2 Orcas Trapped in Abandoned Marine Park Months After Closure

A wild orca can cruise some 40 miles of coastline in a single day an aquatic marathon that knits together hunting grounds, family calls, and deep-water dives. But on the French Riviera, Wikie and her calf Keijo trace a weary oval of chlorinated water no longer than a sprinting track, the paint flaking off the concrete like dried salt on skin. Their world shrank overnight when Marineland Antibes shut its gates on 5 January 2025, forced closed by France’s ban on dolphin and whale shows. Now the country’s last two captive orcas circle a tank gone green with spring algae spectators gone, music off, future uncertain.

What unfolds next is not simply a rescue tale; it is a test of whether policy, profit, and compassion can align quickly enough to keep two intelligent beings from fading in place.

How a Well-Meaning Law Left Two Orcas Stranded

For decades, Marineland Antibes was a fixture of the French Riviera an ocean-themed amusement park promising close-up encounters with marine life. At its peak, the park drew hundreds of thousands of visitors annually, most of them coming to see the orcas and dolphins perform in tightly choreographed shows. But beneath the surface appeal, criticism was mounting. Growing awareness of marine mammal intelligence, stress-related behaviors in captivity, and shifting public ethics eventually crystallized into political action.

In 2021, France passed landmark legislation banning the use of dolphins and whales in live performances. It was a watershed moment for animal rights in Europe, aimed at phasing out the practice of keeping cetaceans for entertainment. Marineland, whose business model hinged on these very performances, was left with a stark reality: either transition away from its core attractions or close. By late 2024, the decision was made. On January 5, 2025, the park officially shut its doors.

But while the gates closed to the public, they did not open for the animals.

Twelve dolphins and two orcas Wikie, a 23-year-old female, and her 11-year-old son Keijo remained behind. Rehoming plans, initially promised as part of the transition, stalled almost immediately. Despite legal and ethical responsibility falling to the park’s owner, Parque Reunidos, no clear exit strategy materialized. A small maintenance crew stayed behind to provide basic care, but the orcas’ environment began to deteriorate. Footage released by the advocacy group TideBreakers showed tanks lined with green algae, installations in disrepair, and the orcas swimming aimlessly.

Park officials maintain that the algae is seasonal and harmless, and that roughly 50 employees continue to care for the animals’ basic needs. Still, what was once a choreographed marine show has become a haunting daily loop two apex predators pacing the perimeter of a life they can’t escape.

Why Relocation Has Stalled

Initially, Marineland proposed relocating the two orcas and twelve dolphins to facilities in Japan and Spain. Both efforts were blocked. French authorities rejected the transfer to Japan, citing welfare standards that didn’t meet European expectations. Meanwhile, the proposed move to Loro Parque in Tenerife one of the few marine parks in Europe equipped to house orcas was vetoed by a scientific panel in Spain. Their reasoning: the facility already housed four orcas, including a newborn, and could not ensure optimal conditions for additional animals.

As of now, no European sanctuary capable of receiving Wikie and Keijo exists. And that’s where France’s own policies create a paradox. The Ministry of Ecology has insisted on a transfer to a European-based sanctuary that meets stringent welfare standards yet no such facility is operational. “If you don’t even have a site, you’re years away from being a viable sanctuary,” said Lori Marino, president of the Whale Sanctuary Project. In other words, the requirement itself is a dead end.

Meanwhile, the Nova Scotia-based Whale Sanctuary Project run by Marino and a team that previously helped rehome Free Willy star Keiko is the only organization with both a physical location and the technical expertise to carry out a complex orca relocation. But the French government has rejected this offer too, with little public explanation, despite a growing chorus of international support that includes conservation luminaries like Dr. Jane Goodall, Dr. Sylvia Earle, and Jean-Michel Cousteau.

The delays are not just bureaucratic. Logistically, moving orcas is a highly sensitive operation that requires careful planning, specialized equipment, and a legally approved destination that prioritizes the animals’ health and social needs. Unlike dolphins, orcas cannot be transported easily or placed into just any marine facility. Born and raised in captivity, Wikie and Keijo cannot be released into the wild, but they also cannot thrive in a decaying tank.

As pressure mounts and proposed plans fall apart, responsibility remains divided and progress elusive. Marineland, though no longer open to the public, is still legally accountable for the animals’ well-being. Yet, without a greenlight from the French Ministry of Ecology, the park cannot move forward. What results is a bureaucratic stalemate an impasse with life-or-death consequences for two intelligent, social beings whose time in captivity was supposed to be ending, not stretching endlessly forward.

Caretakers, Advocates, and Public Pressure

At the heart of this movement is TideBreakers, a Canada-based NGO whose drone footage of the algae-lined tanks brought global attention back to the closed park. Their co-founder, Marketa Schusterova, has described the situation as an “emergency,” arguing that leaving the orcas in a crumbling facility risks illness, psychological deterioration, or even premature death. “After entertaining the public for years, we should still provide them with a clean and safe environment to live out their remaining years,” she said in a public plea. Their advocacy has galvanized a growing online campaign, bolstered by a petition and social media traction that spans countries and languages.

Yet the campaign’s visibility has also fueled polarization. According to Marineland officials, the backlash has led to death threats against staff a disturbing turn for those still working behind closed gates to maintain basic animal care. These are the caretakers who feed the animals daily, scrub tanks, and monitor health, all under mounting scrutiny and limited control over broader decisions. For them, the emotional toll of watching intelligent mammals languish in limbo is amplified by their inability to change the course of events.

Then there are those who once celebrated these animals’ performances. Families who visited Marineland for educational experiences or entertainment have found themselves reevaluating their memories, now shadowed by images of the same orcas circling aimlessly in deteriorating enclosures. Some former employees and marine professionals—like Mike Riddell, who managed the park for 26 years have offered insight into both the routine care involved and the structural challenges of transforming such facilities in a post-performance era.

Adding moral urgency to the discussion are conservation icons like Dr. Jane Goodall, Dr. Sylvia Earle, and Jean-Michel Cousteau, who collectively signed a letter urging the French government to rehome Wikie and Keijo in the Nova Scotia sanctuary. Their involvement underscores the global concern and elevates the issue from a local tragedy to a symbol of systemic change overdue in marine captivity policy.

The Only Viable Hope?

Amid the tangle of failed relocation efforts and stalled bureaucracy, one solution continues to surface with growing urgency: the Whale Sanctuary Project (WSP) in Nova Scotia, Canada. More than just an ideal, it is the only currently prepared facility offering an alternative to both captivity and an impossible return to the wild. Its founders believe it’s not only viable it may be Wikie and Keijo’s last real chance at a dignified life.

Led by neuroscientist and marine mammal expert Dr. Lori Marino, WSP is developing the first cold-water seaside sanctuary designed specifically for whales retired from entertainment. The team behind the project brings unparalleled experience: many of its members were involved in rehoming Keiko, the orca who inspired the 1993 film Free Willy. Their facility will offer spacious, netted-off ocean habitat designed for orcas who, like Wikie and Keijo, were born in captivity and lack the skills to survive independently in the wild.

Marino has made the case plainly: “We have the crew that built Keiko’s sanctuary. We’re the only team with actual experience in this.” The Nova Scotia site offers depth, enrichment opportunities, and room to swim in natural tides everything a concrete tank cannot. And unlike the still-theoretical European sanctuary the French government continues to await, WSP’s plan is in motion, not imagination.

Yet despite its readiness, the project has faced repeated rejection from French authorities. Earlier this year, the Ministry of Ecology turned down a proposal to relocate the orcas to Nova Scotia without providing detailed public justification. Officials have remained steadfast in their desire to find a European-based solution though one does not yet exist. In response, WSP reaffirmed its offer and willingness to collaborate with all involved parties, stating, “We are ready to work with the French government, Marineland, and any other organizations to bring Wikie and Keijo to safety.”

What’s at Stake for Wikie and Keijo

Orcas are among the most cognitively complex non-human animals on Earth. They exhibit emotional intelligence, vocal dialects, and intergenerational bonds that can span decades. In the wild, female orcas like Wikie can live 50 years or more; some even exceed 80. But in artificial, confined settings especially deteriorating ones their life expectancy shrinks, not because of age, but because of accumulated stress, boredom, and physiological decline.

This is the backdrop against which Wikie and her son Keijo now drift. Born in captivity, they lack the learned skills to survive in the wild: they have never hunted, never navigated the open ocean, and never built the social networks vital to orca life. That makes their situation all the more urgent not because release is an option, but because remaining where they are isn’t.

TideBreakers and other animal welfare organizations have warned that the orcas’ current conditions could result in irreversible harm. If the water quality deteriorates further or one animal becomes sick, experts caution that the consequences could be swift and fatal. “Should the orcas fall ill, they will likely be euthanized or succumb to the deteriorating environment,” the group stated bluntly. The footage that reignited global outrage shows more than just algae it captures lethargy, repetitive swimming, and the eerie absence of any enrichment or stimulation.

There is also the question of psychological well-being. Orcas in captivity are prone to stereotypic behaviors a sign of psychological distress akin to pacing in zoo animals. Experts have documented everything from dental damage due to gnawing on tank structures to social dysfunction due to isolation. In Wikie’s case, years of performing, breeding, and now waiting have created a dangerous stillness. For Keijo, the only environment he’s ever known is now visibly crumbling.

If transferred to a sanctuary, their outlook changes dramatically. While sanctuary life is not a return to the wild, it offers a life closer to what their physiology and psychology require: natural seawater, space to swim, a dynamic environment, and peace from constant human observation. As marine biologist Dr. Ingrid Visser once put it, “You can’t undo captivity, but you can do better than a concrete box.”

Ultimately, this is more than a conversation about logistics it’s a countdown. Every delay narrows the orcas’ window for rehabilitation and health. Every month that passes in that crumbling tank increases the risk that one or both animals will die before a solution arrives. This is not about ideal outcomes anymore it’s about minimizing suffering before it becomes irreversible.

What We Owe Captive Wildlife

Wikie and Keijo’s story is not just a crisis of confinement it’s a reflection of how society reckons with the legacies of captivity in a changing moral landscape. These two orcas, once celebrated stars of aquatic shows, are now haunting reminders of an entertainment industry built on spectacle at the expense of autonomy. Their current limbo poses a deeper question: What do we owe the animals we once kept for our enjoyment, now that we know better?

For decades, marine parks justified orca and dolphin shows under the banners of education and conservation. Audiences were led to believe they were witnessing the majesty of nature up close. In reality, these performances often masked lives defined by confinement, disrupted social structures, and physical stress. Laws like France’s 2021 ban on cetacean shows are acknowledgments of that flawed foundation. But legislation, however progressive, means little without meaningful follow-through. Humane captivity can only be called such if it actively prioritizes the animals’ lifelong welfare not just their survival.

Wikie and Keijo’s plight underscores how reforms can fall short when implementation lags behind intent. Closing a marine park may end the shows, but it doesn’t erase the duty of care owed to the animals left behind. Their continued suffering is not the result of malice, but of bureaucratic inertia, mismatched regulations, and delayed decision-making. The tragedy is that it could have been avoided with planning and political courage.

Their case is also emblematic of a global reckoning. Across countries, zoos and aquariums are being challenged to redefine their roles not as entertainers, but as stewards. The public is asking harder questions: Should intelligent, wide-ranging animals like orcas be bred or held in concrete tanks at all? Are sanctuaries the future of ethical captivity? And who gets to decide when it’s too late?

If we are to move toward more ethical treatment of wildlife, then we must stop viewing animals as passive assets in institutional systems. Wikie and Keijo are not statistics or footnotes they are individuals with histories, relationships, and inner lives. And while we cannot undo the choices that brought them here, we can choose better now.

That choice lies not only with government officials, but with all of us: the public who vote, advocate, and pay attention. The fate of these orcas and others like them depends on whether we are willing to turn outrage into action, and empathy into policy. After everything these animals have given, the very least we can offer in return is a life with dignity, space, and peace.