Killing Keiko

by Mark A. Simmons

  Another time, the bay was blanketed in the darkness of winter. A surge had hit Klettsvik Bay sans any accompanying wind and lifted the several ton rings to the surface, first in one direction and then the other as the current bounced back out the way it had come.

  Strangely, the current by itself without the wind was somehow more frightening than the combined duo. I was on the pen during two such occasions; watching forces of nature so immensely powerful, yet so indifferent, that one instantly senses his own frailty. Realization strikes with sobering clarity that at any moment, we could be fighting for our very lives. We theorized that these forceful and mysterious currents were generated by sea floor tremors, otherwise undetectable from land. At times, even on clear weather days, we had watched as boats in the harbor rose up more than ten feet right before our eyes and in less than a few minutes.

  Not this time.

  This time the surge was the offspring of active storm cells in the North Atlantic, and the devastation levied on the pen was accompanied by hurricane force winds and rain. It was on the eve of Smari and Lina’s wedding that Robin’s storm warning took effect, twisting and contorting the bay pen to such extremes that two primary infrastructure joints in the thirty-inch HDPE pipe gave way, compromising the pen’s buoyancy and shattering the equilibrium of the anchor system. What had served to pull equally on opposing points of the pen, thus stabilizing the structure, now gave purpose to pulling it apart. No one wanted to tell Smari, knowing he would replace his marriage responsibilities with that of rescuing the pen. Discreetly and in haste, Michael led the Marine Ops crew in patching the stationary craft together. Remarkably, they did so in time for the wedding; however, only by amputating the entire southern pool. The damaged end became a liability threatening the only remaining vestige of the habitat surrounding Keiko.

  Significant restructuring of the anchor system would be needed in the following weeks. The damage and subsequent repairs forced us to shorten the perimeter itself and close off the southern end preventing Keiko’s access to that area of the pen. It would be some time before the south pool could be reopened to Keiko. Ironically, in the approximations toward life in the open ocean, Keiko’s world had just been reduced by half. For the time being, Keiko would be sequestered to the north pool, adding additional challenge to increasing his activity and physical workouts.

  The Gudrun

  One lazy afternoon, I set out on foot about the town to clear my mind. A rare escape. There was no purpose in my direction, only that of solitary and pensive meandering. Not long into my brief respite, I happened into the far southwest side of the harbor, where the big ships were moored. These were impressively large working-class ships. I was enthralled with the lifestyle. As I often did when surrounded by seafaring vessels, I would stand, staring at the ships with their rusty outlines, hard steel covered with countless layers of paint, willing myself to relive colorful scenes played out upon their decks. They were scarred prize fighters—brutes, hardened by a life struggling against a sea obsessed with swallowing them whole. I imagined what it must be like: what the lifestyle would feel like, and how the fisherman that occupied these leviathans for weeks and sometimes months on end might view the world. It was not an easy way to make a living, but not hard to imagine that it also created a very strong brotherhood among fellow fishermen.

  Walking around the very end of the harbor on my way to leave, I saw her and stopped in my tracks. The Gudrun. Instantly I had goose bumps, the kind that sent a wave through my entire body. I didn’t know what to think. A mixture of feelings erupted and coursed through me as I tried to form a cohesive thought. This was a piece of history I never expected to see firsthand. The very ship that had been used to collect nearly all the killer whales from Icelandic waters in the 1980s and early ‘90s … and there she sat, just like that. This was the boat that escorted many of the whales I had known on their inaugural transition to a life with humans. The Gudrun was definitely where Keiko started his journey. I stood, staring for an unknown length of time, imagining and wondering, trying to resurrect the scene and immersing myself in the significance and enormity of it all. The vision of the Gudrun was surreal. It was a relic of history specific to my life, to my career and to the many amazing relationships that I had been blessed with over my time working alongside killer whales.

  This inanimate salted beast of steel was in many ways the centerpiece of one of the most remarkable animal movements in human history. She had ferried animals from the waters of Iceland and thus started them on individual journeys that led to various corners of the world. People of all walks of life came to know these animals from Iceland. The care, compassion and intrigue they excited led many more to the spectacle of Orcinus orca and still others to a life of protesting their confinement. In any case, the Gudrun was an unsuspecting player in the rise of value for killer whales worldwide. I wondered if her captain had any clue how far the activities of his battered vessel traveled or how they have altered the values of entire societies and generations of people.

  From Florida to Iceland

  September 1999 we introduced a new hire to the Behavior Team. Kelly Reed had come directly from SeaWorld and a career of working with killer whales in an applied behavior setting. Hiring Kelly was the product of much deliberation between Alyssa and me, and only after considering almost a half dozen others for the task.

  Alyssa was gifted in her ability to assess true talent in our shared professional field, and I trusted her faith in Kelly’s expertise. Although I had never met Kelly, I spoke with her at length, often deliberately trying to dissuade her interest in the project. I knew one thing from firsthand experience: this job was not for the faint of heart nor the thin-skinned.

  Of particular interest to me was Kelly’s tutelage under Ted Turner. Not the Ted Turner of cable news, but the Ted Turner, vice president of Animal Training of SeaWorld of Ohio. In the comparably smaller community of zoological professionals, Ted’s fame was nonetheless equal to that of the Turner Broadcasting version. Many of the most complex behavioral achievements in the SeaWorld system were the product of Ted Turner’s obsession with the science of behavior and the application of behavioral modification techniques. He was famous for the intensity with which he imparted the profession on his pupils. I knew that Kelly would be an asset to the staff in Iceland, capable of not only understanding the behavioral rehabilitation already in progress with Keiko, but also providing additional experienced input. An added bonus, Kelly had just weeks before been caring for three other male killer whales in the SeaWorld of Florida park. This abrupt juxtaposition would produce a “State of the Union,” a very useful contrast in evaluating Keiko’s behavioral and physical disposition.

  In her early thirties, Kelly was a lively addition to the staff. Full of excitement borne of the project’s novelty and exotic climate, she made everything new again. Kelly brought a fresh perspective, and her excitement was contagious. Admittedly, I was so long buried in the sensitivity of the existing staff and the pendulum swing of morale, that I welcomed Kelly’s arrival more than I could admit. At last I had someone who spoke the same professional language, understood behavioral science and, as importantly, recognized that it was a priority in the management of any animal environment, most especially this one. When I introduced a thought, alternative, or solution regarding Keiko’s daily interactions, I didn’t need to preface it with “why.” The freedom to openly discuss behavioral modification without accusation of speaking “SeaWorld” or risk of alienating my skeptical coworker was liberating.

  I don’t think Kelly weighed more than a 105 pounds. She was an attractive blonde with a thin figure appropriate for anchoring a model runway, but she didn’t have nearly enough mass to safely navigate the winds of Klettsvik Bay. Case in point, I weighed in at over 200 pounds. On at least one occasion with two thirty-five-pound fish buckets in hand, I had been completely lifted off the bay pen deck by wind gusts ricocheting off the sheer rock walls surrounding the bay. Kelly wouldn’t stand a chanc
e if caught unaware.

  Kelly hired onto the project at an unusual time. Everything was in a state of constant change. From the release of a favored team member and the segregation of duties into specialized teams to the modified rotation schedule and the ramp up in severe weather operations, she could not have started at a more challenging moment (for the existing staff). It would do no good for Kelly to shadow me on the bay pen. Very quickly I needed her to get up to speed and begin carrying responsibilities in my absence. Her first foray in Heimaey would be the only rotation where we would work together for such an extended period. Thereafter, I placed Kelly on an opposite rotation and paired her time on-site with Robin. Her presence would allow Robin to focus his attention on the Marine Operations team and achieving the impossible: the installation of the barrier net.

  To my surprise, fortune favored our timing. In earlier months Kelly’s addition to the team would have resulted in a family feud the likes of which no person should endure. However, in the midst of the energy and enthusiasm surrounding the prospect of bay access, Kelly’s start produced no more than mild scandal. Still, the contrasting personalities of Kelly and Steve Sinelli were nonetheless quite humorous. Like baking soda and vinegar, the two never failed to elicit a spirited reaction from one another.

  Kelly possessed a rather unusual brand of humor. The uniqueness came from the fact that most of her pratfall-type comedy was unintentional. Kelly’s propensity for physical mishap was at its peak in an environment like the Keiko Release Project where opportunities abounded for happenstance goof ups. From dropping the heavy stainless steel buckets into the harbor to stalling the transport boat right in front of the oncoming ferry, Kelly was always giving us raw material from which we gained much levity.

  Fortunately Kelly’s misadventures were never dangerous, but they were colorful and varied. Some of the more comical moments in our tour of Iceland were at her expense. In its own strange way, this hallmark trait of Kelly’s eventually endeared her to many of the staff. No matter, Kelly was not hired to manhandle the obstacle course of the physical environment; she was hired to bring much needed balance and expertise to Keiko’s behavioral rehabilitation, and that she did.

  Release 101

  September came and went, accelerated by the activity of the bay pen reconstruction and the novelty of a new team member. At the same time, issues surrounding the formal reintroduction protocols came to a head. This was an important milestone in the project not to be underestimated. The document would constitute the first time the release plan would be published and reviewed by peers within the scientific community. It was a point of no return for the organization. By putting the plan in writing and sharing it with professional colleagues, FWKF was committing to specific methods and metrics for evaluating the viability of release.

  Perhaps more impactful, this document would become the application for final approval from the Icelandic Ministry of Fisheries for Keiko’s introduction to the ocean and eventually wild whales. U.S. Fisheries also maintained a complimentary right of input on the documented plan. The protocol document would have to detail what constituted a successful release and define an intervention response plan in the event that Keiko failed to thrive after release. Divergent positions from within project management on every aspect of the process were steadily rising to the surface, driven by the need to put consensus in black and white print. In every case, the most vocal opponent to our plan (already well-under way) was Dr. Cornell.

  Point by point throughout the draft document, Lanny attacked the plan. Never one to lower himself to the actual work of correspondence, Lanny extorted his opinions through Charles, who in turn relayed the most salient points of the doctor’s judgments through e-mails that lobbed back and forth across the continents day and night.

  Charles’ first volley from the High Court of Cornell denounced any and all behavioral modification objectives and insisted that we “avoid tying the behavior modification to very specific, clear objectives.” We were appalled. In the absence of defining clear objectives, how then could Keiko’s readiness for release be measured? Further, Keiko’s reintroduction had been veiled in the guise of a scientific undertaking, one of great pomp and circumstance under diverse scrutiny. The scientific method, in its most rudimentary form, requires the ability of an entire experiment to be reproduced independent of the original study. In his customary straightforward way, Robin responded.

  E-mail Excerpt

  September 29, 1999

  This project is not an everyday event. The behavioral terms are described in basic and generally accepted psychology terms. In my humble opinion we cannot over simplify a complex process any more than a rocket scientist describes a trip to the moon as “putting gas in a can and lighting it.”

  Ultimately, the logistical and behavioral plan of approach would be mandated via the official Keiko Reintroduction Protocol document, but it was not without a fight and constant fringe battles. Lanny not only directly disagreed with most of the document, but orchestrated a showdown at the FWKF board level regarding many of the issues. By all outward indications, Lanny simply wanted to “cut the net.” The arduous process of planning and sharing that plan with industry and professional colleagues appeared to be beneath him. He had no patience for the process, and it showed in his comments. Moreover, he took every opportunity to “simplify” the proffered plan. If the organization would be forced into the responsibility of a formal plan, Lanny made every effort to ensure that plan said nothing that could be criticized or overanalyzed by people in the know.

  In the annals of the marine mammal field, Lanny could undoubtedly stake claim to more than a few advancements in the management of zoological animals, especially killer whales. But the idea that he had any conscience for Keiko’s plight was a fallacy. His disposition toward the animals in his care repeatedly pointed to a man driven more by ego and personal advancement than any altruistic intent.

  In the folklore of SeaWorld, his alma mater and the setting of his ascension to notoriety as a vet, one such story exemplified Lanny’s predilection, some would say, of self-preservation over any ethical responsibility toward animal welfare. Following an animal death in the park, the veterinary team reporting to Lanny completed a necropsy investigation on the animal’s carcass, required by law and intended to identify the cause of death. In the gross morphology, nothing overt was found. The next phase of the investigation focused on pathology, microbiology and other microscopic means to identify the unseen culprit. Lacking visible evidence, the final analysis would likely point to something bacteriological or viral that had been in the environment.

  Lanny joined the investigation only after the veterinary staff completed a thorough dissection. Saying nothing, he reached into the midsection of the carcass and felt around the animal’s adrenal gland. A few moments later he pulled a rifle bullet from the body. Then and there he declared the cause of death an abscess infection resulting from a fisherman’s vengeance suffered long before the animal belonged to SeaWorld. The vet staff was stunned. Driven by the moral responsibility of their chosen profession first and secondly by fear of Lanny’s hatred for incompetence, they had combed through the corpse in painstaking detail. Yet in the hours they spent searching, nothing of the sort was discovered. Sharing a common thread among the tales that have coursed through the inner circle regarding Lanny’s fabled past, the convenient discovery effectively averted any personal responsibility for the animal’s death.

  Now responsible for Keiko’s release, it was just as likely that Lanny would make sure no one had a noose with which to hang him as the head vet on the project. If he could stop the advancing plan, it would be at the FWKF board level, before it reached outside colleagues in the peer review process.

  We struggled continuously to educate the managing members of the organization. The board had Lanny in one ear—selling Keiko’s release as overly simplistic—and us (through Charles) in the other ear presenting exactly the opposite, in agonizing detail. I believe that Ch
arles recognized the sense in our approach and thus valiantly represented what he understood to be a responsible medium to Lanny and the board. But Charles could only regurgitate so much on his own. In spite of his communicative talent, it was not his area of expertise. Eventually it became evident that Robin would have to meet with the board himself and address the most stubborn issues that continued to impede progress.

  Pressing on in his dissection of the formal release plan, Lanny further criticized the plan’s intent to improve Keiko’s physical stamina. Moreover, he summarily dismissed the idea as one of object threat. In his argument, afforded by his experience in similar situations, he claimed that Keiko could “shut down” if too much effort was required. Additionally, and in stark contrast to the stated goals of release, he wanted any reference of complexity in Keiko’s transition to eating live fish removed from the document. This time Robin took great pleasure in addressing the salient point on “too much too fast.”

  E-mail Excerpt

  September 26, 1999

  Lanny is absolutely correct in his statement that animals can shut down if too much effort is required for food, or anything else for that matter. It is called “abulia” and can also be described as “learned helplessness.” If the task is too large, or the change too great … the animal experiences a loss of will power and “shuts down” sometimes refusing to eat, respond to normal environmental stimuli, or even move. This effect has been noted and studied at length in humans and animals. Interestingly, this concept is the foundation of the argument behind an incremental reintroduction effort as opposed to the “cut the net” approach. Life is fun isn’t it … if you stick around long enough someone will put their foot in their mouth and not even realize it.