Killing Keiko (17 page)

July and August produced many more questions than answers about how the project would
move forward. First we needed to consider how we would physically get Keiko to the
open ocean. After all, we
couldn’t just open the bay pen gate and hope for the best. Our location well inside
of the shipping channel, and the proximity of a harbor bustling with human activity
presented far too many variables. Lanny’s idea of airlifting Keiko to the first available
pod of wild whales and dropping him in the ocean was analogous to tossing a family
pet out the car door on a Sunday afternoon drive through the wilderness. Probably
worse. Fortunately, there wasn’t a soul on-site that would give heed to such a farcical
concept of release.

This left us with little other means by which we could guide Keiko in the right direction.
Charles, Robin, Jeff, and I agreed that Keiko would be escorted to the open ocean
by training him to follow a special-purpose “walk-boat.” In other words, we would
teach him to follow alongside a boat much like a dog trained to heel at its owner’s
side without a leash.

A few essentials would have to be addressed to make the designated walk-boat stand
apart, but of immediate concern was when and where to introduce a walk-boat. It wouldn’t
do much good to put the boat inside the bay pen and for reasons stated, we couldn’t
take the risk of bringing Keiko out of the pen on blind faith that he would follow
the boat. That was a behavior, and like any other behavior, Keiko would have to learn
how to follow the walk-boat.

Beyond our fears of what Keiko might or might not do once outside the bay pen, the
prospect of having access to the open ocean also meant that every criteria required
for release would have to be met beforehand. After all, a permit was required to release
the whale. We couldn’t just wake up one morning and decide to free Keiko. Exposing
him to the open ocean was by any definition a “release” scenario, even though the
intent at this stage was only to train Keiko on heeling alongside a designated walk-boat.
Obtaining permission to take him out of the pen would be predicated on evidence that
Keiko had met the prerequisites for release. These restrictions were common sense.
They were intended not only to protect Keiko, but also humans and the indigenous whales
that
migrated around Vestmannaeyjar. To allow Keiko access to the wild before he was actually
ready would be nothing less than unadulterated negligence.

Exercise was certainly making improvements in his physical condition and by midsummer,
he was routinely completing over a hundred minutes of strenuous exercise per day.
Keiko was even looking much more alert and responsive than ever before. But despite
any encouragement afforded by his improving physical prowess, we couldn’t just go
straight from the bay pen to sending him off to sea. Yet it was impossible to address
all the elements required for official release from inside the relatively small bay
pen.

Although masterful in design and function, the floating facility was limiting. We
could keep Keiko fit and mentally stimulated in the bay pen, though only through continued
human interaction and enrichment. It was time to increase his activity beyond training
sessions. Likewise, it was time to begin reducing his interest in human activity.

How could we prepare Keiko to meet the challenges required for release without the
walk-boat? How could we train the use of a walk-boat without taking Keiko out of the
confines of the bay pen? At the crossroads of necessity and constraint, our thoughts
and discussions focused on an interim step.

The million dollar solution was to give Keiko a bigger and more varied environment.
To surmount the next hurdle in his move toward unrestricted ocean access, we would
build a barrier across the mouth of Klettsvik Bay. In so doing, we could substantially
increase Keiko’s habitat from the comparatively restrictive pen to the grand expanse
of Klettsvik Bay. A gargantuan net would grant us the tool to prepare Keiko further.
The solution would simultaneously allow us to develop each necessary component of
Keiko’s rehabilitation, including the walk-boat, while also delaying the need for
a final release permit. It would have been a simple solution, but for the raging currents
and winds of the bay.

Constructing an 800-foot-long by fifty- to sixty-foot deep net across the mouth of
a bay in the North Atlantic is no small feat as
evidenced by the fact that the feasibility of such an undertaking was initially deemed
impossible
by more than a few engineers. Adding perspective, at least one of those engineers
was German. As a Westerner with a healthy respect for German engineering, the early
verdict issued in response to the barrier net concept was sobering. Not to be undone,
our gallant Marine Operations crew pushed forward. If there were any chance that such
an undertaking could be accomplished, they would find a way.

One lone engineer within Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute found the idea plausible.
Without delay, Robin traveled to Massachusetts and met with the Woods Hole team. By
the end of their weeklong collaboration, they produced a preliminary concept design
for the barrier net and provided the project with a clear path forward. With September
upon us and the foul weather of winter just around the corner, an urgency to solve
the most stubborn impediments in the barrier’s design and practical application began
to dominate everything and everyone.

Prior to our (Robin’s or my) involvement in the project, the management of Keiko’s
release had largely been a grassroots effort. The original cast was more a small group
of friends than any semblance of professional organization or experienced management,
at least on the merits of a never-before-attempted killer whale release.

The youth and inexperience of the staff combined with a “let’s party” atmosphere gave
way to a highly emotional undercurrent that plagued the operation following the FWKF’s
merger with OFS. Ocean Futures Society had only become involved shortly before Robin
was initially contacted. We (OFS included) quite literally walked into a volatile
situation. To the less experienced staff members on-site, we were outsiders; strangers
who had no right to invade their home and crash their party. In many ways the group
acted as if Keiko belonged to them alone. It was as if we were taking control of their
family pet. This possessiveness was not
uncommon in the realm of the animal field. Anytime a person or group of people dedicate
their time to the care of any animal, an emotional sense of ownership slowly but surely
roots itself deeply within those caregivers. In almost every case, this by-product
creates an unhealthy barrier to making decisions that are in the best interests of
the animal. They had a perception of killer whales fashioned by their interactions
with this one animal (a highly unusual male killer whale to begin with) and believed
no one knew his particular needs better than they.

Every decision had been emotionally based with no program or plan in place to guide
them. It didn’t matter how well we communicated or how much we communicated with regard
to the release plan we had been hired to implement. To them, everything we did was
offensive.
Who were we to come charging in taking control of their whale and telling them what
he should be like?
The fact that this emotional and territorial attitude even existed on a high-profile,
high-stakes project such as this troubled me greatly. From where I sat, they defiled
the throne of
Orcinus
orca by making Keiko their private playmate. In effect, they minimized the ocean’s
top predator into a completely lethargic and obese perversion of a killer whale. How
they imagined their approach was preparing Keiko for the harshest life he would ever
know, I could not and would never come to comprehend.

It simply didn’t matter to them that Robin and I had worked with more than twenty-eight
different killer whales. They felt knowing this one whale afforded them a more valid
foundation. Keiko became their entire life, and that was precisely the problem. Their
vision of Keiko held hostage any real potential he might have had toward independence.
In essence, they disregarded the challenges that faced Keiko, instead focusing on
their bond with him. Although we did everything we could to assuage the more stubborn
trepidations, we could not allow the “ownership” sentimentality over Keiko to prevail.
In one of many such instances, the staff’s desire to spoil Keiko created direct conflict.

It was late summer and we had finally approximated the blue Boomer Ball out of Keiko’s
environment, effectively purging his hopeless love affair with an inanimate object.
It was a slow process and much work had gone into reaching this important step. Yet
upon my return to Heimaey, on my third rotation, I came back only to find the Boomer
Ball once again floating in the pen with Keiko. After a condensed repeat of the same
gradual withdrawal, I promptly removed the toy and cut it into pieces lest his dependency
on the ball be reversed again. The Boomer Ball incident and other perceived conflicts
only heightened tensions between us. There was little wiggle room left in any resolution.
We would not and could not continue to allow the discord to reach Keiko or disrupt
what tenuous progress existed.

Karen McRea, in particular, had been willing to fight us at every turn. Karen was
one of Jeff’s favored few. She was a popular member of the release team, not only
with the staff, but also among select members of the FWKF board. Emboldened by youth,
she fought to protect what she believed was best for Keiko. What she disliked of our
management of Keiko she made well-known through informal channels. Karen had become
the de facto spokesperson championing Keiko’s defense. At the same time, she represented
what disadvantaged Keiko most.

Like growing up, the project had to be matured into a new entity, likewise, that meant
growing pains. We could no longer drag along the most rebellious member of the team.
After extensive talks among Charles, Robin, and Jeff, it was decided that OFS would
not renew Karen’s contract, effectively removing her from the project.

Robin had agreed to take the responsibility to address Karen, after all it was our
assertion that it must be done and therefore we had to own it. Unfortunately, we tripped
over our own feet and at least temporarily caused more harm than good. Robin’s schedule
placed him off-site just as Karen’s contract came due for extension. By default, the
task fell to Jeff, the most beloved leader of the original teams. In the aftermath,
the incident did no favors for
Robin’s and my relationship with Jeff. The staff considered the act cowardly on our
part. We pushed for Karen’s termination, but by outward appearance were unwilling
to carry out the order. It was a mistake that cost us dearly in the bank of human
equity.

Karen’s removal from the project paralleled other changes that had to be made. It
was time to break up the party. We began reorganizing the rotational schedules, instead
electing for “rotational roles.” Individuals rather than entire teams were rotated.
This staggered shift changes so that only one person was “new” at any given time.
This change effectively eliminated the two-team division, requiring many staff members
to work with counterparts they were unaccustomed to seeing often. The transition was
rocky to say the least. It was not made any easier by Karen’s dismissal from the project
and her lingering interference at the organizational levels. After she returned to
the States, the popular Karen continued to communicate with team members, the FWKF
board of directors and even donors who had contributed to the project.

While I could only guess what her goal might have been in those communications, all
that is apparent is what resulted. Charles became so inundated by criticism from the
board that he ordered no one else could be forcibly removed from the project again.
It was an absurd decree and one only a nonprofit could possibly uphold. No self-respecting
company in the free world would allow a single employee to hijack or threaten the
organization’s mission. Yet this is exactly what OFS and the FWKF board were doing.
Poetically, just as the staff viewed Keiko the object of their affection and protection,
so too did the board view the staff, and regardless of performance.

The “decree” removed any teeth from real accountability, which directly led to an
atmosphere furthering feigned cooperation. Whenever Robin or I were not individually
on the bay pen overseeing Keiko’s program, the staff did whatever it felt like doing.
In most cases that meant breaking protocol, even, at times, getting back into the
water with Keiko despite that fact that Keiko’s rehabilitation had moved beyond the
intimate human association. The
pendulum swing of inconsistency in Keiko’s interactions only served to create noticeable
setbacks in his progress.

One month he would surprise us with ever-increasing activity, much-improved energy
level and the overall appearance of the alert animal we were hoping to discover. The
next we would see an increase in thrashing behavior and logging at the surface. There
were many other signs, obvious changes in Keiko’s behavior that provided ample evidence
that program guidelines were not being followed. Robin and I tried to make certain
that at least one of us was always on the bay pen; however, this would not be practical
for long. Robin had many other responsibilities within the project so it was not always
feasible for him to allocate his time solely to the bay pen. Only one solution remained,
we needed to find additional experienced behaviorists to help maintain consistency
in Keiko’s rehabilitation.

E-mail: August 13, 1999

Subj: hello, my love