Killing Keiko (48 page)

As the captains each prepared the
Draupnir
,
Viking II
and supporting vessels, the Behavior Team on the bay pen was just realizing that
Keiko would be unable to endure another introduction so soon. Physically depleted,
his lethargy was immediately apparent and stifled any plans to guide him once again
to a pod of wild whales. It was three more days before the team was able to get Keiko
to the vicinity of his wild brethren.

Nonetheless the remaining release team eventually took Keiko to sea and to more whales.
Between July and October of 2000, the team continued numerous tours surrounding the
island chains of Vestmannaeyjar. During these walks they encountered many more and
varied pods of wild killer whales.

The expeditions were led by Jeff and Jen, following the established protocols from
the original plan. In each chance encounter with conspecifics, the
Draupnir
led Keiko to a position in the path of the intended family, then released Keiko from
his position at the side of the vessel and assumed the practiced neutral stance. Following
the fateful first exchange, Keiko continued to exhibit clear
avoidance of the wild whales, clinging to the immediate vicinity and safe haven of
the
Draupnir’s
company.

Keiko’s reactions to the wild whales on these particular outings evidenced an underlying
trauma resulting from the first botched introduction. In both animals and humans,
learning that occurs in conjunction with adrenal activity becomes almost “hardwired.”
Under the stress of aversive conditions, adrenaline coursing through the bloodstream
and chemical cocktails taking place in the brain, our predetermined design for survival
locks these events firmly in place lest we not forget the circumstances that may threaten
life itself. So it went with Keiko’s first foray among his kind, the learning taking
place and the association with wild killer whales occurred under supremely distressed
conditions, the results of which became a defining factor in Keiko’s quest for freedom.

That the
Draupnir
represented a calculated risk in Keiko’s indoctrination to sea was, by and large,
grossly underestimated. We often argued that she must play a static role. By design
the
Draupnir
was indeed Keiko’s means to gain open water access. As such, she was an increasingly
magnetic force in Keiko’s life. Robin and I insisted that every voyage to sea alongside
the
Draupnir
would create an association, if not a dependence, counterproductive to the aim of
social integration. We had expected that introductions to the wild whales would take
time and repeated rehearsals. We knew that the
Draupnir’s
life cycle in the release progression must be limited and that those limits would
be dictated by how and when Keiko’s interest in his wild cousins evolved.

It is of vital importance to recognize that food, although instrumental, is not by
itself an all-powerful force capable of trumping other and varied forms of positive
stimulation. In this regard, the most dangerous form of influence shaping Keiko’s
choices was people; the enriching human companionship that he had known all his life.
At this intersection in the project, the value of human
interaction had vastly increased by the sheer purposeful deprivation of same throughout
the mean season. Any occasion where Keiko now gained the reward of acknowledgment
from his past family was intoxicating to him.

But the notion that Keiko and the wild whales would naturally take to one another
proved too difficult to root out. The belief that Keiko would choose his wild counterparts
over his treasured escort maligned priorities. As a result, the counterpoising effects
of the
Draupnir
were unwittingly increased.

By mid-July, less than a month following our departure, additional activities were
assigned to the walk-boat during ventures to sea. For starters, interest in dive data
on Keiko led to the novel practice of pointing him down to a submerged buoy that was
set at varying depths. To ensure that Keiko would in fact touch the deep target, a
camera was mounted on his back by a suction cup apparatus. Via the camera, the training
staff could confirm that Keiko had touched the target before acknowledging a correct
response and providing reinforcement. Herein, contradictions existed on many levels,
not the least of which was the positive experience of learning a new behavior in association
with the
Draupnir
.

Deep-dive training was not the only interference introduced during the first season
at sea. For reasons not entirely known or worthy of analysis, Keiko returned to the
destructive behavior of hitting the walk-boat. Again and again contacting the boat’s
hull, the satellite tag affixed to Keiko began to damage his dorsal fin where the
pins penetrated through tissue. In an effort to minimize the resulting damage, the
original titanium pins were replaced with more flexible nylon ones. Against the beating,
the weaker nylon pins didn’t last and the tag was occasionally found flopping backward
after the forward pin snapped in half. In numerous instances, lacking any other practical
means, the staff got into the water with Keiko while at sea in order to patch the
expensive tag. Getting into the water directly with Keiko in the context of the open
ocean broke yet another seal, transferring a long history of human water play to the
new world.

Still more alluring research opportunities increased the use of the suction-cup camera,
gathering visual data on Keiko’s pursuits amid explorations away from the walk-boat.
All of these things transferred Keiko’s old-world with humans to his new environment.
The walk-boat became a veritable center of stimulation and a source of continued reinforcement
in the very environment where release would require exacting elimination of man and
man-made things.

Jeff and Jen had long maintained a persuasive research orientation toward every decision
encompassing their involvement in the release. During our term on the project, the
often times conflicting emphasis between research and behavioral necessities offset
one another. The foursome worked. Where data was required, Robin and I provided the
means to achieve collection in line with strict guidelines shielding Keiko from any
damaging influence. Lacking this check and balance, what had previously become a well-orchestrated
decision matrix now teetered precariously away from the foundational importance of
behavior in Keiko’s journey to independence. Bit by bit, albeit unintentionally, the
Draupnir
became a formidable obstruction in Keiko’s choice between two worlds.

The team continued on this course of introduction throughout the remainder of the
summer season, taking advantage of each nearby presence of whales posthaste. By October,
sightings of whales dwindled and opportunities became scarce. Coupled with inhospitable
weather typical in the later months, operations on the high seas had to be suspended
for the winter. Between late October and until approximately May, Keiko remained in
his static bay enclosure.

Throughout the winter the staff maintained much the same program routines as established
during the initial rehabilitation leading up to ocean walks. Days consisted of exercise
sessions, required husbandry and walk rehearsals within the confines of Klettsvik
Bay. But there were differences, and those differences clashed with the long-term
goals of release. Preexisting directives we had fashioned to reduce human contact
while not discarded, were greatly relaxed.
Among the changes in continued and varied human relationships was a return to playful
waterwork, enriching both staff members and Keiko during the monotonous long dark
days of winter. Although the impact of these practices cannot be accurately measured,
the activities would nonetheless levy a toll to be paid later.

Much like a drug addict falling off the wagon, the pendulum swing of a return to increasing
human interaction and activity only served to strengthen Keiko’s lifelong reliance
on man.

A foundational shift in the project now laid to waste all prior designs. Expressly,
the return to Klettsvik Bay and all that was required to keep a solitary whale healthy
for a prolonged winter of confinement. Though the prevailing idea of release focused
on a single season, multiple years were later considered and always included the prospect
of relocating our base of operations. In stark contrast to the shipping channel of
Klettsvik Bay, the prospect involved a location in which Keiko could be granted consistent
ocean access without the need (and pairing) of a walk-boat.

The back and forth of ocean access followed by confinement for the winter placed unrealistic
demands on a staff ill-equipped to navigate such a jarring juxtaposition in Keiko’s
life. Each season that Keiko failed to integrate with his own kind was met with a
return to the known; a return to the security of familiar things void of challenge.
If the qualities of an explorer can be isolated, brought forth as a way of life, it
is without question that this fluctuation between worlds would not constitute the
means by which such a lofty goal could be achieved with any hope of permanence.

As they customarily did, Jeff and Jen headed stateside for a few months during the
ocean walk blackout season, leaving a skeleton crew behind to see Keiko through the
winter. This time they left a new addition to the team. Jim Horton had well over fifteen
years’ experience in zoological care. A former SeaWorld employee, he had been a respected
senior among his colleagues in the Animal Care Department. Jim had nearly seen it
all. He was an ideal candidate
brought into the mix at a time that presented specific challenges to sustaining Keiko’s
health and well-being, an area of expertise right up Jim’s alley.

It wasn’t long before Jim’s talents were called upon. Keiko, as he had done before,
began to slow. None of the usual interactions or attempts to stimulate interest bore
fruit. Where Jim recognized the telltale signs of a system under duress, countless
others might have missed the more subtle clues or mistaken them for simple disinterest
or lethargy. He knew this animal’s immune system was fighting. It wasn’t Jim’s experience
with Keiko in particular that allowed his timely diagnosis. In fact, knowledge of
the historically lazy whale might have only dissuaded his better judgment. Instead
Jim saw only physiological struggle.

A lifetime of trusting his gut taught Jim that hesitation can mean the difference
between life and death. There are those who would scowl at such a dramatic claim,
yet Keiko’s past demonstrated that the condition was indeed life threatening. His
swift assessment and action were instrumental in saving Keiko’s life. Immediate clinical
samples were taken and revealed an elevated white blood cell count. Early detection
and rapid treatment kept what might outwardly appear a common cold from prospering
into something that could overwhelm Keiko’s immune system.

By the end of Jim’s first winter on the project, Keiko had suffered two distinct bouts
of illness. He learned better than to regard Keiko’s health casually. Sharing a nearly
identical background with Robin, Jim was not a trained veterinarian, but he had treated
more fragile survivors than ten vets combined. His analysis was not educated in any
lab; it was the product of intuition gained along the hardened road of many rescues
and rehabilitations, successes and failures.

Jim believed that Keiko suffered a chronic respiratory infection. Not unlike walking
pneumonia, the condition was likely concealed during times of peak activity when Keiko
would clear his lungs through the exertion of ocean walks and fighting currents. Back
in the bay for the sustained period of winter, during periods
of prolonged inactivity the infecting bacterium was allowed to flourish, rapidly gaining
steam against the whale’s dependent immune system.

Jim shared his evaluations with Lanny, but the ramifications of such a prognosis were
immeasurably menacing to everything the project set out to achieve. The idea alone
would mandate permanent care. Jim’s analysis was scoffed at, ignored. Nothing of Keiko’s
condition ever went further than the internal communications lobbed between the two
continents.

Over the first season of escorted walks and introductions the crew and Keiko’s time
at sea redoubled. The need to keep their charge in close proximity to wild whales
often required the walk formation to remain at sea for days on end. Under pressure
of foul weather, bucking seas and extended distances from Heimaey, the
Draupnir’s
limitations were quickly exposed. She was poorly equipped to offer comfort during
drawn-out voyages in the North Atlantic. That had never been part of her criteria
in the first place. Now obvious that adventures to sea would involve unknown spans
of time, Jeff began lobbying for a more suitable vessel to take the
Draupnir’s
place. The search did not take long.

The
Daniel
, a larger and more recent model of a Coast Guard rescue vessel was located on the
mainland. OFS leased the vessel that would become Keiko’s new walk-boat in the coming
season. They did not discard the
Draupnir
, rather, she was demoted to a support role and continued to accompany the small band
to sea on the next series of introductions in the beginning of 2001.

Daniel
was everything the
Draupnir
was not. Where
Draupnir
was worn,
Daniel
was shiny and new. Where
Draupnir’s
lines evinced an older model,
Daniel
carried the sleek thoroughbred lines similar to that of the indefatigable
Thor
. Her cabin gave ample room to a sizable crew, affording them protection from the
worst conditions when needed. Her deck space both fore and aft dwarfed that of the
Draupnir
. Piloting the
Daniel
, Michael or Greg would
have nearly a 360-degree view through the larger windows wrapping around almost two-thirds
of the
Daniel’s
pilothouse. Where Jen could scarcely fit herself in
Draupnir’s
crow’s nest, the
Daniel
comfortably made room for three. The vantage point became a favored spot for Jeff
and Blair and the latter often filmed Keiko’s introductions from the bird’s-eye perch.