By mid-February, the barrier net had become a reality. What would come next seeped into the consciousness of every soul on-site with finality. Expanding operations to Klettsvik itself constituted the most significant step toward release since Keiko’s move to Iceland more than a year and a half earlier. No one had stopped long enough to absorb what the barrier net represented, so lost were we all in the hectic battle to accomplish the impossible. Returning staff were immediately taken by the sight of it, but more so by the way it defined the bay. The enormity of the new enclosure seemed staggering, its breadth and width dwarfing the bay pen and balancing what was previously so inadequate amidst the overreaching heights of the sheer rock walls surrounding Klettsvik.
The achievement breathed new life into Keiko’s rehabilitation and the release team. People were starting to believe in each other. The culmination of Keiko’s day-to-day progression combined with conquering the closure of the bay was an awakening. In the simplest form, there was a solid release plan, and we had proven unwavering in our pursuit of that plan. Our emergence into Klettsvik Bay marked the beginning of Phase II and a release plan taking explicit form.
Haddock, Lightly Stunned, Hold the Sauce
In the background of activity surrounding the barrier net installation, the Behavior Team began the first steps of live-fish conditioning. At first, the goal was merely to confirm Keiko’s willingness to eat live fish. Thereafter, we planned to incorporate live fish into his diet on a random schedule. Contrary to popular belief at the time, we had no intention of transitioning to a complete diet of live fish, or even providing it with any regularity. The topic had long been debated within the release effort. Some equated Keiko’s eating of live fish with survival, a singular assurance that he could exist on his own.
Robin and I hummed to a different tune. Killer whales, like many other socially complex mammals, forage and eat cooperatively. The aspect of eating live fish was to us nothing more than a novelty that had to be introduced and rehearsed until it became a familiar part of Keiko’s life. We argued, somewhat emphatically, that successful integration with other whales would introduce the opportunity to forage; that observational learning would prevail; and that Keiko need only have experienced the odd feel and texture of many types of live fish beforehand. Regardless, the idea of live fish as the be-all, end-all criteria for release never fully disappeared from the conversation. This particular component of survival had been so overplayed in the media that the organizations responsible could not avoid the ranking question.
Never one for being shy in sharing my opinions, I challenged the FWKF’s decree that eating live fish was a decisive factor in Keiko’s survival. I called into question the folklore that Keiko had eaten live fish in Oregon and again early after his arrival in Iceland. Based on everything I had seen and knew of Keiko, his disposition, the trials we ran, and stories abundantly offered by the original staff, I knew the prospect that Keiko had hunted down and devoured live fish was highly exaggerated and done so to satisfy donors (or as likely to dispel detractors). It’s one thing to eat a disoriented and lethargic fish and entirely another to chase down a dinner that has its own ideas on survival. The distinction of how live the live fish actually were was never expounded on in the public arena.
On one occasion, I was assigned by Charles to do an interview for CNN Europe. The suggestion was made that I answer the inevitable question affirmatively, that Keiko was indeed eating live fish. During the actual interview, I sidestepped the issue providing more explanation of the unimportance than any direct confirmation on the subject. It was the last interview in which I was asked to participate.
After extensive over-planning, we finally had a means to keep fish alive on the bay pen and a source to provide the sacrificial haddock, cod or pollock with regularity. Initially we introduced the “not-so-live” fresh fish at the expected time of reinforcement when Keiko normally received thawed herring. After he ate the new fish he immediately received his familiar diet, thus reinforcing the new food type. Gradually, we left the live fish more and more lively, exercising our skill in variable levels of fish stunning with a rubber mallet. It was an imprecise method at best. More than a few foggy fish made a fast getaway when plopped unceremoniously into the bay next to the giant predator. Keiko eventually convinced me that he was willing and capable of eating the wiggly fish, but he never exhibited a predatory response, even when given ample opportunity. He preferred his haddock lightly stunned.
Keiko was given the dazed fish for a short period of time, mostly during his tenure in the bay pen and early days in the bay, but always in the company and supervision of his trainers. The context in which he would take live fish became an important distinction. The animated supplement even reached nearly forty percent of his intake for a spell, but this was the only time in the release effort that live fish played a daily role. Much more daunting release objectives demanded ours and Keiko’s undivided attention.
In preparation for the next stage of release, we began to shift more and more of our attention on Keiko’s time away from humans and less on direct training sessions. Our direct interactions were now reduced almost exclusively to required husbandry. His only other vice, exercise sessions, were orchestrated at lesser intervals; at least until we had other means to keep Keiko active outside of the bay pen. We often purposefully created activity on the decks of the bay pen, deliberately making sure to offer no response to Keiko, as if he had become invisible to the two-legged land dwellers. Covertly, we lurked in unseen corners of the pen, waiting and watching for active swimming or Keiko’s occasional chasing of a happenstance seabird that had alighted on the calmer waters of the pen’s interior. Nonetheless, novel events were hard to come by. Keiko’s activity increased, but this mainly consisted of constant swimming. There was little else to fill the void.
Enter the Draupnir
Once in the bay, a fundamentally important step would be introduced: training Keiko to follow a special purpose walk-boat. After toiling over the ideal candidate to serve as Keiko’s guide, Michael located a retired coast guard boat aptly named the Draupnir. Project leaders approved the acquisition with little hesitation. The Draupnir, from Norse mythology’s “the ring of Odin,” had a complex role among the gods. Long removed from its heyday, the Draupnir required no small amount of TLC in preparation for her guardianship over Keiko. The boat had been swamped at least twice in its storied past and, as a result her aft inboard engines were rife with mechanical problems.
The pilothouse, a white metal box located amidships and framed by the bright orange of the foam-filled sponsons, contained just enough room for three to comfortably stand, a fourth if he or she wasn’t shy. To the right of the helm wheel were two throttles like that of a commercial aircraft, one each for the starboard and port engines. Draupnir’s special jet-driven power came from engines that sucked water through an intake. Internal propellers then vigorously jetted the water back out through directional scuppers, thus providing not only movement, but movement in any direction. A dial allowed the captain to direct the boat’s propulsion. The Draupnir lacked external props that would otherwise serve as underwater blades posing a threat to Keiko.
In addition to twenty-six knots all-ahead, she could “walk” backwards and sideways or hover broadside in a strong current. The Draupnir was an ideal escort for the journey ahead, if only she would run. Neither the crew nor Keiko would be well served by an unreliable boat in the midst of the North Atlantic’s teeth. Justifiably so, much resource was put to the task of mechanical refurbishment and little toward the unsightly battle scars that revealed the Draupnir’s hard life. After all, if the release effort went according to plan, and once her role as the walk-boat played out, the old girl would be sunk offshore never to influence Keiko again.
While the Draupnir remained nestled in the harbor under the urgency of repair, preparation for Keiko’s exposure to the bay drew near. E-mails shot between Santa Barbara, Seattle, and Iceland with increasing necessity and intens
ity because of the major PR event that was about to unfold. Keiko’s initial exposure to the bay was enticing not only for those of us on-site, it was as much a desperately needed storyline for administrative personnel constantly struggling to shore up donor support. Keiko’s first foray into the bay was exciting to be sure, but also carried with it an expectation of shock and awe. Many anticipated that a vibrant whale would triumphantly charge from the confines of his pen, as an inmate might run from solitary detention to the fresh air and sunlight of freedom.
Everything we knew about learning suggested otherwise. As with every other systematic change we introduced, the shift from the confines of the pen to the relative vast expanse of the bay would be nothing more than one more approximation in Keiko’s rehabilitation. How that change was introduced was critical. There would be only a limited set of opportunities for us to practice transition to the open ocean, albeit, on a much smaller scale and in an environment we could control (to certain extent). The FWKF board, Charles and even some within the staff assumed that the larger bay would naturally be positive for Keiko, that the size alone and the varied stimulation it provided would win the day. However, there was no basis for expecting the bay to be either directly or intrinsically appealing to Keiko. He had no history with such an environment which, after all, was counterbalanced by a long-standing and vast history in smaller and more familiar surroundings.
March 2, 2000, the day before opening the gateway to the bay, Tom was on-site in charge of Keiko’s daily management. In anticipation of the transition to the bay, I had seized the opportunity to spend a brief two weeks at home in Orlando. Back in Iceland, every available body worked to clean up the bay, a catchall that often consumed large amounts of trash coming from the shipping channel. As the last of the details were completed, the draw of the public relations event became too enticing to await my return. Keiko’s trial release from the pen would move ahead without me. Tom and I exchanged constant e-mails and racked up a hefty phone bill discussing the ideal course of action to be followed.
“How’s it going up there?” I started. My morning his afternoon, we were separated by a four-hour time difference.
“Weather’s been unusually calm, so that’s good. Greg and Blair just finished taking the last trash bags off the beach this morning, so I think the bay cleanup is about as good as it’s going to get.”
“What about the barrier net, did they get the boat gate working?” I knew before answering that Michael was never satisfied.
“Ha … you know Michael. It works really well in my opinion, but he’s been messing with it a lot and taking boats over it constantly … made it difficult to coordinate sessions with Keiko. Been a pain in the ass, really. Keiko ignores most of it, but he’s been logging a lot more lately so that’s made it hard to get any DRA in … between that and the boats.”
I wasn’t surprised. “I’ll bet you anything that he is watching more than we can see. If he’s logging more at night and in the down times, when there’s no activity in the bay, it tells me he’s tired. Ya know, just from the hubbub, the constancy of it.”
We had seen delayed effects of environmental stressors before, sometimes two or more weeks after the fact. I knew that Robin was monitoring this aspect carefully, mandating scheduled down time at changing intervals. Still, the race to the finish was too alluring. Work intervals had increased in duration and frequency over the last week of preparation.
“He’s eating okay, and sessions are about the same as when you left. He’s just logging more in between,” Tom replied to my guess.
“Have you talked to Robin?” I asked, wondering if they had discussed the potential negative impact of over-stimulation.
“I’ve hardly even seen him. We’ve been on the bay pen mostly in the afternoon and evening and he’s been on the Hamar all day.” Tom sounded indifferent. “I talked to him over the radio a couple times. He’s coming on the pen today to go over the plan.”
I immediately became defensive. I knew all too well that Robin already had his own distinct ideas in mind for the bay access. “Listen, this has to be taken very slowly, I know you know that, but I want to make sure we’re all on the same page. We can’t afford to miss this opportunity. I’ve copied Robin on the e-mail I sent you yesterday, so I’m hoping he got it … and not when his eyes are glazing over at the end of the day.”
“I don’t know, but he’ll be out here today. Maybe we can call you from the bay pen?” Tom offered.
“The most important thing is that we don’t rush the process. This is the ideal dress rehearsal for open ocean work. I want Keiko to take the initiative. Just open the gate and break, then standby and be ready to reinforce him when he shows interest in the gate or if by chance he goes through on his own,” I replied.
We’d been through this before. I repeated myself as much for my own comfort as to communicate what Tom already understood. “I was going to call him to the north pool, separate him to the med pool, open the bay gate and break from there.”
Without needing to say it, Tom knew not to shut the medical pool gate thus cutting off Keiko’s retreat to the familiar north pool. His intention was to simply place Keiko close enough to the bay gate removing any doubt that Keiko was aware of the new opening.
“Perfect. I’d station Tracy and Brian outside the pen or on opposite sides of the south pool to reinforce if he comes out on his own.”
“Yeah, we talked about that yesterday after you sent your email.” By now Tom was just placating my need to be heard. I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know and know well.
Driving the point home, I closed the topic, “I don’t care if it takes all day or two or three days. Just stick with that plan … and call me if you need back up.”
Perhaps overbearing in my approach at times, I was hell-bent on executing each and every minuscule step to perfection. This was a big one, which only added further intensity to my otherwise incessant brow beating on the finer points of behavioral sciences. One all-important aspect of the new Keiko we needed to find was his inner extrovert. We needed to encourage, in fact shape, an outgoing and curious bull killer whale. A collateral benefit, we had a very rare opportunity to provide positive consequences to enormous environmental change. Environmental change was the central theme of Phase II and III in the release plan. As it was, human haste and the constant need for immediate satisfaction ran in completely the opposite direction.
Enter Keiko
Fortune smiled on the media interests. The weather on March 3, 2000, was impeccable, setting the stage for a seemingly momentous occasion. It was midday, the only time in the short days of winter that provided enough light for the event. Robin, Tom and Tracy were on the bay pen to work Keiko. As they later related, the Draupnir had a front row seat, just outside the barrier net, cameramen on her bow. Other members of the staff and media perched atop the overlook on the southern shores of the bay, snow covered volcanic rock framing the scene. All waited for the singular decisive unveiling of Keiko’s glorious emergence from the pen.
On the pen, Tom stepped up, waited for the right moment, then called Keiko to the north pool platform where he could get down at the whale’s level, even with the water’s surface. Keiko popped up, his giant black and white head divided by the pink of his gaping mouth. Tom blew his whistle bridge and moved swiftly to the west side of the medical pool nearest the bay gateway. There had been little activity leading up to this point, and Keiko was excited to see Tom. The whale broke sideways so quickly that he cast a sizable wake as he moved to follow. He hadn’t sat up in front of Tom more than a moment when Robin and Tracy opened the doorway to the brave new world. Keiko didn’t even flinch. It was as if the most sensory equipped predator was completely oblivious to the clanking clumsy opening of the makeshift gate. Wanting to save most of Keiko’s food that day for his hopeful entrance into the bay, Tom tossed him a single herring and stepped back, starting toward the new opening in the pen. Tom joined Robin and Tracy near the entrance to
the bay, a steel bucket of fish by his side. The three waited and watched with anxious anticipation.
At first, nothing. Keiko had disappeared from sight. They scanned the interior of the bay pen and finding nothing, stole an occasional expectant glance outward to the bay. Still nothing. After what seemed an eternity, Keiko finally surfaced. Although he had divulged no initial awareness of the new opening in his floating pen, he was indeed keenly aware and wasn’t at all comfortable with the strange arrangement. When he surfaced, he had come to a complete stop, logging at the farthest corner of the north pool and facing completely opposite the bay opening. He appeared as if a child pouting in the corner, unwilling to face his parent.
As they waited and watched Robin responded to nagging inquiries emanating from the handheld radio, on the other end of which was Hallur Hallsson, the Keiko Release Project’s director of communications. Hallur was attempting to stave off media impatience with an educated response. Initially, Robin had given the order to leave Keiko alone, wait him out. Keiko on the other hand didn’t wear a watch and had no obligation to impatient reporters with barren cameras. As minutes bordered on an hour, Keiko sat motionless at his original position as far away from the gateway as he could physically be.
Killing Keiko Page 20