Getting the Call
June 15, 2000–1921 hours
Communication between tracking helicopter (call-sign Zero-Nine-Zulu) and the Draupnir, Keiko’s walk-boat:
Zero-Nine-Zulu: “Contact. We have positive sighting … advise heading east-northeast, repeatedly circling then continuing course. Be advised fuel is short … heading back to base.”
“Copy that, Zero-Nine-Zulu, we are closing on your location at twenty-six knots. Tracking equipment onboard. Draupnir out.”
Moments later, onboard Draupnir via ship-to-shore phone message: Draupnir: “Hello?”
From base: “Hi, Robin, it’s Charles … I have Jeff and Lanny here.”
“Okay,” Robin replied, adding under his breath, “This should be interesting.”
Lanny spoke first: “What are you guys doing?”
“We’re going to get this whale back …”
“Why?” Lanny challenged. In a tone of complete condescension, he stepped up the attack, “That’s against the protocols that we set in place—just because he didn’t go with those whales doesn’t mean he won’t eventually go with other whales. He may be heading home, and you guys are calling him back. You talk about going against the protocols; our protocols were always that if he decided to go off on his own to let him go!”
Knowing all too well the conflict of interest behind Lanny’s motivation, Robin could scarcely contain his anger. He muttered, “The bastard just wants his success fee.” In the midst of this desperate mess, Robin had no patience for Lanny’s outburst and made no attempt to conceal it.
“Lanny, you’re wrong! That was never the protocol! From day one, in our first meeting at the hostel, we all agreed successful reintroduction would be only in the case of his successful integration with other killer whales. Right now he’s alone, he’s traumatized, confused, and he doesn’t know where he’s going!”
Unwilling to back down, Lanny pressed, “But we said we would not immediately intervene—that we would allow time to observe his disposition and then make a decision whether to recall him to the boat.”
“We are already approaching fifteen miles from the island,” Robin snapped back. “If we allow him to go any further away, we will be too far from our base of operations to be able to monitor his disposition and/or intervene should that become necessary. In my opinion, the bottom line is that he is not successfully integrated … that the initial introduction was a fiasco and Keiko is simply running scared! My intention at this point is to find him—make an observation—recall him—and bring him back to Vestmannaeyjar. If the final decision is to allow him to go off on his own then that decision can be made after we bring him back—and that would be a decision that you gentlemen would have to make on your own … without me.”
Charles interjected before Lanny could respond. In a calm reassuring voice he took the reins: “Robin, we have talked to members of the board … advised them of the situation. They want us to make the decision of what needs to be done. I think Jeff and I agree that you should bring him back—once you locate him—you should bring him back.”
Lanny wouldn’t let it go. “Well, I think it’s wrong, and I disagree.”
Keflavik International
I sat slouched in the main airport terminal, both hands stuffed in my jeans pockets while watching the concerned look on everyone’s faces. It seemed surreal in so many ways, down to the stage set at this our final departure. Shell-shocked and confused, the crowd surrounding me looked as I felt. Glancing overhead, I could just make out the last few back and forth movements of the life-size biplane suspended from the airport superstructure.
I had never been through an earthquake before; yet, when it hit, somehow I immediately knew that is was an earthquake. It’s not difficult really when the floor moves under foot at the same time the ceiling is swaying in the opposite direction, confounding the senses. Not much other than an earthquake could rattle your whole world like that. Well, that … and Keiko. My thoughts vacillated between the swaying fixtures overhead and the prior day’s fateful exchange onboard the Draupnir.
The earthquake, rated 6.5 on the Richter scale, had provided a dramatic exclamation point to our final departure from Iceland and the Keiko Release Project. I didn’t know if the Nordic gods were punishing me or someone else back on the island, but there was plenty of time to think it through. My departure was unplanned, and as a result, I was summarily placed on the standby passenger list. To add insult to injury, the earthquake had collapsed a fuel cell somewhere on the tarmac. The airport officials suspended all flights for a few hours while they checked things out. I had nothing but time.
Airports are known as good venues for people watching. Keflavik International (kef-la-vik), a hub between Europe and the Americas, was among the best. I tried repeatedly to distract myself with the commotion of people around me, but to no avail. The weight of it all was crushing, How the hell did I get here? What am I doing in Keflavik? I shouldn’t be here, not today anyway. I knew how it happened, and it all seemed logical and sequential in my head, but I still couldn’t understand it. I swallowed voluntarily, testing the lump in my throat. One minute everything made sense and the next it made no sense. My only consolation: the confidence I was in good company. Two seats down to my right, Robin was lost in his own thoughts.
Friday, Like the Day
The path leading up to this day was nearly fifteen years long. Along that path, the one constant I could always rely on was Robin Friday. He and I shared different views on many things, and we constantly analyzed and debated everything. At times our method was exhausting, some might say obsessive, but it worked. Whenever we came to agreement on a topic, you could be sure it was thoroughly vetted and never rash; especially not where it concerned Keiko.
Robin had been the curator of animal training at SeaWorld of Florida and my boss during my last few years as a killer whale trainer there. A natural leader, he was a savant at working with animals; he had a certain way around animals that was indeed rare. In his silent hands-off way, Robin also stood out with individuals; secure enough in his leadership to allow people to push beyond their status quo even when that meant making the occasional mistake. He knew that making mistakes and learning from them was essential for progressing in life and work.
Robin has never been one for many words; the quiet type, but always exuding competence. When he speaks, it is only because he has something worthwhile to say. He was then and is still a handsome man, mostly graying hair with that Marlboro Man brand of ruggedness about him. I’m not the worst person to look at, but the never-ending giddiness of females whenever Robin was around made me feel like climbing the bell tower in Notre Dame. To most, Robin is humbly disarming. To all, he is exactly the kind of person to have alongside when facing the most trying times.
Robin was a master of many things, but his specialty lay principally in the area of animal husbandry. In the zoological field, this is the science and art of ensuring animals in human care are healthy, socially well-adjusted and happy. This is not a nine-to-five profession. Robin’s chosen field involving marine mammal rescue, rehabilitation and the occasional animal transport placed round-the-clock demands on his personal time.
While he wasn’t a trained veterinarian, Robin often knew more about marine mammal care and practical application than many of the vets on staff. He also traveled extensively on behalf of the company. In fact, when it came to marine mammal rescue and rehabilitation, he had rescued nearly 300 animals at this point in his career and lost many a night’s sleep in the process, caring for fragile survivors around the clock. Animal rescue was, and to this day remains, his passion. When another facility or a government came to SeaWorld for expert help, more often than not, Robin led or was part of the team of responders. He would never say so himself, but Robin Friday is one of the most well-known and liked professionals in the marine mammal community.
My experience with animals was focused on behavioral science: the application of behavioral modification commonly known as “
animal training.” Having realized a dream that transported me from Virginia to Orlando, I began working with marine mammals at the ripe age of eighteen. I spent the following ten years of my life at SeaWorld in some of the most fascinating and unbelievable circumstances, dedicated to understanding and shaping killer whale behavior.
By the time I left SeaWorld in 1996, I had managed Shamu Stadium, represented SeaWorld in British Columbia on the acquisition of three killer whales from Sealand of the Pacific and participated on numerous marine mammal rescues involving dolphins, manatees and the occasional pygmy sperm whale. My time at SeaWorld was life changing. Nothing compares to an intimate working relationship with animals, especially when those animals weigh in at five tons and are sharper than many of the people that work alongside them.
When Robin decided to leave SeaWorld to take a general manger position at another marine life park, I remember telling him, “Never hesitate to call on me, I’ll gladly follow wherever you go.” Less than a year later, he did precisely that, and we have since spent our careers working together.
After leaving SeaWorld and finishing my business degree, Robin and I formed a professional partnership, creating a zoological consulting business. We both tend toward altruistic ideals and are passionate about our trade. As a by-product, our business objectives were equally benevolent and far-reaching. Our goal was to cross traditional boundary lines with our new organization and in so doing, to share a considerable arsenal of knowledge and experience to the betterment of animals and wildlife management. We were both blessed to have graduated from SeaWorld, the “Harvard” of the marine mammal zoological world, and we intended to spread this wealth of knowledge. Our focus was not solely public display facilities; we would seek out any case where the care of marine mammals was deficient and, of course, where the proprietor or government agency was accepting of outside help. That last criteria proved to be the toughest.
Even so, there were enough projects to keep our small organization busy throughout the beginning of 1999. Much of our time was spent networking, which ultimately gave rise to our contact with the Keiko Release Project. Robin had an extensive list of close contacts in the zoological field, and his professional reputation opened many doors. In particular, it was an antiquated relationship with Keiko’s head veterinarian that opened the door to meeting the most famous killer whale in history.
The day Robin received the call about Keiko I was in Colorado visiting a close friend. Robin was requested to visit the Keiko release operations in Iceland and explore the possibility of working on the project. I remember immediately thinking, He’s freaking crazy. Within the professional zoological world, the Keiko project was highly controversial, and there was no doubt in my mind, our involvement would be a risk to our professional futures.
The issue was not about releasing an animal to the wild; we had worked on release programs before. But those release programs involved only stranded or distressed wild animals, animals that had not been in the care of man for very long. Releasing a zoological animal that had been in the care of man for decades was a completely different beast altogether.
Even in the field of marine mammal strandings, there is much controversy regarding the effects of being in the care of man, if only for a short time. During rehabilitation the unavoidable association with humans impacts the animal’s ability to survive once released back to the wild. In fact, the success rate when releasing a rehab animal is not good, even though the animal might have lived the vast majority of its life in the wild. This of course is dependent on many factors; however, prolonged behavioral conditioning in association with humans is often an overlooked and underestimated force, capable of casting an all-powerful veto over every other advantage toward survival.
It is not uncommon for dolphins that have been rescued, rehabilitated, and then released to exhibit nuisance behavior, following boats and seeking handouts; this after only a brief association with human contact. By U.S. standards, any animal that is rescued and in the care of man for even six months must go through a comprehensive rehabilitation process in order to be approved for release. That process involves avoiding counterproductive associations during release and the systematic removal of dependencies before the animal is returned to the wild. Releasing a longstanding captive adult male killer whale to the wild? The U.S. regulatory agencies would never allow such a preposterous release program from our waters, and believe me, there are many good reasons why not.
I brushed off the idea of our participation in Keiko’s release and reminded Robin of the implications. But as the day wore on, the concept became increasingly more fascinating and very difficult to idly dismiss. It actually seemed a perfect match for our business mission and background. It was almost as if everything we had done in our professional careers had been a primer for this project, with each experience and exposure culminating to prepare us for an undertaking of this magnitude. Or at least that’s how the idea of it began to resonate.
As one who had spent my career shaping animal behavior, the Keiko Release Project represented the ultimate challenge: To train an animal for every conceivable skill required to survive the wild; to remove decades of conditioned dependency; and to eliminate or replace the human-animal bond. The idea was overwhelming really, but also stirring. This was an opportunity to apply every ounce of available science in behavior modification with no margin for error. It would require extensive marine logistical capabilities, input from trusted behaviorists, and span an unknown quantity of time. Without a doubt, it would depend heavily on deep pockets to finance all of it.
Money didn’t seem to be a problem. Based on what the project managers had shared with Robin, everything needed was in place—from specialized marine equipment and the temporary bay pen facility to staff support and extensive monitoring equipment, and especially, the financial commitment to bring it all together for as long as it would take. (The pen itself was a temporary housing site intended to acclimate Keiko to the varying temperatures, sounds and currents of the natural seawater and open environment.) The only thing the Keiko project team lacked was the experience to create and carry out a reintroduction plan that placed an intense focus on Keiko’s learning history. Sleep never came that night; my mind went on autopilot, already hard at work on the prospect.
Following a week of debate on the issues surrounding the infamous release, Robin and I agreed that he should at least visit the project and find out more. By mid-February 1999, he accepted the invitation. The Free Willy/Keiko Foundation (FWKF) flew Robin to Iceland to meet with project leads, evaluate Keiko and the people closest to the reintroduction effort, and learn as much about the project and the people as seven short days would allow.
Testing the Waters
Our primary concern at that time was deciphering the organization in charge. In other words, who was “behind the curtain,” and what were the stated and unstated motives? We needed to know that life and death decisions would be made with Keiko’s best interests at heart, even if those decisions eventually conflicted with what the organization had sold to the public. Like any undertaking that costs money, raising it requires a clear goal, marketing and a return on investment. This project was funded by private wealth and children’s piggy banks from across America and Europe.
We knew quite clearly what the public and private donors had been spoon-fed, which was nothing short of a convoluted Hollywood version of life. We knew promises had been made and reputations were on the line. What we didn’t know was how the people at the helm would respond if Keiko didn’t make the cut. After all, the movie Free Willy convinced the world that releasing a whale was as easy as plopping it in the open ocean.
Robin and I understood rather well who some of the more colorful characters were on the project’s board of directors. These were the quintessential antagonistic animal-rights activists that were famous for shockingly crass and ignorant statements, even outright lies, about zoos, animals and individuals. By their actions or their words, these were not r
ational people; nor did they advocate moderation or collaboration. Their ilk were notorious for statements such as, “The life of an ant and that of my child should be granted equal consideration,” and, “Phasing out the human race will solve every problem on earth, social and environmental.”
These specific groups that had come to manage Keiko’s release represented the antithesis of the zoological community. It was clear that association with this project would constitute a defection from many respected relationships in our profession. Still, we had vowed to cross these boundaries, not to employ the same tired and hostile political strategies in dealing with them, nor allow such barriers to prevail at the expense of an animal we had the opportunity to help. Throughout Robin’s first visit and our distanced communication, we toiled with the makeup of the organizations behind the project, but our exchange always gravitated toward a solution. Even if neither of us would outright admit it yet, we both wanted to tackle the challenges facing this project.
At the heart of the issue, Robin and I felt we were different. We thought, perhaps foolishly and maybe idealistically, that we could be collaborative. To some degree we welcomed the challenge to educate and hopefully bridge the gap in philosophies that had created the Keiko Release Project.
Above all else, our primary concern was that Keiko’s best interest would be the priority. Assuming a focus on Keiko and his needs could be verified and the basis for sound decision-making entrusted largely to us, Robin and I were convinced that we could much improve Keiko’s chances of success.
Although the usual suspects in the fanatical faction of the animal rights movement were definitely involved in the Keiko Release Project, fortunately they were contained at the board level or stayed on the periphery of the project, well away from Klettsvik Bay, Iceland. Ironically or poetically, people with a zoological background were the frontline running the operation. Surreal in many ways, they had employed the very people they campaigned against in order to facilitate Keiko’s release to the wild.
Killing Keiko Page 3