Killing Keiko (41 page)

“Okay, let’s recall.”

“Draupnir—Sili/Heppin
,” Michael advised, “Going to recall Keiko.”

Two clicks of the radio from each confirmed their receipt of the message.

Stephen dropped the recall transmitter into the water off the stern of the
Draupnir
, closest to Keiko’s distant position. We made eye contact, and I nodded.

“Recall,” Stephen announced.

We waited.

“Draupnir—Sili
. Any response?”

“Can’t tell,
Draupnir
, we’ve lost visual,” came the reply.

Robin didn’t want to chance it. “Try the recall again.”

Again Stephen hit the recall tone. Again we waited. It seemed forever scanning for
a visual, but it was also a fair distance, and Keiko wasn’t known to sprint back to
the
Draupnir
at the beckon
call of the tone. It would take time for us to become accustomed to how long was too
long. This time we didn’t need the recall a third time. Keiko finally showed up at
the
Draupnir
, having evaded our searching eyes during his commute. He surfaced at the platform
on the starboard side without lifting his head. We had been so consistent in delivering
his reinforcement on or below the surface that he very seldom lifted his head to acknowledge
the world above the surface.

Upon the reunion, confidence among the release team also returned. Conversation bent
to the excitement and success of his outward interest in the pod of passing dolphins.
Had we let it, the scene might have elicited a search and recovery party among the
boats in formation that day. As it was, Robin stifled the knee-jerk need to curtail
Keiko’s first real adventure, and in so doing, preserved the neutrality of man-made
things.

Less Jeff, Robin and myself, the staff’s acceptance of the unexpected exercise seemed
feigned at best. The idea of release was still so intuitively contrary to the usual
mandates of caring for an animal. Nonetheless, at least the two or three of us were
genuinely ecstatic at Keiko’s display of curiosity. Until now, we had never seen evidence
of the extrovert animal we had hoped to discover. Keiko’s outward curiosity that day
was at least a morsel we could hang our hat on, something akin to the type of animal
that could someday find the means to survive on his own. At least that’s what we chose
to believe, and for the time being, it was a welcome shot in the arm.

In the world of man, the release project floated on a sea of paperwork. As we amassed
time at sea, others worked to conclude the final release permit, one that would give
us the means to introduce Keiko to his kind. That day was nearing, and everything
we did now was a step in the direction of freedom; freedom not from the bay or bay
pen, but freedom from the tethered half-release of the walk-boat. Though it was a
mechanically brilliant means by which to transport Keiko to sea, we also knew the
Draupnir
and the constancy of our presence with him at sea was a hindrance
to his survival. The longer we continued these paired adventures, the more he became
dependent on our guidance.

Bringing together animals that have no history together can be treacherous, even if
they are of the same species. In the field of wildlife management, it is understood
that social acclimation is a gradual process, especially among highly social animals,
such as killer whales. In an ideal setting, the new animal is first introduced to
the unfamiliar environment. In Keiko’s case this was the open ocean. Once the animal
gains experience and familiarity with that environment, he is introduced to the target
social group. Again, in a perfect world scenario, the animals are introduced one at
a time until they have met each individual in the group. At each introduction, the
newbie’s presence is paired with something positive, like food. In the simplest form,
every time the new guy shows up, good things happen. Over time, the positive association
transfers to the new member of the social group.

However, we could not directly reinforce the wild killer whales each time they met
Keiko. Though that was precisely what I wanted to do, such blatant influence of the
wild animals flew in the face of every ethical consideration in wildlife management.
It was impossible to pair a food source with Keiko without also creating an association
with man, upsetting the wild animal’s natural avoidance of man-made things.

Because we had no control over whether or not Keiko would be accepted by the wild
whales, the best we could manage was to reinforce Keiko when the wild whales were
nearby. Even so, we had to be careful not to provide much of Keiko’s food associated
with the
Draupnir
or for returning to the bay. Too much of the former and Keiko would become hopelessly
attached to the walk-boat. Too much of the latter and we’d end up with a whale expertly
trained to return to the bay. The plan was to shift this balance over time and repeated
exposure gauging each measured step based on Keiko and his intended family.

While nothing about the plan was ideal, we gambled that repetition would win the war.
By providing the bulk of Keiko’s daily food requirement each time the wild ones showed
up, over and over again, this positive history would eventually “transfer” to the
act of staying near the other animals.

In stark contrast, the majority of the FWKF assumed that Keiko “wanted” to be in the
wild and would “instinctively” choose his kind. As if a sort of magic, they believed
instinct would spontaneously kick-in and override a lifetime of social isolation and
human relationships.

The concept of instinct is, at best, obscure and largely misconstrued. The word instinct
is often used to describe behavior that we don’t fully understand. It connotes a hidden,
hardwired ability or skill. In reality, most of what guides an animal’s behavior is
learned. Shortly after birth, the capacity to learn, and to adapt to an ever-changing
world, becomes the dominant factor at the center of survival. Without this important
amendment to “instinct,” animals or people would never endure beyond their first days
or year of life.

Keiko’s unusual history with man was the driving force behind his motivation and the
choices he would soon make. It was highly improbable that the adopted son would instantly
prefer his biological lineage over that of his twenty-year foster family. For all
intents and purposes, the wild whales were animals foreign to him.

By design, the walk-boat was at best a temporary step in the path to freedom. It was
a one-way means of transport, a prompt that needed to be faded before it became a
crutch. The ocean-walk rehearsals were beneficial in exposing Keiko to his new home.
But it was time to move beyond this half-step. It was time to begin the social acclimation
process.

Events played in our favor. After just three weeks of open ocean rehearsals under
the tempered approval, we received the green light to introduce Keiko to wild killer
whales. The timing could not have been better. We were willing and Keiko was as ready
as
he would ever be. Sunday, June 18, 2000, was the day selected for the grand introduction.

As expected, anticipation ran fervently through the hierarchy of the release campaign
swelling from Santa Barbara in the east all the way to Iceland. Despite every forensic
evaluation of Keiko and the ebb and flow of his tenuous achievements, most considered
this day would end in dramatic fulfillment not unlike the sunset scene portrayed in
Free Willy
. The event received the same pomp and circumstance of a presidential inauguration.
All we could do was not enough to prevent the circus that converged on the small island
of Heimaey. The project moved forward now on its own schedule, shaking loose a series
of events set in motion years earlier.

A week before the big day, the purposeful introduction of Keiko to wild whales, we
met in Jeff’s room on the penthouse level of the hotel. The meeting was between Charles,
Robin, Jeff, Jen and me. We were deciding the final protocols for introduction: boats
and their assignments, proximity of same and the details of each party’s responsibility
on the water and in the air. This discussion was intended to finalize the step-by-step
process as we discussed every angle and possible result.

Most of the plan was agreeable and had already been exchanged in rudimentary form
through numerous e-mails among the five of us. The nucleus of the flotilla would be
the
Draupnir
and Keiko, supported by
Heppin
to watch our back and prevent third-party vessels from encroaching on the introduction.
Two additional boats would be needed, although Robin and I both were reluctant to
agree. The
Viking II
would serve to locate and track a wild pod, communicating back to the
Draupnir
so that positions could be coordinated. Yet another vessel would be full of VIPs
the FWKF board had to accommodate, a collateral obligation to significant donors.
Lastly, the helicopter would be used to film the event and provide additional bird’s-eye
spotting. But as the discussion continued, other plans emerged that were new to Robin
and me.

From day one of our involvement, Robin and I had always viewed Keiko’s meeting with
his wild brethren as a process, one that would require an unknown quantity of time
and repeated exposure. We were very much alone in this perspective. Charles and the
FWKF
board firmly believed that this was it; that Keiko’s first introduction was a one-way
ticket and he would not be returning to Klettsvik with the
Draupnir
. When we argued our point, the persistent counterpoint always began with, “Yeah,
but what if he leaves …?” or “We need to be prepared.” These “eventualities” dictated
that the introduction would be treated like a one-off event, requiring full documentation
of Keiko’s release
just in case
.

Robin and I quickly became distressed by the growing number of vessels and helicopter
required to accommodate an entourage of paparazzi, all driven by the notion of Keiko
swimming off into the sunset. Our only victory, we refused to allow a diver in the
water to film the interaction between Keiko and the wild pod, initially insisted upon
by Charles. His agenda largely focused on the creation of an award-studded documentary.
After all, film was the lifeblood of Jean-Michel and Ocean Future Society. For our
part, we wanted nothing more than what was absolutely required. If left to us, the
introduction would consist of no more than the
Draupnir
and one support vessel. Losing that battle, we were both already on edge about every
other aspect of the process as it unfolded.

Next was deciding where each boat would be positioned in the flotilla’s waterborne
configuration and the helicopter’s flight path. If we couldn’t keep the boats out
of the water altogether, we were bound and determined to put them at such distance
that they would be rendered just as innocuous. Charles and Jen met our first proposition
of several miles with heated resistance. Charles couldn’t capture the footage he desperately
wanted from such distances. Similarly, Jen could not record the data she needed and
which represented the pinnacle of every other data point collected in the path leading
up to this day. Jeff supported Jen in her insistence on the data collection, calmly
and periodically offering counterpoint. Jen was more outspoken on the issues.

From Robin’s and my perspective, there would be many more opportunities for collection
of footage and data. The initial exposure to wild whales needed to be positive at
best and at worst a relaxed low-key event. To us, this first introduction was nothing
more than
testing the waters; the outcome of which we would evaluate and refine the process
of ongoing encounters. In his own way, Robin tried to suggest as much, but to no avail.
The stigma of “release” as a finality stubbornly persisted.

Robin had been on-site for an extended period. Exhausted and irritated from the strife
over every decision of late, he became as a pressure cooker reaching its limit. Perhaps
a character flaw, Robin would often push himself to extremes during field projects
of this nature, willing himself forward on insufficient sleep and the sustenance of
Snickers bars, coffee and cigarettes. Although I’d only seen Robin blow his cap on
scant few occasions, this was the perfect storm and what ensued would mark an unforgettable
and regrettable conclusion to our meeting that night. As the night played out, every
frustration Robin locked within himself over the past months surfaced, and all at
once.

The layers of this soured onion were slowly peeled back. Soon, it became apparent
that Jeff and Jen had been supporting a variety of objectives for the initial introduction,
none of which Robin or I viewed as setting Keiko up for success. Those plans were
almost exclusively focused on research and to some degree, Charles’ independent hopes
and desires for unrivaled documentary footage that would put Ocean Futures Society
in the history books. It was exactly as if they were changing the game plan, presenting
a new playbook at the most critical time in the fourth quarter of a closely matched
Superbowl. The realization hit Robin like a ton of bricks. By his assessment, they
had intentionally deceived him, withholding information that they knew he would not
support and thereby removing him from the decision. Robin took it as a personal offense.

Jen attempted to explain, but she was paraphrasing directly from the mouth of Robin
Baird, an orca researcher from the Pacific Northwest, who had zero knowledge of the
complex processes at work in Keiko’s rehabilitation. Baird had no working understanding
of the behavioral protocols, the progress we’d made, or the plan that got us there.
It was the same plan that dictated a continuation of precise conditioning steps. Baird
wanted genetic data on the wild
pod, and Jen was compelled to agree. Among other facts and figures, they wanted to
know the lineage of the pod that Keiko would join.