Science & Storytelling for Ocean Stewards

Since the 1990s, scientists studying critically endangered Southern Resident killer whales noticed the whales’ hunting success rate rapidly dwindling. Prey limitation has been a long, well-known threat for this population, but even during times when their prey of choice, Chinook salmon, were present and accessible, the whales still weren’t meeting their needs.

The disconnect between prey availability and hunting success became a scientific puzzle: If salmon were available, why weren’t the orcas successfully catching them?

Hydrophones stationed throughout the Salish Sea picked up a wall of engine noise: ferries, commercial vessels, and recreational boats all reverberating throughout the whale’s habitat. Buried within the wall of noise pollution, faint traces of killer whale clicks, the species’ sophisticated method for navigating and hunting their prey, were being drowned out.

This insight, rooted deeply in acoustics, behavior, and marine science, has been documented and communicated by researchers for decades. But the way the story was told in more recent public-facing pieces, such as a University of Washington article drawing on research published in Global Change Biology, showed how powerful clear science communication can be. These articles helped translate years of research into a message the public could immediately understand: boats are so loud, orcas can’t effectively hunt.

Science tells us what is happening. Stories tell us why it matters.

Our brains are wired to engage with narratives. Humans are up to 22 times more likely to remember information presented in a story than by facts alone. Hydrophone spectrograms mean very little to most people, but “trying to hunt blindfolded in a noisy room” is instantly recognizable. And in marine mammal conservation, where so much happens out of sight, effective storytelling is what bridges the gap between scientific understanding and public awareness.

The research behind the highlighted example is rich, technical, and spans decades. It includes hydrophone recordings, spectrogram analyses, vessel-noise measurements, statistical models of foraging behavior, and comparisons of whale activity during quiet versus noisy periods. These studies document how underwater noise overlaps with the exact frequencies whales use to communicate and hunt, showing measurable reductions in echolocation and feeding attempts as noise increases.

But for most people outside the research community, that science is hard to interpret. Spectrograms look abstract. Decibel levels mean little without context. Behavioral response curves don’t naturally connect to lived experience. The findings are strong and necessary, but the format is technical, dense, and inaccessible to anyone who isn’t trained to read this kind of data.

What changed public understanding wasn’t new data; it was how the data was translated. Protective measures like vessel-distance rules and slow-zones were implemented through years of research and this kind of public communication. Articles like the UW piece show how translating acoustics data into relatable language strengthens public understanding and support for these kinds of measures.

Most researchers, conservation organizations, and marine mammal non-profits don’t have the resources to support multi-year acoustics studies or manage a network of hydrophones. What matters isn’t the scale of the research; it’s the clarity and impact of the communication.

The University of Washington and NOAA translated years of data into an explanation the public could visualize, relate to, and emotionally understand. And that is something every organization can do, no matter the size of their budget or team.

If you’re observing seasonal trends, responding to strandings, studying behavior, or tracking environmental changes, you already have the raw materials for powerful narrative-driven science communication. The question is how you use them.

No two stories are the same, however, it’s the “why” and the elements of the stories that make them memorable.

Every strong, memorable story begins with a mystery, a moment of tension, or a compelling question that begs to be answered. This is the element that will pull your audience in.

It’s important to note, your hook doesn’t need to appear in the very first sentence, nor does it need to be spelled out immediately. In fact, some of the most engaging scientific narratives create intrigue by building slowly toward the central mystery, laying small clues or unexpected details that invite curiosity.

You can play with pacing here by introducing a vivid moment from the field, a surprising observation, or an unexplained pattern in your data. Let the audience sense that something is “off” or that a puzzle is waiting to be solved. By taking your time and allowing the mystery to unfold organically, you create suspense and give your readers a reason to keep following the story. Scientists are natural problem-solvers; use that instinct to your advantage and guide your audience toward the question that sits at the heart of your research.

After identifying your question and beginning the steps of shaping your narrative, it’s important to consider who you’re actually speaking to. Put simply, you wouldn’t write a children’s book about two animal best friends learning to share for an adult audience interested in historical nonfiction. A story becomes far more powerful when crafted with a clear audience in mind.

By identifying your audience early, you sharpen your storytelling instincts. You begin to understand which details to emphasize, which to trim, which metaphors will resonate, and what level of background knowledge is necessary. This step also helps you define the purpose of your story: whether to inform, inspire, change behavior, raise awareness, or cultivate appreciation.

Even in science, people naturally connect with stories that center around someone or something facing a challenge. This is where choosing a protagonist becomes so essential. Your “hero” doesn’t need a cape or even need to be human. It might be a species acclimating to a changing environment, a researcher managing complex data, a community responding to ecological shifts, or a piece of equipment revealing hidden truths beneath the surface.

A strong protagonist gives your audience an anchor. They provide perspective, emotional resonance, and a point of entry into complex scientific ideas. The hero encounters obstacles, experiences uncertainty, adapts, and ultimately uncovers or contributes to new understanding. By framing your story through this lens, you give your audience someone to root for, empathize with, or learn from. A protagonist humanizes your science and turns abstract concepts into relatable experiences.

One of the most effective ways to elevate your storytelling is to rely less on explanation and more on demonstration. Rather than stating facts at a distance, immerse your audience in the experience of your research. Show them the details: the patterns of the data, the hum of the field equipment, the difficulty of long days on the water, or the moment of realization when something unexpected appears in your results.

These detailed moments create sensory richness and emotional presence. They help audiences feel the science, not just understand it. Showing deepens engagement, increases retention, and turns your story into something readers can visualize and remember long after they’ve finished reading.

The And–But–Therefore framework is one of the simplest yet most powerful tools in narrative science, and likely a framework you come across every day, yet don’t realize it. It creates a clean, intuitive rhythm that mirrors how the human brain processes stories.

AND provides context: the foundation your audience needs to understand the world you’re describing.
BUT introduces a complication: the friction, conflict, or new information that changes the direction of the story.
THEREFORE explains the consequence or insight: what we learned, what changed, or what needs to happen next.

This structure helps you avoid the “list of disconnected facts” problem that often plagues scientific writing. It encourages forward motion and helps you articulate the tension at the center of your work.

Example:

A: Southern Resident killer whales rely on echolocation to hunt, AND they depend heavily on Chinook salmon available in their ecosystem.
B: BUT underwater noise from boats drowns out their ability to locate prey.
T: THEREFORE, researchers found they expend more energy but catch fewer fish, threatening their survival.

Science on its own can illuminate truths, but stories give those truths the power to move people. Whether you’re tracking strandings, monitoring population trends, analyzing acoustics, or logging field notes from a day on the water, you are already gathering the ingredients for a meaningful narrative. The challenge is learning how to shape them so others can see what you see.

Strong storytelling doesn’t replace science; it amplifies it. It turns data into understanding, understanding into empathy, and empathy into action. And in a world where so many marine mammal issues unfold far from the public eye, your ability to translate your work into a story is not an optional skill, it’s essential.

When you weave your research into narratives that people can feel, you expand the impact far beyond the lab, the equipment, or the field site. You invite your audience to care about your work and its impact on a much deeper level.

The gap between what science reveals and what the public understands is exactly what led to the creation of the Marine Mammal Media Network. MMMN aims to help researchers, nonprofits, and conservation groups share their work more clearly and confidently by highlighting strong examples and offering support where it’s helpful. Whether through features, collaborations, or communication resources, we’re here to elevate the stories already being told across the marine mammal community.

Thumbnail: Orcas, whale watching, courtesy of Wolfgang Lucht