The sea was rough that day. Grey waves rolled one after another like heavy sheets. The wind whistled, beating the water and whipping up foam. Storm clouds rolled across the horizon — huge and dark as mountains.
And at the foot of a rocky cape, where the shore dropped sharply into the depths, lay a killer whale. It was young — not yet an adult, but no longer a calf. Its skin glistened with black and white spots, as if painted by a master’s hand. But now it was covered with salt, scratches and blood. It was stuck.
The tide had thrown it onto the sharp rocks, and now the water was receding. With every passing minute, the sun burned more intensely. The weight of her own body pressed on her lungs, and each breath was difficult. The orca made long, desperate sounds — cries of pain and calls for help.
At the other end of the cape, in a small settlement, Emma heard her. Emma was a marine biologist, one of those who knew the language of the ocean better than the language of humans. She had seen many animals in distress before. But this sound… was different. It was conscious. Like a plea. Emma ran to the shore and then to the radio.
‘We have a killer whale! A young one! On the rocks! We need a team!’
Forty minutes later, the rescuers arrived — a team of sailors, volunteers, and zoologists. They knew that if the orca did not return to the water, it would die. But rushing to throw it back was dangerous: it could damage its spine. They had to act slowly, precisely, without panicking.
They spread out wet sheets and ordinary old blankets that someone had brought from home. People splashed them with sea water and carefully covered the orca to protect its skin from the sun. Emma poured water over its head, neck and fins. It seemed that the animal understood that it had not been abandoned. Time passed. The tide had to return. But it was too slow. Someone said:
‘She won’t survive.’ But Emma shook her head:
‘She’s fighting. Look into her eyes. She understands us.’
And indeed, the killer whale was looking. Not like an animal trapped by instinct. But like a creature that waits, believes, hopes. Her breathing was heavy, with wheezing and moaning. But she did not twitch or lash her tail. She trusted.
Four hours passed. The wind picked up, the sky darkened, and it smelled like rain. The waves began to return. Small at first, then higher and higher. People held sheets and ropes so that the waves would not hit the orca too hard.
‘Now… now…’ Emma whispered, keeping her hands on the animal. And finally, one wave crashed over the rocks with a force that could be either salvation or the end. Everyone froze.
The water rose even higher and touched the orca’s body. It twitched. A second wave, and its body shifted slightly. A third, and it began to swim. People cried out — joyfully, with relief, but still with anxiety.
The killer whale began to swim away… and then suddenly stopped. It turned around and swam towards the rescuers — so close that the spray of water touched their faces.
She raised her head, looked straight at Emma — long, calmly — and made a soft, hollow sound. The same sound that sounded like thanks.
Not like a cry. Not like pain. Like a conscious farewell. And then she slowly went into the sea. But the story did not end there.
A few weeks later, when Emma went out on a research boat to the same cape, a shadow rose from the depths. And from the water — now a full-grown killer whale (with its mother nearby, probably) — surfaced and let out a long, low call.
Emma knew. It was her. She had returned. To show that she had not forgotten. To show that gratitude exists not only among humans.
