Killing Keiko (18 page)

The magnitude of challenge exacted by the unpredictable weather of the North Atlantic
confounds accurate description. This is not to say that every waking moment was fought
into the wind. There were intervals of mild weather and at times, even spring-like
sun producing greatly cherished, crisp beautiful days. But when the weather surrounding
Heimaey reared its ugly head, even the simple task of standing upright became a struggle.

Klettsvik Bay was in most ways an ecosystem unto its own, down to a climate often
juxtaposed with that of nearby downtown. On many an occasion, we would leave the pen,
exhausted from the constant barrage of vertical water and pounding wind, only to find
the town basking in sun with a pleasant breeze. Without question, the turbo-scoop
characteristics of Klettsvik angrily amplified every gift the Gulf Stream would send
its way; winds often in excess of 100 mph and in many instances maxing out the upper
limits of our anemometer gauge with prolonged gusts over 175 mph.

In the first weeks and months of my time on the project, my fellow expatriates recounted
plentiful and colorful stories—most all of them set in a weather-related plot. On
one occasion, Stephen Claussen had lost his hat, blown from his head while standing
outside the research shack on the bay pen. The hat was sucked hopelessly upward spiraling
into the aerial abyss, only to be returned to the same vicinity nearly forty-five
minutes later. Like this one, the tales were difficult to accept, and on first hearing
them, it was natural to assume they were dramatically exaggerated. I now contend that
stories involving the weather in Klettsvik cannot be overstated.

Nothing could be taken for granted. Nothing could be left out on the deck and every
container or locker or storage bin on the bay pen had to be expertly lashed down via
Texas trailer-hitch knots or secured with ratchet strap or chain, or else the contents
and the container would become hazardous projectiles. Those of us who practically
lived on the bay pen attending to Keiko’s daily program became hopelessly addicted
to adrenaline. In some of the more docile winds gusting between 101 and 140 mph, we
would don our splash suits, jump on the portable Jet Ski dock in the medical pool
and see how long we could hold on before we were either bounced into the pool or our
arms and hands fatigued. When assaulted by the more serious winds in excess of this
range, we could hold onto the railing of the bay pen, watch for a wall of water carried
by a sizable gust coming off the west rock face and at just the right moment, give
a little jump. If timed right, we could “Superman” for a few brief moments, body and
feet suspended horizontally in the wind. The more talented among us held records close
to three seconds. Most difficult in this insane practice was holding onto the rail,
which was a large diameter and far from conducive to the task.

I recall many an exercise session with Keiko whereby the orchestrator of the session
had to be fastened to the pen’s rail by a safety harness. Without it, we couldn’t
even free our hands to give signal to Keiko. Just as ridiculous were the varied contraptions
we never perfected but which were intended to secure the thirty-five-pound fish bucket
so that we could feed Keiko amidst the conditions. Even trying to place fish in his
mouth, only inches from his teeth, the occasional herring would be spirited away.
Well acclimated to the conditions, Keiko wouldn’t even go after the flying fish; he
had learned it was a wasted effort.

Still, there remain a handful of storms that were chief among the many we encountered.
In one such instance, Jeff, and Steve Sinelli were on the pen together. Jeff, like
many of us after months acclimating in the extreme conditions, sought thrill rather
than to sit idle within the safe and monotonous confines of the research shack. It
was a particularly intense morning.

As Jeff later recounted what happened, he had made an excuse to inspect the dive locker
and eastern extents of the pen moorings, requiring a trek of approximately seventy
feet up and over the bridge joining the two sides of the odd vessel. Steve was required
to “spot” Jeff from the lee side of the research shack, to make sure someone would
know what had happened if Jeff disappeared. Steve, with a menacing grin, decided to
videotape the excursion.

Pinning himself firmly against the northern lee side of the research structure, Steve
stabilized the camera and himself by pushing into the outside wall. Adorned in his
Mustang survival suit, Jeff set out for the bridge. He waited for the precise moment
between the more aggressive gusts to leave the protection of the shack and make for
the bridge. Jeff covered the distance of approximately twenty feet in just a few clumsy
leaping steps supercharged by the wind at his back and then careened into the bridge
handrail, his ribs taking the brunt of the landing.

The top handrail firmly nestled in his armpit, he made his way to the top steps and
began inching across the expanse of the bridge. Turning his back to the unforgiving
gusts, he traversed the structure crouched as if he were sitting in an invisible chair.
The hood of his Mustang suit had become a mini-amphitheater, the white noise of the
wind roaring in his ears as he covered the distance and made his way to the dive locker.

After short inspection, he fought his way back to the bridge, this time leaning at
a forty-five degree angle and into the shotgun gusting wind. Eying his destination,
Sinelli was nowhere to be found.
Ya fucker
, Jeff thought.
He’s supposed to be watching my back
. Finally making his way back across, Jeff entered the research shack, the decibel
levels leaving his ears ringing in the relative silence of the interior. There before
him on the floor was Steve in a pool of blood, video camera strewn to the side and
still running.

Shortly after Steve recovered from the incident, the two reviewed the videotape. Clearly
evident in the footage, Steve had
been picked up physically, floated for the briefest of moments and then violently
thrown almost twenty feet and into the lower steps of the bridge. The impact drove
his shoulder into the Chemgrate while his head hit the first aluminum step. Through
the static grind of the audio a perceptible
ugghh
emphasized the force of Steve’s crash to the ground. Stumbling back to the research
shack, he had made his way inside and collapsed on the floor, never having lost grip
on the camera. Although Steve had been in a theoretical protected location behind
the shack, there was in fact no true protection from the wind that bounced around
the bay like bullets off rock. This was just one of many otherwise unbelievable experiences
brought to life by the unpredictable ricocheting winds inside Klettsvik.

Staff exchanges on the bay pen constituted harrowing battles with the elements, too
numerous to share, as transfers to and from the harbor were many times each day. I
gained invaluable boat-handling experience compliments of the extreme conditions,
as did everyone on the project. Docking the boat on the bay pen required keen skills
at maneuvering and timing. By default, we always docked on the lee side of the pen
driving into the wind. On a forty-five degree angle of approach, we motored into the
pen, at the last moment simultaneously turning the boat’s propulsion directly at the
pen and reversing. When well executed, the forward momentum was offset by the reverse
action and delicately presented the beam of the boat alongside the pen. The method
was simple physics made exasperating by the erratic gusting of the wind. One second
it was pushing the boat back away from the pen requiring increased throttle, then
only to drop at just the right moment sending the bow careening into the pen’s superstructure.

Some pilots were more adept than others and like many things, some pined for the challenge
while others welcomed a replacement. In the more moderate to high winds, only Greg
or Michael would captain the transfer and almost exclusively in the
Heppin
. Anything over sixty-five mph was too much for the light weight
Sili
to handle, no matter the captain’s skill. That said, there were
also plenty of occasions where even the most seaworthy of our transport boats could
not make the short journey safely—this included the Icelandic Coast Guard’s vessel
Thor
. During these supremely foul days and nights, unfortunate souls on the bay pen were
at times left to fend for themselves until Mother Nature once again allowed passage.

Even so, Iceland is not unlike any other earthbound continent. Here we were also blessed
with seasons of milder weather. As the long dark days of winter edged toward summer
and seemingly eternal daylight, workable weather became more frequent and an extremely
valuable commodity. Summer was our chance to make good on many things, from Keiko’s
conditioning goals to bay pen repairs to the ultimate challenge of erecting the barrier
net. All of this was painted with the urgency to exploit the mild weather-window that
would close on us again all too quickly.

Many colorful characters frequented the Keiko release effort. Beyond the affable locals
who we grew to know so well, the project had no small compliment of native Icelandic
staff. Among them was an unforgettable couple, Smári and Lina. Smári Harðarson, was
a former “Mr. Iceland,” an imposing six-foot-tall Viking with shoulders wide enough
to seat two adults and muscles enough to easily carry them.

Sigurlína, or “Lina” as we called her, represented the more refined member of the
soon-to-be Harðarson family. She, like so many native Icelanders, was blonde and fair
skinned. A good bit shorter than Smari, Lina commanded his world nonetheless. The
Harðarson family was a fitness family all around. On the feminine scale, Lina’s physique
paralleled that of the remarkable Mr. Iceland. We didn’t interact with Lina on a daily
basis, but she was always a welcome replacement for Smari on the occasional bay pen
assignment.

The Harðarsons ran a small company that provided the security detail for Keiko’s bay
pen facility. Well known and respected in the community, Smari’s position as the security
provider was all
that was needed to deter any local’s thoughts of tampering with the operation. Smari
himself did not cover much of the security detail on the pen. His brute strength and
certification as a commercial diver were too valuable not to utilize in marine operations.
In every case where the pen was under threat of destruction by the wind and surge
currents, Smari was the brawn and the experience to deal with whatever was needed,
regardless of the conditions.

Following a particularly menacing storm, I’ll never forget watching him complete his
maintenance dive to inspect the pen’s anchor system. The ledge was easily one-and-a-half
feet, if not two, above the water’s surface. After completing his dives, Smari pulled
himself out of the water, fully clad in dry suit, roughly fifty pounds of lead weight
around his waist, two dive tanks on his back and any other equipment he routinely
carried. Smari was the only one we knew who could accomplish this feat.

He had quite the sense of humor and was also fond of his morning routines. One such
practice involved the dreaded bathroom break on the bay pen following the morning
“jo.” Grinning ear to ear, Mr. Iceland would arrive to the bay pen exactly on schedule
and promptly report to the “Incinolet” or incinerator toilet (very environmentally
friendly for the ocean; as for the atmosphere … not so much). One need not spend too
much time contemplating the inner workings taking place deep within the bowels of
the Incinolet.

The bay pen’s only “head,” the incinerator’s vent stack rose from the top of the research
shack where another morning routine was taking place: the ethogram, a twice-daily
collection of research data. (Later the ethogram became an hourly duty.) The lucky
individual charged with taking the morning ethogram recordings would perch atop the
research shack gaining a bird’s-eye view of Keiko and his activity. He or she was
sequestered there, clipboard in hand, until the fifteen-minute observation period
expired—no excuses, no change of venue. Consistency is important in data collection.
The observer would record numerical values representing
various activity levels, time of the observation, any unusual behavior and multiple
other raw data points.

Smari’s ability to synchronize his morning ritual with the somewhat varying schedule
of the ethogram was uncanny. We often theorized that a “mole” was in our midst reporting
the day’s plan to Smari in advance. Somehow I was always “busy” and skirted the responsibility
of recording ethogram data. I was therefore spared the eye-watering cloud bank of
smoke coughing out of the vent, assaulting and insulting our beloved researchers engulfed
aloft.

Equally endearing, and less likely to prank, was the Icelandic business manager for
all on-site operations, one Guðmundur Eyjólfsson. No one called him by anything other
than simply “Gummi.” Another blond and fair-skinned Icelander, Gummi wore his hair
shaved very close to his head which produced a white-halo effect that went nicely
with his role. Not a small man, larger than average build and slightly barrel-chested,
Gummi looked the part of a very capable and sturdy Icelandic male.

Gummi was in his forties, somewhat older and more mature than the average age onboard
the release team. He provided a much-needed keel of competence and seriousness in
the otherwise constantly mischievous seas that battered the project atmosphere. Whenever
we needed something administrative, had complications with media scheduling or required
replacement gear, Gummi was our savior. Gummi was also one of the few that recognized
the improvements in Keiko’s disposition and believed in the experience that Robin
and I brought to the project. His support was unflappable throughout the most trying
conflicts within the organization.