Killing Keiko

by Mark A. Simmons

  Constructing an 800-foot-long by fifty- to sixty-foot deep net across the mouth of a bay in the North Atlantic is no small feat as evidenced by the fact that the feasibility of such an undertaking was initially deemed impossible by more than a few engineers. Adding perspective, at least one of those engineers was German. As a Westerner with a healthy respect for German engineering, the early verdict issued in response to the barrier net concept was sobering. Not to be undone, our gallant Marine Operations crew pushed forward. If there were any chance that such an undertaking could be accomplished, they would find a way.

  One lone engineer within Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute found the idea plausible. Without delay, Robin traveled to Massachusetts and met with the Woods Hole team. By the end of their weeklong collaboration, they produced a preliminary concept design for the barrier net and provided the project with a clear path forward. With September upon us and the foul weather of winter just around the corner, an urgency to solve the most stubborn impediments in the barrier’s design and practical application began to dominate everything and everyone.

  Growing Pain

  Prior to our (Robin’s or my) involvement in the project, the management of Keiko’s release had largely been a grassroots effort. The original cast was more a small group of friends than any semblance of professional organization or experienced management, at least on the merits of a never-before-attempted killer whale release.

  The youth and inexperience of the staff combined with a “let’s party” atmosphere gave way to a highly emotional undercurrent that plagued the operation following the FWKF’s merger with OFS. Ocean Futures Society had only become involved shortly before Robin was initially contacted. We (OFS included) quite literally walked into a volatile situation. To the less experienced staff members on-site, we were outsiders; strangers who had no right to invade their home and crash their party. In many ways the group acted as if Keiko belonged to them alone. It was as if we were taking control of their family pet. This possessiveness was not uncommon in the realm of the animal field. Anytime a person or group of people dedicate their time to the care of any animal, an emotional sense of ownership slowly but surely roots itself deeply within those caregivers. In almost every case, this by-product creates an unhealthy barrier to making decisions that are in the best interests of the animal. They had a perception of killer whales fashioned by their interactions with this one animal (a highly unusual male killer whale to begin with) and believed no one knew his particular needs better than they.

  Every decision had been emotionally based with no program or plan in place to guide them. It didn’t matter how well we communicated or how much we communicated with regard to the release plan we had been hired to implement. To them, everything we did was offensive. Who were we to come charging in taking control of their whale and telling them what he should be like? The fact that this emotional and territorial attitude even existed on a high-profile, high-stakes project such as this troubled me greatly. From where I sat, they defiled the throne of Orcinus orca by making Keiko their private playmate. In effect, they minimized the ocean’s top predator into a completely lethargic and obese perversion of a killer whale. How they imagined their approach was preparing Keiko for the harshest life he would ever know, I could not and would never come to comprehend.

  It simply didn’t matter to them that Robin and I had worked with more than twenty-eight different killer whales. They felt knowing this one whale afforded them a more valid foundation. Keiko became their entire life, and that was precisely the problem. Their vision of Keiko held hostage any real potential he might have had toward independence. In essence, they disregarded the challenges that faced Keiko, instead focusing on their bond with him. Although we did everything we could to assuage the more stubborn trepidations, we could not allow the “ownership” sentimentality over Keiko to prevail. In one of many such instances, the staff’s desire to spoil Keiko created direct conflict.

  It was late summer and we had finally approximated the blue Boomer Ball out of Keiko’s environment, effectively purging his hopeless love affair with an inanimate object. It was a slow process and much work had gone into reaching this important step. Yet upon my return to Heimaey, on my third rotation, I came back only to find the Boomer Ball once again floating in the pen with Keiko. After a condensed repeat of the same gradual withdrawal, I promptly removed the toy and cut it into pieces lest his dependency on the ball be reversed again. The Boomer Ball incident and other perceived conflicts only heightened tensions between us. There was little wiggle room left in any resolution. We would not and could not continue to allow the discord to reach Keiko or disrupt what tenuous progress existed.

  Karen McRea, in particular, had been willing to fight us at every turn. Karen was one of Jeff’s favored few. She was a popular member of the release team, not only with the staff, but also among select members of the FWKF board. Emboldened by youth, she fought to protect what she believed was best for Keiko. What she disliked of our management of Keiko she made well-known through informal channels. Karen had become the de facto spokesperson championing Keiko’s defense. At the same time, she represented what disadvantaged Keiko most.

  Like growing up, the project had to be matured into a new entity, likewise, that meant growing pains. We could no longer drag along the most rebellious member of the team. After extensive talks among Charles, Robin, and Jeff, it was decided that OFS would not renew Karen’s contract, effectively removing her from the project.

  Robin had agreed to take the responsibility to address Karen, after all it was our assertion that it must be done and therefore we had to own it. Unfortunately, we tripped over our own feet and at least temporarily caused more harm than good. Robin’s schedule placed him off-site just as Karen’s contract came due for extension. By default, the task fell to Jeff, the most beloved leader of the original teams. In the aftermath, the incident did no favors for Robin’s and my relationship with Jeff. The staff considered the act cowardly on our part. We pushed for Karen’s termination, but by outward appearance were unwilling to carry out the order. It was a mistake that cost us dearly in the bank of human equity.

  Karen’s removal from the project paralleled other changes that had to be made. It was time to break up the party. We began reorganizing the rotational schedules, instead electing for “rotational roles.” Individuals rather than entire teams were rotated. This staggered shift changes so that only one person was “new” at any given time. This change effectively eliminated the two-team division, requiring many staff members to work with counterparts they were unaccustomed to seeing often. The transition was rocky to say the least. It was not made any easier by Karen’s dismissal from the project and her lingering interference at the organizational levels. After she returned to the States, the popular Karen continued to communicate with team members, the FWKF board of directors and even donors who had contributed to the project.

  While I could only guess what her goal might have been in those communications, all that is apparent is what resulted. Charles became so inundated by criticism from the board that he ordered no one else could be forcibly removed from the project again. It was an absurd decree and one only a nonprofit could possibly uphold. No self-respecting company in the free world would allow a single employee to hijack or threaten the organization’s mission. Yet this is exactly what OFS and the FWKF board were doing. Poetically, just as the staff viewed Keiko the object of their affection and protection, so too did the board view the staff, and regardless of performance.

  The “decree” removed any teeth from real accountability, which directly led to an atmosphere furthering feigned cooperation. Whenever Robin or I were not individually on the bay pen overseeing Keiko’s program, the staff did whatever it felt like doing. In most cases that meant breaking protocol, even, at times, getting back into the water with Keiko despite that fact that Keiko’s rehabilitation had moved beyond the intimate human association. The pendulum swing of inconsistency in Keiko’s interacti
ons only served to create noticeable setbacks in his progress.

  One month he would surprise us with ever-increasing activity, much-improved energy level and the overall appearance of the alert animal we were hoping to discover. The next we would see an increase in thrashing behavior and logging at the surface. There were many other signs, obvious changes in Keiko’s behavior that provided ample evidence that program guidelines were not being followed. Robin and I tried to make certain that at least one of us was always on the bay pen; however, this would not be practical for long. Robin had many other responsibilities within the project so it was not always feasible for him to allocate his time solely to the bay pen. Only one solution remained, we needed to find additional experienced behaviorists to help maintain consistency in Keiko’s rehabilitation.

  E-mail: August 13, 1999

  Subj: hello, my love

  To: Alyssa

  Tried to call you, but I cannot get a phone with privacy (unless of course I stay up late enough that everyone else has gone to bed—which is usually later than I can handle). There is one phone—it’s in the office—where everyone has to go to get to the computers—which are always occupied—because it’s the only way to communicate with your family. Anyway, I can’t seem to get a grip on things lately. I have had great success with Keiko, because I have been working with him myself 95% of the time. Other than Keiko, I am not enjoying this anymore and it makes it difficult to maintain focus with people, and making employment decisions. I have a hard time considering bringing someone onboard when I feel tired of the whole project, the people and the poor decision management system. I am also sick of letting things fall apart when I can’t be there to baby-sit. I am tired of everything about this project dominating my life, and especially the fact that it has put you and me on ice.

  I am sorry to dump … I intended on writing a sweet e-mail when I started … again, it just controls my every thought.

  I do love and miss you more than I can possibly describe … and need your counsel, too.

  Mark

  Adrenaline

  The magnitude of challenge exacted by the unpredictable weather of the North Atlantic confounds accurate description. This is not to say that every waking moment was fought into the wind. There were intervals of mild weather and at times, even spring-like sun producing greatly cherished, crisp beautiful days. But when the weather surrounding Heimaey reared its ugly head, even the simple task of standing upright became a struggle.

  Klettsvik Bay was in most ways an ecosystem unto its own, down to a climate often juxtaposed with that of nearby downtown. On many an occasion, we would leave the pen, exhausted from the constant barrage of vertical water and pounding wind, only to find the town basking in sun with a pleasant breeze. Without question, the turbo-scoop characteristics of Klettsvik angrily amplified every gift the Gulf Stream would send its way; winds often in excess of 100 mph and in many instances maxing out the upper limits of our anemometer gauge with prolonged gusts over 175 mph.

  In the first weeks and months of my time on the project, my fellow expatriates recounted plentiful and colorful stories—most all of them set in a weather-related plot. On one occasion, Stephen Claussen had lost his hat, blown from his head while standing outside the research shack on the bay pen. The hat was sucked hopelessly upward spiraling into the aerial abyss, only to be returned to the same vicinity nearly forty-five minutes later. Like this one, the tales were difficult to accept, and on first hearing them, it was natural to assume they were dramatically exaggerated. I now contend that stories involving the weather in Klettsvik cannot be overstated.

  Nothing could be taken for granted. Nothing could be left out on the deck and every container or locker or storage bin on the bay pen had to be expertly lashed down via Texas trailer-hitch knots or secured with ratchet strap or chain, or else the contents and the container would become hazardous projectiles. Those of us who practically lived on the bay pen attending to Keiko’s daily program became hopelessly addicted to adrenaline. In some of the more docile winds gusting between 101 and 140 mph, we would don our splash suits, jump on the portable Jet Ski dock in the medical pool and see how long we could hold on before we were either bounced into the pool or our arms and hands fatigued. When assaulted by the more serious winds in excess of this range, we could hold onto the railing of the bay pen, watch for a wall of water carried by a sizable gust coming off the west rock face and at just the right moment, give a little jump. If timed right, we could “Superman” for a few brief moments, body and feet suspended horizontally in the wind. The more talented among us held records close to three seconds. Most difficult in this insane practice was holding onto the rail, which was a large diameter and far from conducive to the task.

  I recall many an exercise session with Keiko whereby the orchestrator of the session had to be fastened to the pen’s rail by a safety harness. Without it, we couldn’t even free our hands to give signal to Keiko. Just as ridiculous were the varied contraptions we never perfected but which were intended to secure the thirty-five-pound fish bucket so that we could feed Keiko amidst the conditions. Even trying to place fish in his mouth, only inches from his teeth, the occasional herring would be spirited away. Well acclimated to the conditions, Keiko wouldn’t even go after the flying fish; he had learned it was a wasted effort.

  Still, there remain a handful of storms that were chief among the many we encountered. In one such instance, Jeff, and Steve Sinelli were on the pen together. Jeff, like many of us after months acclimating in the extreme conditions, sought thrill rather than to sit idle within the safe and monotonous confines of the research shack. It was a particularly intense morning.

  As Jeff later recounted what happened, he had made an excuse to inspect the dive locker and eastern extents of the pen moorings, requiring a trek of approximately seventy feet up and over the bridge joining the two sides of the odd vessel. Steve was required to “spot” Jeff from the lee side of the research shack, to make sure someone would know what had happened if Jeff disappeared. Steve, with a menacing grin, decided to videotape the excursion.

  Pinning himself firmly against the northern lee side of the research structure, Steve stabilized the camera and himself by pushing into the outside wall. Adorned in his Mustang survival suit, Jeff set out for the bridge. He waited for the precise moment between the more aggressive gusts to leave the protection of the shack and make for the bridge. Jeff covered the distance of approximately twenty feet in just a few clumsy leaping steps supercharged by the wind at his back and then careened into the bridge handrail, his ribs taking the brunt of the landing.

  The top handrail firmly nestled in his armpit, he made his way to the top steps and began inching across the expanse of the bridge. Turning his back to the unforgiving gusts, he traversed the structure crouched as if he were sitting in an invisible chair. The hood of his Mustang suit had become a mini-amphitheater, the white noise of the wind roaring in his ears as he covered the distance and made his way to the dive locker.

  After short inspection, he fought his way back to the bridge, this time leaning at a forty-five degree angle and into the shotgun gusting wind. Eying his destination, Sinelli was nowhere to be found. Ya fucker, Jeff thought. He’s supposed to be watching my back. Finally making his way back across, Jeff entered the research shack, the decibel levels leaving his ears ringing in the relative silence of the interior. There before him on the floor was Steve in a pool of blood, video camera strewn to the side and still running.

  Shortly after Steve recovered from the incident, the two reviewed the videotape. Clearly evident in the footage, Steve had been picked up physically, floated for the briefest of moments and then violently thrown almost twenty feet and into the lower steps of the bridge. The impact drove his shoulder into the Chemgrate while his head hit the first aluminum step. Through the static grind of the audio a perceptible ugghh emphasized the force of Steve’s crash to the ground. Stumbling back to the research shack, he had made his way inside and collap
sed on the floor, never having lost grip on the camera. Although Steve had been in a theoretical protected location behind the shack, there was in fact no true protection from the wind that bounced around the bay like bullets off rock. This was just one of many otherwise unbelievable experiences brought to life by the unpredictable ricocheting winds inside Klettsvik.

  Staff exchanges on the bay pen constituted harrowing battles with the elements, too numerous to share, as transfers to and from the harbor were many times each day. I gained invaluable boat-handling experience compliments of the extreme conditions, as did everyone on the project. Docking the boat on the bay pen required keen skills at maneuvering and timing. By default, we always docked on the lee side of the pen driving into the wind. On a forty-five degree angle of approach, we motored into the pen, at the last moment simultaneously turning the boat’s propulsion directly at the pen and reversing. When well executed, the forward momentum was offset by the reverse action and delicately presented the beam of the boat alongside the pen. The method was simple physics made exasperating by the erratic gusting of the wind. One second it was pushing the boat back away from the pen requiring increased throttle, then only to drop at just the right moment sending the bow careening into the pen’s superstructure.

  Some pilots were more adept than others and like many things, some pined for the challenge while others welcomed a replacement. In the more moderate to high winds, only Greg or Michael would captain the transfer and almost exclusively in the Heppin. Anything over sixty-five mph was too much for the light weight Sili to handle, no matter the captain’s skill. That said, there were also plenty of occasions where even the most seaworthy of our transport boats could not make the short journey safely—this included the Icelandic Coast Guard’s vessel Thor. During these supremely foul days and nights, unfortunate souls on the bay pen were at times left to fend for themselves until Mother Nature once again allowed passage.