Killing Keiko (21 page)

Icelandic people are among the most proud people I had ever met then or since. But
in relation to the
Thor
, pride was an understatement. The ICG’s slogan is “Always Prepared,” and they are.
Few vestiges of island civilization know the challenges of extreme oceanic emergency
and rescue as well as the Icelandic Coast Guard. Though I had no naturalized right
to be, I was extremely proud of the ICG and its most impressive
Thor
.

Our chief of Marine Operations, and Smari were equally inspiring of confidence. Michael
Parks was licensed to pilot 300-ton ships and he possessed a natural aptitude for
anything waterborne. Smari, a commercial diver and member of special recovery/salvage
teams, had participated in deep-water dives around Iceland that raised the hair on
the back of my neck whenever he talked about them. On one occasion during my time
in Iceland, Smari had to recover bodies from a shipwreck off the mainland shore at
more than eighty meters deep. I could scarcely imagine diving at that depth, in the
complete dark, and along with the psychological burden of recovering bodies no less.
In the event that we needed rescue from a collapsing bay pen, we were blessed with
many reliable resources that could come to our aid.

September 9, 1999, I was at home in Orlando, one of my brief off-site rotations. As
usual I received daily e-mails and the occasional phone call from Robin. We routinely
dissected everything from
Keiko to the barrier net and beyond. On this particular day and in Robin’s classic
way of downplaying just about everything, he ended an e-mail with, “It’s going to
be a bad one here, my friend!” I had known about the storm because Klettsvik was always
last in line to receive every storm cell that traveled the eastern seaboard, even
those that originated as far south as Florida. This was due to the “Gulf Stream Express.”
The Gulf Stream, one of the most well-known currents in the Atlantic, carries most
storm systems straight up the east coast of the Americas bouncing off Newfoundland
and smack into Iceland. Vestmannaeyjar is like the keeper in a soccer (or football)
game. The small island chain takes the brunt of every Gulf Stream kick aimed at the
goal.

There were two distinct weapons of each significant storm cell that reached Vestmannaeyjar:
wind and current. Almost always, the wind came first, the surge current arriving shortly
after. In some cases the wind stayed long enough to join forces with the surge current,
and both wreaked havoc on the bay pen and our nerves. This particular storm was the
offspring of at least two hurricanes, Floyd and Gert, which were lurking throughout
the lower reaches of the Gulf Stream vacillating between tropical depression and hurricane
status. I don’t know that either of these two systems ever actually reached Iceland
intact, but there was no doubt that they had fueled activity that reached as far north
as Klettsvik Bay on September 10, 1999.

On that day, the resulting surge currents levied a heavy toll on the bay pen, breaking
the superstructure in two places on the east side of the southernmost pool. So strong
were the currents tearing at the bay pen that the enormous concrete rings that weighted
the north and south pools were lifted to the surface throughout the night like giant
lids hinged on the sea floor—a sight that was wholly unsettling.

Keiko himself seemed the least affected in such conditions. Often, he would merely
float as best he could in the calmest corner of the pen, on the leeward side of the
wind or current. In the worst of conditions, he was forced to swim continuously, the
only means by
which he could avoid being tossed into the moving parts of the pen’s structure.

Another time, the bay was blanketed in the darkness of winter. A surge had hit Klettsvik
Bay sans any accompanying wind and lifted the several ton rings to the surface, first
in one direction and then the other as the current bounced back out the way it had
come.

Strangely, the current by itself without the wind was somehow more frightening than
the combined duo. I was on the pen during two such occasions; watching forces of nature
so immensely powerful, yet so indifferent, that one instantly senses his own frailty.
Realization strikes with sobering clarity that at any moment, we could be fighting
for our very lives. We theorized that these forceful and mysterious currents were
generated by sea floor tremors, otherwise undetectable from land. At times, even on
clear weather days, we had watched as boats in the harbor rose up more than ten feet
right before our eyes and in less than a few minutes.

Not this time.

This time the surge was the offspring of active storm cells in the North Atlantic,
and the devastation levied on the pen was accompanied by hurricane force winds and
rain. It was on the eve of Smari and Lina’s wedding that Robin’s storm warning took
effect, twisting and contorting the bay pen to such extremes that two primary infrastructure
joints in the thirty-inch HDPE pipe gave way, compromising the pen’s buoyancy and
shattering the equilibrium of the anchor system. What had served to pull equally on
opposing points of the pen, thus stabilizing the structure, now gave purpose to pulling
it apart. No one wanted to tell Smari, knowing he would replace his marriage responsibilities
with that of rescuing the pen. Discreetly and in haste, Michael led the Marine Ops
crew in patching the stationary craft together. Remarkably, they did so in time for
the wedding; however, only by amputating the entire southern pool. The damaged end
became a liability threatening the only remaining vestige of the habitat surrounding
Keiko.

Significant restructuring of the anchor system would be needed in the following weeks.
The damage and subsequent repairs forced
us to shorten the perimeter itself and close off the southern end preventing Keiko’s
access to that area of the pen. It would be some time before the south pool could
be reopened to Keiko. Ironically, in the approximations toward life in the open ocean,
Keiko’s world had just been reduced by half. For the time being, Keiko would be sequestered
to the north pool, adding additional challenge to increasing his activity and physical
workouts.

One lazy afternoon, I set out on foot about the town to clear my mind. A rare escape.
There was no purpose in my direction, only that of solitary and pensive meandering.
Not long into my brief respite, I happened into the far southwest side of the harbor,
where the big ships were moored. These were impressively large working-class ships.
I was enthralled with the lifestyle. As I often did when surrounded by seafaring vessels,
I would stand, staring at the ships with their rusty outlines, hard steel covered
with countless layers of paint, willing myself to relive colorful scenes played out
upon their decks. They were scarred prize fighters—brutes, hardened by a life struggling
against a sea obsessed with swallowing them whole. I imagined what it must be like:
what the lifestyle would feel like, and how the fisherman that occupied these leviathans
for weeks and sometimes months on end might view the world. It was not an easy way
to make a living, but not hard to imagine that it also created a very strong brotherhood
among fellow fishermen.

Walking around the very end of the harbor on my way to leave, I saw her and stopped
in my tracks. The
Gudrun
. Instantly I had goose bumps, the kind that sent a wave through my entire body. I
didn’t know what to think. A mixture of feelings erupted and coursed through me as
I tried to form a cohesive thought. This was a piece of history I never expected to
see firsthand. The
very
ship that had been used to collect nearly all the killer whales from Icelandic waters
in the 1980s and early ‘90s … and there she sat, just like that. This was the boat
that escorted many of the whales I had known on their inaugural transition to a life
with humans. The
Gudrun
was definitely where Keiko started his journey. I stood, staring for an unknown length
of time, imagining and wondering, trying to resurrect the scene and immersing myself
in the significance and enormity of it all. The vision of the
Gudrun
was surreal. It was a relic of history specific to my life, to my career and to the
many amazing relationships that I had been blessed with over my time working alongside
killer whales.

This inanimate salted beast of steel was in many ways the centerpiece of one of the
most remarkable animal movements in human history. She had ferried animals from the
waters of Iceland and thus started them on individual journeys that led to various
corners of the world. People of all walks of life came to know these animals from
Iceland. The care, compassion and intrigue they excited led many more to the spectacle
of
Orcinus orca
and still others to a life of protesting their confinement. In any case, the
Gudrun
was an unsuspecting player in the rise of value for killer whales worldwide. I wondered
if her captain had any clue how far the activities of his battered vessel traveled
or how they have altered the values of entire societies and generations of people.

September 1999 we introduced a new hire to the Behavior Team. Kelly Reed had come
directly from SeaWorld and a career of working with killer whales in an applied behavior
setting. Hiring Kelly was the product of much deliberation between Alyssa and me,
and only after considering almost a half dozen others for the task.

Alyssa was gifted in her ability to assess true talent in our shared professional
field, and I trusted her faith in Kelly’s expertise. Although I had never met Kelly,
I spoke with her at length, often deliberately trying to dissuade her interest in
the project. I knew one thing from firsthand experience: this job was not for the
faint of heart nor the thin-skinned.

Of particular interest to me was Kelly’s tutelage under Ted Turner. Not the Ted Turner
of cable news, but the Ted Turner, vice president of Animal Training of SeaWorld of
Ohio. In the comparably
smaller community of zoological professionals, Ted’s fame was nonetheless equal to
that of the Turner Broadcasting version. Many of the most complex behavioral achievements
in the SeaWorld system were the product of Ted Turner’s obsession with the science
of behavior and the application of behavioral modification techniques. He was famous
for the intensity with which he imparted the profession on his pupils. I knew that
Kelly would be an asset to the staff in Iceland, capable of not only understanding
the behavioral rehabilitation already in progress with Keiko, but also providing additional
experienced input. An added bonus, Kelly had just weeks before been caring for three
other male killer whales in the SeaWorld of Florida park. This abrupt juxtaposition
would produce a “State of the Union,” a very useful contrast in evaluating Keiko’s
behavioral and physical disposition.

In her early thirties, Kelly was a lively addition to the staff. Full of excitement
borne of the project’s novelty and exotic climate, she made everything new again.
Kelly brought a fresh perspective, and her excitement was contagious. Admittedly,
I was so long buried in the sensitivity of the existing staff and the pendulum swing
of morale, that I welcomed Kelly’s arrival more than I could admit. At last I had
someone who spoke the same professional language, understood behavioral science and,
as importantly, recognized that it was a priority in the management of any animal
environment, most especially this one. When I introduced a thought, alternative, or
solution regarding Keiko’s daily interactions, I didn’t need to preface it with “why.”
The freedom to openly discuss behavioral modification without accusation of speaking
“SeaWorld” or risk of alienating my skeptical coworker was liberating.

I don’t think Kelly weighed more than a 105 pounds. She was an attractive blonde with
a thin figure appropriate for anchoring a model runway, but she didn’t have nearly
enough mass to safely navigate the winds of Klettsvik Bay. Case in point, I weighed
in at over 200 pounds. On at least one occasion with two thirty-five-pound fish buckets
in hand, I had been completely lifted off the
bay pen deck by wind gusts ricocheting off the sheer rock walls surrounding the bay.
Kelly wouldn’t stand a chance if caught unaware.

Kelly hired onto the project at an unusual time. Everything was in a state of constant
change. From the release of a favored team member and the segregation of duties into
specialized teams to the modified rotation schedule and the ramp up in severe weather
operations, she could not have started at a more challenging moment (for the existing
staff). It would do no good for Kelly to shadow me on the bay pen. Very quickly I
needed her to get up to speed and begin carrying responsibilities in my absence. Her
first foray in Heimaey would be the only rotation where we would work together for
such an extended period. Thereafter, I placed Kelly on an opposite rotation and paired
her time on-site with Robin. Her presence would allow Robin to focus his attention
on the Marine Operations team and achieving the impossible: the installation of the
barrier net.

To my surprise, fortune favored our timing. In earlier months Kelly’s addition to
the team would have resulted in a family feud the likes of which no person should
endure. However, in the midst of the energy and enthusiasm surrounding the prospect
of bay access, Kelly’s start produced no more than mild scandal. Still, the contrasting
personalities of Kelly and Steve Sinelli were nonetheless quite humorous. Like baking
soda and vinegar, the two never failed to elicit a spirited reaction from one another.

Kelly possessed a rather unusual brand of humor. The uniqueness came from the fact
that most of her pratfall-type comedy was unintentional. Kelly’s propensity for physical
mishap was at its peak in an environment like the Keiko Release Project where opportunities
abounded for happenstance goof ups. From dropping the heavy stainless steel buckets
into the harbor to stalling the transport boat right in front of the oncoming ferry,
Kelly was always giving us raw material from which we gained much levity.