Killing Keiko (55 page)

Absent means of any other form of intervention, they stuffed what antibiotics they
had on hand into the scant few fish that Keiko would take. But the ailment was too
deeply rooted. Worse, Keiko’s system was beyond its ability to make use of the artificial
support. They might as well have attempted to douse a forest fire with a garden hose.
Ostensibly, the staff had done all they could. Evening set upon them. Tomorrow they
would continue with more medication.

During the night, Keiko’s strength to stay upright and near the surface drained from
his body. No longer able to support himself at the surface, he dropped slowly to the
darkening depths, finally
coming to rest, his massive pecs gently propped on the sea floor. Absolute silence
surrounded him. As the cold stark deadness of night turned toward the life of day,
his life emptied from his body. Once a great and mighty animal, forceful of breath,
his last feeble exhale came unanswered by the all-familiar inhale. At this, the end
of his long sojourn to freedom, apart from both human or whale, Keiko died.

“Keiko,” his given name, means “Lucky one.”

December 14, 2003, Robin and I were traveling together to South Florida. As we often
did in our makeshift mobile office we talked ad nauseam dissecting e-mails, planning
responses and discussing the lofty goals of our business. In the four-hour drive we
each became captive audience to the other’s every thought. We raised our voices in
the sharing of ideas amid the drowning bass drum of the big diesel engine pushing
us down the turnpike at seventy miles per hour.

Lost in forming the next series of thoughts, I was scarcely aware that Robin picked
up his PalmPilot and checked for new messages. He looked at it only briefly in the
respite from conversation, then held the device in his wheel hand for a time, staring
at the road ahead. The latency of his reaction and the drawn-out pause caught my attention.
A heavy change in atmosphere within the broad cab of the F350 was palpable.
Something’s wrong at home
I thought. Without a word, without even looking in my direction, he handed me the
Palm. The message was still there on the small screen. Once sentence. “Keiko died
in Norway.” The message had come from a longtime friend and colleague.

Emotional investment in an animal is an extraordinary thing. When that relationship
is forged in the course of supremely challenging circumstances, an entirely new level
of bond can be experienced. If it’s true that learning that takes place during traumatic
episodes becomes all-but hardwired into our psyche, then I have to believe that what
we retain from experiences during our most
devoted acts must wield a vastly higher order of permanence. I had never freed myself
from Keiko’s plight. On occasion when the topic entered conversation among colleagues,
I would spend several subsequent nights involuntarily grinding my teeth in my sleep.

We, along with other members of the Icelandic team, were well aware of what faced
Keiko in Taknes Bay. Every attempt HSUS and FWKF made to contain damaging facts from
the public or even private domain was wasted effort. The community of marine mammal
professionals is considerably small and fiercely loyal in the care of mutual subjects.
Through informal communication within that circle we knew full well that Keiko was
destined for a life in human care. By the actions taken over the last year in particular,
we also knew that Keiko was hopelessly lost. The news did not come as a surprise,
yet it shook us to our core just the same.

Months earlier, dreading exactly the outcome which now glowed on Robin’s phone, we
sent a formal proposal to the Norwegian government outlining the means by which Keiko
could remain in the ocean for the rest of his natural life. He would receive the sustenance
and human care he so clearly needed. But the plan had surely fallen on deaf ears.
It did not succeed in gaining the right audience. Weighing heavily in the snubbing,
we suspected that HSUS was so firmly rooted in the political scene in Norway that
our attempts at intervention likely never saw the light of day.

These thoughts did nothing but compound the silence that permeated the cab of Robin’s
truck. For more than two and a half hours, neither of us spoke. For the longest time,
I couldn’t look over at Robin, convinced it would crack my stoic hold over the turmoil
I locked inside. We had put everything we had and everything we were into Keiko. Meticulously
erecting and then dismantling and dissecting every step of the rehabilitation. We
framed what had been Keiko’s best chance at freedom. Though we struggled at times,
the foursome of Robin and I, Jeff and Jen were the right mix. Had we had prevailed
through the discord, I can be so bold as to say that Keiko would still have been alive.

Respiratory ailments had long plagued Keiko throughout his time in Iceland. To a person,
every soul on the project knew this fact. Had he truly been on his own, he would have
died a swift death. That he was pushed beyond all reason and rationale, slowly starved
in half-measures, only prolonged his suffering. He died of a very preventable condition.
Indeed, the outcome was cultivated through actions imposed by the responsible party
ordaining “release at all costs.”

Worse still, the practices of his caretakers, steeped in ignorance, amassed great
confusion in Keiko. They urged him to be free, to seek out a home and family of his
own all the while continually welcoming his presence in Taknes Bay. By their misdirection,
they persistently injected the abusive turmoil over and over again. Blanketing him
in affection and play, they salted the recipe of malnutrition with a neurosis; unseen
but evident just the same. In a language and purity only afforded animals, Keiko made
his decision. He never strayed from this resolve, demonstrating his choice of human
companionship with resounding clarity time and time again.

The choice was never his in the first place. This truth dominated our thoughts for
the rest of that regrettable day and for many weeks and years to come. We had let
ourselves believe that ignorance would be outweighed by compassion; that in the end,
love of an animal would prevail even against man-made agendas. Literally and symbolically
Keiko represented a vast array of personal, social and political ideals spanning both
time and geography.

In life, he was undoubtedly the most famous whale in history. In death, he became
the most famous case of animal abuse the world could not yet fathom.

Keiko’s story teaches us that public awareness and value framework for our oceans
and its inhabitants can be imposing forces for good. But there is a vastly more meaningful
lesson to be learned. When impassioned people wrap themselves so completely in imagination
and emotion, but leave knowledge, experience and critical thinking out of the equation,
the outcome is almost always plagued with misfortune. Keiko did not die a justified
death, nor did he die at a natural age. He was killed.

The attempt to free Keiko was not an exercise in conservation, it was a reaction born
of empathy and derailed by ignorance and agenda. It was not science, it was conscience.
This alone is not a tenant of responsible stewardship.

If we truly accept our role of stewardship, if we recognize that every environment
is subject to threat imposed by a century of industrial expansion, we begin to comprehend
that a monumental undertaking is bearing down on our time.

Release is an option. It is but one tool in a vast array of disciplines required in
responsible wildlife management and species preservation. Zoological science is another
tool, an increasingly vital one.

Everything I have learned over three decades working in the marine mammal field teaches
me there is no separation between zoological and wild as it relates to wildlife management.
The two areas of expertise, though seemingly set in opposing plots, are interdependent.
Knowledge from each benefits the other. In the modern world, one cannot exist without
the other.

Truly effective conservation is born of prosperity. As individuals, we know this to
be true on a personal level. We do not pay heed to the needs of our immediate surroundings
when we are unable to put food on our tables or keep roofs over our heads. Corporations
are no different in this regard. Neither are NGOs.

Likewise, it is well-run and prosperous zoological facilities that not only provide
the best expertise and environments in the care of their animals, but also contribute
greatly toward sustainable conservation work. They do so not only financially, but
also through applied expertise, equipment and labor resources. As importantly, they
provide a medium for personal contact and exposure to exotic species most of us would
never lay eyes upon by other means. This truism is but one portion of the cornerstone
in the modern mission of zoos and aquaria.

As a society, we think symbolically. We find it difficult to explain complex topics
such as Christianity, but most understand what is represented by the symbol of a cross.
Likewise, individuals don’t easily grasp the importance of an amorphous undertaking,
such as marine life conservation. But we understand the likeness of a dolphin or a
killer whale. We know that we care about these animals. Collectively, involuntarily,
these symbols motivate us to protect these creatures and the environments in which
they exist. This we understand clearly, in fact, almost subconsciously.

The ocean is the earth’s air filter, a massive sponge soaking up the worst of our
offenses over a hundred years of industrialization. In the last five to ten years,
we’ve only just begun to see the physical symptoms of persistent ocean contaminants
on higher order marine predators. Cases of marine mammals dying in the wild are increasing
seemingly daily. It is not a symptom exclusive to endangered species; rather, it is
inclusive of all species that rely on the ocean as their home. We know we’re in for
a fight if we want generations of our grandchildren to know an animal like a killer
whale—wild or not.

Zoological expertise is an asset that belongs to all of us. In the future of marine
life conservation we will undoubtedly face many
more trials. In that future we must rely on the considerable arsenal of knowledge
and experience at our disposal if we are to preserve not only a single animal, but
an entire species. If there is any hope of sustaining a species and its habitat, implementing
effective preservation, it will be born of the absolute union between zoological and
wild animal sciences, not their division, and most certainly not from the exclusion
of zoological experience. In many ways, Keiko’s death was the price paid for refusing
this important truth.

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