

Shaped by light, location, season and the ethics of how we choose to be with wild lives.

This is a reflection on what it means to meet orca, to notice the conditions that allow reverence or distress to emerge, and to understand how human presence can either honour or fracture orca encounters.

The first sighting: orca from the shore in Lofoten

The first time I saw orca was in summer 2019, off the coast of Lofoten, an island archipelago in Arctic Norway. Driving towards the airport really early in the morning, we’d heard they’d been in Reinefjorden the day before our arrival, surprising kayakers, and so I’d been keeping my eyes on the water. At first I couldn’t believe it, the light as diffuse and overcast, as I was driving, something caught my eye. A few miles out, dark shapes moved through the water. Too far for detail, but unmistakable. ‘ORCA’ I screamed, waking up my friends in the back.

It was the briefest encounter, we were running to the airport without much wiggle room because it was such an early transfer and the slight buffer we had was instantly gone, with just enough time to lift the camera. Taking a few frames to mark that this orca encounter in Norway had happened, to let the knowing land. I’d finally for the first time in my life, seen whales!

At this point in my life, I did not believe I would ever see orca from the water. Motion sickness had plagued me my whole life had drawn a firm boundary around what was possible for me at sea. Therefore, this orca encounter in Norway felt like a glimpse of something I might never fully step into.

Then everything changed

Two positive disruptions in 2022 changed everything, both the physical and metaphorical way I saw the world. With ADHD medication curing the lifelong curse and I was finally able to start planning trips that had nature immersion at the heart and a whole new horizon opened up and I share more about this story here.

Why are orca found in Arctic Norway?

In Arctic Norway, orca presence is shaped by light, in turn shaping the ancient movement of herring. As winter deepens and sunlight no longer reaches into the fjord systems on the north face, the herring move into the shadows deep midwinter creates and in turn, the orca follow. It blew my mind the first time I heard why it is almost like clockwork, because that is how light works. Falling below the mountain on 15th Nov and not returning until 15th Jan, giving this window of time where orca gather to feed.

Orca congregate in the waters of a small fishing village called Skjervøy, known globally for this annual return. My first time on the water in Norway was from this village. Small boats leave directly into the fjord systems where the whales are already present.

There is an intimacy to this

A sense of being with rather than arriving late to something already in motion.

Leaving the harbour at first light, you’re often the first few boats out into the fjord system. The fjord was quiet. The encounters felt spacious. Orca moved through the water with intention and ease. Humpbacks and fin whales surfaced too, part of the same living system, responding to the same seasonal flow.

The other boats all leave from the most northern city in the world, Tromsø. It can take 2-3 hours to reach the waters near Skjervøy, depending on the kind of boat you travel on. had arrived in the area.

Travelling by electric boat, a silent travel experience, through the northern fjords that line the beautiful Lyngen Alps. The journey was spectacular. Silent, immersive and respectful in its design. A reminder that how we move through wild spaces matters as much as where we go.

But the distance meant arriving later

By the time we reached the orca feeding grounds near Skjervøy in Norway, multiple vessels were already present. Boats from the village. Boats that had travelled hours more rapidly from Tromsø. And it seemed that there were not many groups of whales in the area, as there were many boats all converging on the same area, often the same group of whales. When encounters narrow like this, something shifts. The water feels tighter. The whales have fewer options. Snorkelling experiences are happening in these conditions too, something that felt unsafe for both humans and whales given how busy the area is.

What should be relational becomes crowded and the experience goes from majestic to distressing, with some highly unethical behaviour of other boats moving right over the area where humpback whales were surfacing. Witnessing moments that feel deeply uncomfortable. In these moments, awe gives way to concern.

This is where the need for regulation becomes clear

The wellbeing of the whales must be a priority. Orca are intelligent, socially complex beings. They communicate acoustically and hunt cooperatively as a collective. Noise, vessel density and human activity all affect how they move, feed and rest. Without thoughtful boundaries, even well intentioned encounters can become harmful.

Icelandic waters: presence without pressure

In contrast to Norway, my experiences with orca in Iceland unfolded with a very different way. From Ólafsvík, during late winter and early spring, encounters felt spacious. With just one tour company running, who operate in a deeply ethical way, it was possible to fully immerse in the moment. Engines were cut. Orca approached on their own terms.

Witnessing orca hunt, communicate, spy-hop and surface in synchrony. One moment in particular remains etched in my body. A group surfacing together, perfectly aligned, breath rising as one. A reminder that what we witness is not random behaviour, but deeply coordinated life.

On a later trip in Iceland, the harbour itself was rimmed with pancake ice. Cold so intense it felt ceremonial. Orca moved through these waters with ease, as if reminding us how precisely they belong.

And then there was the quietest encounter of all. Arriving at Arctic Canvas (read more here), after driving through the night chasing light across the landscape, the kettle was boiling to make a herbal tea before getting my head down and as I gazed at the sea a pod of orca passed beneath the cliffs in front of the house. I loved that three gannets were also passing by too. It took my breath away. The thought that you could live somewhere and this be the view from your dining table every day. It is the kind of moment that confirms you are exactly where you are meant to be and holds a piece of your heart forevermore.

Orca as teachers of relationship and restraint

Orca are apex predators and builders of strong family and social groups. Different populations carry different dialects, hunting techniques and social structures. Knowledge is passed down through generations. This makes them exquisitely sensitive to disruption.

Scientific research continues to reveal how sound pollution, vessel traffic and prey depletion affect their behaviour. What we experience as a brief encounter may echo long after we leave.

This is why ethical whale watching and orca encounters in Iceland and Norway matters. Not as a slogan, or a badge of honour, but what should be a baseline for any tour companies. We too can make choices. Choosing operators who limit numbers. Who cut engines, who prioritise distance and who allow whales to approach, or not, without pressure.

The difference is palpable. One feels like being invited. The other feels like intrusion.

What orca have taught me

Across Arctic and sub-Arctic waters like Iceland and Norway, orca have taught me about timing. About patience and the cost of entitlement that puts pressure on tour operators to please their customers at the expense of animal welfare.

Orca remind me why ocean advocacy cannot be abstract. It must be lived, witnessed and felt in the body when something is out of balance.

Seeing orca is never just about seeing orca. It is about how we arrive, how we listen and how we leave.

Spiritually, orca hold a different kind of gravity. They are carriers of memory. Symbols of matriarchal knowledge, collective intelligence and interdependence. They remind us that survival does not come from dominance, but from cooperation, listening and adaptation.

At the wild edges of the north in Iceland and Norway, orca continue to move with intelligence and intent. The question is whether we are willing to meet them, remembering we are in relationship and part of it all.

From witness to responsibility

These encounters are not isolated moments. They sit within a wider arc of my work as an ocean storyteller and advocate. Each time I am with whales, I am reminded that presence carries responsibility. That bearing witness also means speaking when something feels out of balance.

Orca are resilient, but they are not invincible. Shipping, fishing gear, noise pollution and climate driven shifts in prey all shape their futures. Encounters at sea must be guided by science, ethics and care, not demand.

The memory of seeing orca from the shore in Lofoten still lives in me. A moment of longing, as well as a moment of possibility. I hold it alongside the reality of being on the water now, camera steady, body at ease, listening and deeply connecting to the moment.

This is what positive disruption can do

It can return us to the places we thought were closed. As well as turn distant dreaming into lived relationship.

Orca continue to move through Arctic and sub Arctic waters in Iceland and Norway, following ancient rhythms older than our maps. To witness them is a privilege and to protect their ability to live as they have always lived is a responsibility we all share.