Killing Keiko (50 page)

“So the next time the whale goes out—the next time we get a call that the friendly
little whale is around, then you go in the water. I’ll let
you
go in the water.” His tone had become instructional, allowing a hint of urgency.
“You go in, interact with that animal in a positive way. But I’ll tell ya, if it was
up to me, I would offer that olive branch to that whale.”

To Jeff, the herring was nothing more than a recognizable object; he knew the whale
wouldn’t eat the fish. It was a means to further the relationship that Sammy had started.

Just a handful of days later, “Jeff, Jeff, … the friendly whale is here!” Sammy’s
excitement burst across the radio waves.

Shortly after joining with the
Draupnir
, Jen was in the water. The friendly whale had become more comfortable by now. The
interaction was going well. No physical contact took place, although there was much
frolicking about the small area, as if two children showing off on the playground
without actually playing “together,” eyeing each other and trading bodily expressions.

During the odd exchange, the young whale abruptly dove down and disappeared for more
than a minute. When it resurfaced, the friendly whale had a stunned herring hanging
out of its mouth. Just as quickly, it spit out the herring in Jen’s direction, now
only inches away.

Standing on the port side of the
Draupnir
, Jeff was incredulous and pointing out his words with his finger toward the whale
for emphasis. “Jen, that is
exactly
what I wanted you to do … offer the olive branch! That whale is giving
you
the olive branch!”

Despite the fascination displayed by the young whale and shared by the crew, Jen was
never truly comfortable with taking the relationship any further. They saw the friendly
whale on and off again over the next ten days, but only twice more did they enter
the water with the whale. Eventually the little whale stopped showing up altogether.
They never offered the herring and never knew what might have happened if they had.
During this incredible exchange, Keiko was always in the general vicinity of the walk
formation, but seemingly oblivious to what was taking place in the lee of the
Draupnir
.

Gradually and subconsciously, the staff was moved by the spirit of the friendly whale
and that which the effort represented. Lacking any form of decisive intent, they began
to consider alternatives, other ways outside the proverbial box that might entice
Keiko’s interest in the whales.

It was on one such occasion that Jim took advantage of circumstance hoping to encourage
progress. They had been on the outskirts of a wild pod, watching Keiko watch the whales
as they foraged on a biomass of herring. Nothing unusual took place with Keiko during
the feeding, he did not engage the pod, nor did he partake of the buffet of herring.
As he often did, Keiko merely dawdled on the periphery of the pod within sight of
the
Daniel
. Shortly after the pod moved on Jim saw an opportunity. Left in the wake of the feeding
frenzy, stunned herring scattered the area and were easily plucked from the surface.
In close association with the excited feed and still in proximity of the wild pod,
Jim grabbed one of the herring.

Calling Keiko to the side of the
Daniel
, he played with the herring at the water’s surface, expecting that Keiko would take
the fish, make the connection. Keiko showed little interest in the fish Jim offered,
only mouthing the gift and only so long as Jim facilitated the exchange. The moment
he left Keiko to his own devices, the herring which hung from his mouth was dropped.
Jim tried again, with a second live, but disoriented herring. It didn’t happen. Keiko
would only passively nudge the fish or momentarily hold it at the outermost extent
of his mouth as he had done with the first. He wouldn’t eat the proffered food. Jim
was befuddled.
Come on buddy, it doesn’t get any easier than this
, he thought.

All things considered, this was the same herring that provided Keiko’s daily sustenance;
the only difference that this herring was fresh, stunned but still alive. Keiko had
eaten stunned fish before; in fact it was ever successful in the conditioning trials
that involved haddock or cod.
What made the difference now?
Jim wondered.

Stephen Claussen had been watching the attempt. “You’d think he would recognize the
herring,” he said, assuming it was the type of fish that was the problem.

“I don’t know. I doubt it has anything to do with the fish.” Jim shrugged as he spoke.
“It’s almost like he’s just timid … ya know like when a dog won’t take a treat around
a more dominant dog.”
Jim had an unusual drawl, shaped by a very laid-back, almost Key West-style easiness.
His tone was sympathetic.

“He has to be hungry by now. Did you sit him up? Maybe toss it into the back of his
throat?” Stephen asked.

“Nah.” Jim sighed. With a defeated glance he added, “I asked him to target up, but
he didn’t respond to my target. Like he’s still watching the pod more than me, so
I didn’t push it.” Not much more could be said. Silence filled the air for a few moments.
Jim stood where he had been leaning out across the sponson moments before, staring
at Keiko who floated head down just a few feet away.

“I just wish he would make the connection … here they are feeding and all, same fish
and everything … and they don’t seem to care about him. If we could just get him to
take some of the herring maybe the light would go on.”

Jim’s spoken thoughts summarized what everyone craved, but on the heels of his direct
attempts to feed Keiko the stunned fish it seemed there was nothing more clear they
could offer the Big Man to get him beyond whatever it was that held him back.

October 2001: Once again winter approached. Night pushed back and day retreated. The
seas grew angry. Alongside his escort, Keiko returned to Klettsvik.

Limited financial resources strained the project on every level. Keiko had failed
to go free. Another winter of operations in Iceland would have to be endured. What
excitement or anticipation that existed at the start of the summer season now faded,
leaving little more than administrative frustration behind. Charles undying insistence
that Keiko “could go at any time” festered within the halls of the FWKF board. The
project was hungrily consuming almost $300,000 a month. They were just coming to terms
with yet another holding pattern and six months later, another series of walks. There
seemed to be no end in sight.

This, of course, placed the organizations supporting the project in a conundrum. It
was the philanthropic euphoria of entrepreneur
Craig McCaw that had given life to the release effort in Iceland. Following an enlightening
private in-water interaction with Keiko at Oregon Coast Aquarium, he had promised
that the project would not fail for a lack of funds.

Every day has its end.

From the start, it was McCaw’s wife who was the true impetus behind his support. Suffering
a divorce during the course of the release campaign, ongoing financial support from
the McCaw’s had continued only by legal requirement; this time with clearly defined
limits. He would not abandon the project cold turkey, though pressure on the board
to present an exit strategy quickly became all-consuming. At the administrative helm,
the task fell heavily on Charles’ shoulders.

Like any business under the duress of financial strain, a first survival tactic took
aim at slowing the bleeding by cutting costs. Among the trio of FWKF, OFS and HSUS
was an organizational culture of proclaimed humanitarianism. By default, and as likely
for fear of negative publicity, they refused the cold, hard finality of termination.
Rather than fire anyone, they changed the rules of the game. Rotational teams were
eliminated. Individual members of the release team would have to agree to live in
Heimaey year-round with only one paid trip home each year. Per diem was abolished
and housing became the responsibility of the employee. A final blow, salaries were
reduced. The measures proved effective.

Over the months following September and lingering onward through the New Year of 2002,
one by one the original expat staff rejected the downturn in compensation and living
conditions. Jeff and Jen never returned from their winter stateside, unwilling to
accept not only the personal impact, but also the drudgery of managing the project
on a shoestring budget. Jeff, in particular, was adept at fieldwork; he knew what
it meant to work under such strained conditions. In another time and place he might
have agreed to the reductions, but Iceland and the Keiko Release Project made the
proposition a different beast. It was death by a thousand cuts. They were asking the
impossible.

The crew compliment now heavily vested in Icelandic staff. Jim became the soul individual
remaining with any experience in animal sciences worthy of note. Those who had previously
been in a security role, namely Ingunn, and others who were operations oriented, became
the animal specialists charged with Keiko’s daily care. It fell to Jim to orchestrate
and educate the assorted band of characters. So swiftly had the atmosphere shifted
that it warped what were otherwise stable routines, previously made possible by the
seasoned cast of expats. Although the original release team had been limited in experience
to largely that of the Keiko Release Project, at least they had each been familiar
with zoological care. As important, they were well acquainted with existing procedures
and protocols, having been amidst the evolution of Keiko’s release spanning almost
three years of Icelandic operations. The rather blunt transition to a well-meaning,
though ill-equipped, staff was a staggering concept. In practical application, it
drained Jim in ways he had not anticipated.

At Charles’ instruction, Gummi, the ever-loyal and ever-present business manager,
sourced additional local experience in an attempt to shore up the operation. That
winter, Thorbjorg Kristjansdottir, an educator at a small marine-life facility in
Reykjavik was hired on to assist. Called “Tobba” by her closest friends, she constituted
the best of what local experience could be had.

Iceland is not home to an extensive and sophisticated marine zoological presence as
in the case of the United States. While many Icelanders have been near killer whales
throughout their lives, their exposure is that of observers, not deeply involved in
the day-to-day care of such animals. This truth is not a slight against the qualities
of Icelandic people. Iceland simply did not possess the foundations or institutions
that demanded relevant experience vital to a project so highly specialized as the
release of a lifelong captive bull killer whale.

By hiring locally, Charles could alleviate the costly expectations of specialized
U.S. experience. But in the trade-off, he
modified a key element, the very foundation of a project that epitomized the most
complex undertaking in the history of marine mammal sciences. Thus, the lofty multimillion
dollar world-famous Keiko Release Project was effectively reduced to a shadow of what
it once represented.

Tobba was unwittingly launched into a position well beyond her professional understanding
and skill level. Any normal human being would jump at the opportunity of a lifetime
such as it was, and Tobba reacted no differently. On the surface, she conquered the
basic daily tasks required of her and she did so with dependability and commitment.
What Tobba lacked in experience, she made up for in her affection, eventually love,
for Keiko.

Jim and Tobba worked together through early winter at the end of 2001. However, the
downsizing of the project’s backbone of experience eventually bore too deep for Jim
to reconcile. Though he made attempt, his insistence at bringing back at least a portion
of the original crew fell on deaf ears. No matter what the reasoning, nothing turned
the tide of shrinking financial resources.

Jim began to see the administrative decisions taking recognizable form in the field.
Weighted against the absolute stagnation he had witnessed in the prior season of introductions,
Jim sensed the project was heading for a brick wall. Over the months that he toiled,
it was Keiko alone that laid like a heavy mist over what was otherwise resounding
clarity. Like so many before him, his conscience ultimately demanded his departure
from the project, though not withstanding every attempt to convince himself otherwise.
It was the hardest decision Jim had ever faced. Unlike his colleagues, his departure
represented the final exodus of experienced management. The decision cut deeply into
any chance Keiko had at survival. It was no longer just a question of success at freedom,
it was now a question of basic existence, most especially during the tenure of human
custody.

On the day of Jim’s departure, May 5, 2002, the weather grounded the commuter plane,
forcing him to endure the four hour
ferry ride to the mainland. On its course to the open ocean, the Eimskip ferry passed
Klettsvik Bay granting Jim his last vision of Keiko, thus bringing a remarkable chapter
of his life to an unceremonious close.

Excerpt—Jim Horton’s personal journal

May 5, 2002

The ferry is moving now and I look with admiration at all of the old fishing boats
and ships, some ancient and rusting, some tied up alongside each other cramming for
space, some still loaded to the gunnels with last night’s catch, setting so low in
the water they look like submarines. Ah, the stories they could tell, braving some
of the worst seas in the world. I pass the cliffs leading to the bay pen, now covered
in lush green moss and suddenly I forget all of the reasons for my leaving and am
in awe at the beauty while hundreds of sea birds fly about, crying out as if to say
goodbye
.
I climb up to the top of the ferry and stare out at the bay pen and look for Keiko,
I think back to all the early morning shows I put on for all of the other staff who
were passing by on the ferry for their very last time, getting their last glimpse
of Keiko, waving teary eyed, and then they were gone. No morning show for me as I
slowly cruise by, Keiko is very sick, again, but this time the worst ever, having
spent the last four days just floating at the barrier net, He may very well be on
his way out this time and I carry his blood back with me in hopes of finding the problem.
I see Ingunn on the roof of the dry house, the little hut on the pen that I had spent
so many hours riding out hurricane force winds. She waves and I wave back and once
again the butterflies in my stomach begin to flutter about. I have grown to love Ingunn,
a single mother of three, petite, yet tough as nails, she started out as night security
and then became the only Icelandic killer whale trainer in the world, I leave Keiko
in her hands, she being the only one left now that has a relationship with and the
rare experience of being the only one remaining that Keiko trusts. I didn’t see Keiko,
which was probably better anyway. I didn’t say goodbye to him either, for some reason
it always seems harder to
say goodbye to animals than friends, perhaps because they cannot speak the comforting
banter of well-wishing and it’ll be all rights that always makes saying goodbye to
someone just a little easier
.