Killing Keiko (28 page)

Keiko was given the dazed fish for a short period of time, mostly during his tenure
in the bay pen and early days in the bay, but always in the company and supervision
of his trainers. The context in which he would
take
live fish became an important distinction. The animated supplement even reached nearly
forty percent of his intake for a spell, but this was the only time in the release
effort that live fish played a daily role. Much more daunting release objectives demanded
ours and Keiko’s undivided attention.

In preparation for the next stage of release, we began to shift more and more of our
attention on Keiko’s time away from humans and less on direct training sessions. Our
direct interactions were now reduced almost exclusively to required husbandry. His
only other vice, exercise sessions, were orchestrated at lesser intervals; at least
until we had other means to keep Keiko active outside of the bay pen. We often purposefully
created activity on the decks of the bay pen, deliberately making sure to offer no
response to Keiko, as if he had become invisible to the two-legged land dwellers.
Covertly, we lurked in unseen corners of the pen, waiting and watching for active
swimming or Keiko’s occasional chasing of a happenstance seabird that had alighted
on the calmer waters of the pen’s interior. Nonetheless, novel events were hard to
come by. Keiko’s activity increased, but this mainly consisted of constant swimming.
There was little else to fill the void.

Once in the bay, a fundamentally important step would be introduced: training Keiko
to follow a special purpose walk-boat. After toiling over the ideal candidate to serve
as Keiko’s guide, Michael located a retired coast guard boat aptly named the
Draupnir
. Project leaders approved the acquisition with little hesitation. The
Draupnir
, from Norse mythology’s “the ring of Odin,” had a complex role among the gods. Long
removed from its heyday, the
Draupnir
required no small amount of TLC in preparation for her guardianship over Keiko. The
boat had been swamped at least twice
in its storied past and, as a result her aft inboard engines were rife with mechanical
problems.

The pilothouse, a white metal box located amidships and framed by the bright orange
of the foam-filled sponsons, contained just enough room for three to comfortably stand,
a fourth if he or she wasn’t shy. To the right of the helm wheel were two throttles
like that of a commercial aircraft, one each for the starboard and port engines.
Draupnir’s
special jet-driven power came from engines that sucked water through an intake. Internal
propellers then vigorously jetted the water back out through directional scuppers,
thus providing not only movement, but movement in any direction. A dial allowed the
captain to direct the boat’s propulsion. The
Draupnir
lacked external props that would otherwise serve as underwater blades posing a threat
to Keiko.

In addition to twenty-six knots all-ahead, she could “walk” backwards and sideways
or hover broadside in a strong current. The
Draupnir
was an ideal escort for the journey ahead, if only she would run. Neither the crew
nor Keiko would be well served by an unreliable boat in the midst of the North Atlantic’s
teeth. Justifiably so, much resource was put to the task of mechanical refurbishment
and little toward the unsightly battle scars that revealed the
Draupnir’s
hard life. After all, if the release effort went according to plan, and once her
role as the walk-boat played out, the old girl would be sunk offshore never to influence
Keiko again.

While the
Draupnir
remained nestled in the harbor under the urgency of repair, preparation for Keiko’s
exposure to the bay drew near. E-mails shot between Santa Barbara, Seattle, and Iceland
with increasing necessity and intensity because of the major PR event that was about
to unfold. Keiko’s initial exposure to the bay was enticing not only for those of
us on-site, it was as much a desperately needed storyline for administrative personnel
constantly struggling to shore up donor support. Keiko’s first foray into the bay
was exciting to be sure, but also carried with it an expectation of shock and awe.
Many anticipated that a vibrant whale would triumphantly charge from the confines
of his pen, as an inmate
might run from solitary detention to the fresh air and sunlight of freedom.

Everything we knew about learning suggested otherwise. As with every other systematic
change we introduced, the shift from the confines of the pen to the relative vast
expanse of the bay would be nothing more than one more approximation in Keiko’s rehabilitation.
How that change was introduced was critical. There would be only a limited set of
opportunities for us to practice transition to the open ocean, albeit, on a much smaller
scale and in an environment we could control (to certain extent). The FWKF board,
Charles and even some within the staff assumed that the larger bay would naturally
be positive for Keiko, that the size alone and the varied stimulation it provided
would win the day. However, there was no basis for expecting the bay to be either
directly or intrinsically appealing to Keiko. He had no history with such an environment
which, after all, was counterbalanced by a long-standing and vast history in smaller
and more familiar surroundings.

March 2, 2000, the day before opening the gateway to the bay, Tom was on-site in charge
of Keiko’s daily management. In anticipation of the transition to the bay, I had seized
the opportunity to spend a brief two weeks at home in Orlando. Back in Iceland, every
available body worked to clean up the bay, a catchall that often consumed large amounts
of trash coming from the shipping channel. As the last of the details were completed,
the draw of the public relations event became too enticing to await my return. Keiko’s
trial release from the pen would move ahead without me. Tom and I exchanged constant
e-mails and racked up a hefty phone bill discussing the ideal course of action to
be followed.

“How’s it going up there?” I started. My morning his afternoon, we were separated
by a four-hour time difference.

“Weather’s been unusually calm, so that’s good. Greg and Blair just finished taking
the last trash bags off the beach this morning, so I think the bay cleanup is about
as good as it’s going to get.”

“What about the barrier net, did they get the boat gate working?” I knew before answering
that Michael was never satisfied.

“Ha … you know Michael. It works really well in my opinion, but he’s been messing
with it a lot and taking boats over it constantly … made it difficult to coordinate
sessions with Keiko. Been a pain in the ass, really. Keiko ignores most of it, but
he’s been logging a lot more lately so that’s made it hard to get any DRA in … between
that and the boats.”

I wasn’t surprised. “I’ll bet you anything that he is watching more than we can see.
If he’s logging more at night and in the down times, when there’s no activity in the
bay, it tells me he’s tired. Ya know, just from the hubbub, the constancy of it.”

We had seen delayed effects of environmental stressors before, sometimes two or more
weeks after the fact. I knew that Robin was monitoring this aspect carefully, mandating
scheduled down time at changing intervals. Still, the race to the finish was too alluring.
Work intervals had increased in duration and frequency over the last week of preparation.

“He’s eating okay, and sessions are about the same as when you left. He’s just logging
more in between,” Tom replied to my guess.

“Have you talked to Robin?” I asked, wondering if they had discussed the potential
negative impact of over-stimulation.

“I’ve hardly even seen him. We’ve been on the bay pen mostly in the afternoon and
evening and he’s been on the
Hamar
all day.” Tom sounded indifferent. “I talked to him over the radio a couple times.
He’s coming on the pen today to go over the plan.”

I immediately became defensive. I knew all too well that Robin already had his own
distinct ideas in mind for the bay access. “Listen, this has to be taken very slowly,
I know you know that, but I want to make sure we’re all on the same page. We can’t
afford to miss this opportunity. I’ve copied Robin on the e-mail I sent you yesterday,
so I’m hoping he got it … and not when his eyes are glazing over at the end of the
day.”

“I don’t know, but he’ll be out here today. Maybe we can call you from the bay pen?”
Tom offered.

“The most important thing is that we don’t rush the process. This is the ideal dress
rehearsal for open ocean work. I want Keiko to
take the initiative. Just open the gate and break, then standby and be ready to reinforce
him when he shows interest in the gate or if by chance he goes through on his own,”
I replied.

We’d been through this before. I repeated myself as much for my own comfort as to
communicate what Tom already understood. “I was going to call him to the north pool,
separate him to the med pool, open the bay gate and break from there.”

Without needing to say it, Tom knew not to shut the medical pool gate thus cutting
off Keiko’s retreat to the familiar north pool. His intention was to simply place
Keiko close enough to the bay gate removing any doubt that Keiko was aware of the
new opening.

“Perfect. I’d station Tracy and Brian outside the pen or on opposite sides of the
south pool to reinforce if he comes out on his own.”

“Yeah, we talked about that yesterday after you sent your email.” By now Tom was just
placating my need to be heard. I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know
and know well.

Driving the point home, I closed the topic, “I don’t care if it takes all day or two
or three days. Just stick with that plan … and call me if you need back up.”

Perhaps overbearing in my approach at times, I was hell-bent on executing each and
every minuscule step to perfection. This was a big one, which only added further intensity
to my otherwise incessant brow beating on the finer points of behavioral sciences.
One all-important aspect of the new Keiko we needed to find was his inner extrovert.
We needed to encourage, in fact shape, an outgoing and curious bull killer whale.
A collateral benefit, we had a very rare opportunity to provide positive consequences
to enormous environmental change. Environmental change was the central theme of Phase
II and III in the release plan. As it was, human haste and the constant need for immediate
satisfaction ran in completely the opposite direction.

Fortune smiled on the media interests. The weather on March 3, 2000, was impeccable,
setting the stage for a seemingly
momentous occasion. It was midday, the only time in the short days of winter that
provided enough light for the event. Robin, Tom and Tracy were on the bay pen to work
Keiko. As they later related, the
Draupnir
had a front row seat, just outside the barrier net, cameramen on her bow. Other members
of the staff and media perched atop the overlook on the southern shores of the bay,
snow covered volcanic rock framing the scene. All waited for the singular decisive
unveiling of Keiko’s glorious emergence from the pen.

On the pen, Tom stepped up, waited for the right moment, then called Keiko to the
north pool platform where he could get down at the whale’s level, even with the water’s
surface. Keiko popped up, his giant black and white head divided by the pink of his
gaping mouth. Tom blew his whistle bridge and moved swiftly to the west side of the
medical pool nearest the bay gateway. There had been little activity leading up to
this point, and Keiko was excited to see Tom. The whale broke sideways so quickly
that he cast a sizable wake as he moved to follow. He hadn’t sat up in front of Tom
more than a moment when Robin and Tracy opened the doorway to the brave new world.
Keiko didn’t even flinch. It was as if the most sensory equipped predator was completely
oblivious to the clanking clumsy opening of the makeshift gate. Wanting to save most
of Keiko’s food that day for his hopeful entrance into the bay, Tom tossed him a single
herring and stepped back, starting toward the new opening in the pen. Tom joined Robin
and Tracy near the entrance to the bay, a steel bucket of fish by his side. The three
waited and watched with anxious anticipation.

At first, nothing. Keiko had disappeared from sight. They scanned the interior of
the bay pen and finding nothing, stole an occasional expectant glance outward to the
bay. Still nothing. After what seemed an eternity, Keiko finally surfaced. Although
he had divulged no initial awareness of the new opening in his floating pen, he was
indeed keenly aware and wasn’t at all comfortable with the strange arrangement. When
he surfaced, he had come to a complete stop, logging at the farthest corner of the
north pool and facing
completely opposite the bay opening. He appeared as if a child pouting in the corner,
unwilling to face his parent.

As they waited and watched Robin responded to nagging inquiries emanating from the
handheld radio, on the other end of which was Hallur Hallsson, the Keiko Release Project’s
director of communications. Hallur was attempting to stave off media impatience with
an educated response. Initially, Robin had given the order to leave Keiko alone, wait
him out. Keiko on the other hand didn’t wear a watch and had no obligation to impatient
reporters with barren cameras. As minutes bordered on an hour, Keiko sat motionless
at his original position as far away from the gateway as he could physically be.

Robin finally had enough of the waiting. The light was fading fast, and he was under
pressure of expectant eyes. “Tom, call him back over….”

“You don’t think we should wait?” asked Tom. It was more of a statement than a question.

Ignoring it, Robin continued, “Maybe ask for a few behaviors and then let’s point
him out.”