So, You’ve Visited a Dolphinarium

Imagine being on the open water, enjoying the irreplaceable experience of watching wild orcas (killer whales), knowing that you’re witnessing:

• the largest members of the dolphin family, whose dorsal fins can reach over 6 feet in height,
• apex predators who can travel up to 100 miles a day in search of food, and swim up to 30 miles an hour,
• mammals whose brains can weigh up to 15 pounds and possess superior intelligence and emotional capacity, and
• mammals whose lifespans are similar to that of humans.

In fact, you’re so fascinated with the pods’ majestic presence that when a friend asks if you want to visit a dolphinarium, you eagerly accept. The first thing that strikes you is the tiny size of the plexiglas tank. In it, is a lone orca, floating on the surface of the water. And you wonder:

• How does this orca dive, and produce the large bursts of energy required to swim in straight, powerful lines?
• Where is this mammal’s family, and which pod does this dolphin belong to?
• In what capacity is this orca able to make its own choices and decisions, when all aspects of its life is controlled by human caretakers?

You sit down and watch the show. And when the last splashes of water settle, you ask yourself: what did you learn? Your answer comes swiftly: what you witnessed in the orcas’ natural habitat is in direct contrast to what you’re witnessing in captivity.

How bizarre, you think, that the trainers participating in orca shows talk about the behaviors of wild mammals. They don’t ever discuss the living being existing in the barren tank right in front of their eyes. Why? Because that’s not how dolphin shows work. Otherwise, how many people do you think would support such institutions?

A dolphin show is designed in such a manner that the audience is being told who the wild versions of the mammals in the tank are, instead of describing who the actual individuals in the tank are. Individuals who are:

• forced to endure unnatural and stressful conditions whose sole role is to generate profits for captive institutions,
• often separated from family members, and made to share tank space with individuals not of their choosing,
• fed a diet of dead fish, supplemented by medications and vitamins to simulate a natural feeding experience, and
• shunted from institution to institution, often for captive breeding programs amongst dolphinariums.

Now-dead captive orca Kiska, Marineland, Niagara Falls, Canada. Credit: DolphinProject.com

Post-visit, you begin to empathize with the plight of the orca who you watched perform. You reflect on the activities you enjoyed of late:

• how you reached out to a relative you hadn’t spoken with in awhile,
• how you were able to share a meal of your choosing with the friend who invited you to the dolphin show, and
• how you were able to leave the dolphinarium at all.

During all of these normal activities of daily living that you recently experienced, the breathing, thinking, and feeling mammal who was used as entertainment is still in the tank. And will perform the same routines tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, in the same, barren enclosure, with no ability to ever make decisions and choices for itself.

And here is the ultimate irony: One thing we share with orcas is an ability to interpret data based on both personal and group analysis. This is how individual choices are made — by analyzing the facts at our disposal, and making informed decisions. From this, we choose how to spend our time, our money, and what experiences we wish to invest in emotionally.

Now, imagine having the ability to think, analyze and make choices, yet having a complete inability to do anything about it. Imagine a being able to feel a deeply-complex spectrum of emotions yet not able to live a life of self-determination.

This is the life of a captive dolphin. And it’s no life at all.

Featured image: Performing captive orca, SeaWorld (park location unknown), credit: Creative Commons 4.0 license, user: Howcheng