Killing Keiko

by Mark A. Simmons

  Robin finally had enough of the waiting. The light was fading fast, and he was under pressure of expectant eyes. “Tom, call him back over….”

  “You don’t think we should wait?” asked Tom. It was more of a statement than a question.

  Ignoring it, Robin continued, “Maybe ask for a few behaviors and then let’s point him out.”

  His head cocked slightly and chewing on his whistle bridge, Tom asked, “You want me to wait until he’s swimming or call him from there?” His tone ever so slightly contrite, Tom knew Robin’s instruction was breaking protocol. We would never provide a rewarding change while Keiko was sitting motionless. Avoidance would get him nowhere in the North Atlantic.

  “Just call him over, start in the north pool and move him to the med pool before you point him out. Let’s see what he looks like first.” Robin gave a pained look. He wasn’t oblivious to Tom’s undertones.

  Knowing that debate would go nowhere, Tom did precisely what Robin asked. Once Tom had Keiko in front of him on the south wall of the med pool, he glanced over his right shoulder at Robin.

  Robin was muscling the situation, and he knew it. With purpose, he projected a tone that did not invite question, “Go ahead.”

  Tom pointed Keiko toward the bay gate and moved immediately to the new platform tied on the outside of the south pool, just to the right and outside of the bay pen. Squatting in his blue and yellow splash suit pulled down around his waist, his knees in the water, Tom slapped the flattest spot he could find between the small caps rippling the surface. Keiko could easily hear the thunderous clap, but he didn’t need it. He had already made his decision. As Tom moved right and to the outside of the bay pen, Keiko sank out of sight and went left. He resurfaced back at his position of refusal in the north pool.

  After a few moments, Robin told Tom to slap again. Although Tom knew it was futile, it was also necessary to drive the point home. Keiko wasn’t going to move. His position taken up at the back of the north pool defiantly communicated a clear message. At Tom’s slap, Keiko took a full breath and bobbed his head once, as if he was thinking about moving. The gesture was more likely the first minuscule sign of frustration boiling to the surface.

  “I think we’re going to make matters worse if we keep asking him,” Tom offered.

  Robin said nothing. His face stern, he chewed his bottom lip as if he was on the verge of a solution.

  Tracy, not knowing this look from Robin, offered observation. “I’ve seen this before. I don’t think we’re going to get much out of him for a while.” She drew out the first few words, sounding almost jovial.

  It was the last thing Robin wanted to hear at the moment. He didn’t so much as acknowledge the comment. Tom and Tracy exchanged smirks but dared not say anything. Without a word Robin turned and walked into the research shack.

  “What did I say?” Tracy asked.

  “I don’t know why we’re in such a rush. I mean, I know why, but they can wait. You didn’t say anything that’s not true … just not great timing,” Tom offered, a useless consolation. “I can tell he’s frustrated.”

  “Robin or Keiko?” Tracy couldn’t resist.

  “Yeah …”

  Some time passed, not an hour, but not less than half. Robin had been on the phone in the research shack apparently discussing the reason they waited, presumably with Hallur or Charles. When he finally came back out on the deck, he seemed to have settled on a course of action.

  “Okay, Tom, let’s go ahead and call him over again. This time call him straight to the med pool. Don’t let him stop. Point him out right away.”

  A five-ton killer whale doesn’t start or stop effortlessly. Rather than ask for the energy required to stop and then start swimming again in order to follow Tom, Robin wanted to use Keiko’s momentum to advantage and in the direction of the bay.

  Again Tom stepped up. Again he followed Robin’s lead to perfection. Again Keiko went to his spot in the north pool. But this time it was different. As Keiko was pointed “on the fly” he indeed did move toward the bay gate, at the last moment diving down and twisting in an underwater arch away from the offensive opening. As he surfaced and slowed to assume his position in the north pool, he slapped his flukes—a clear indication of mounting frustration.

  “Whoa, he’s pissed,” Tom pointed out the obvious.

  “Good, let him get pissed,” Robin said. “Sure better than just sitting there.”

  “What now?” Tom had completely given over to Robin’s direction, not wanting to fight a losing battle.

  “Give’em a few minutes or so and try again.”

  After those few minutes Robin offered another change of direction. “Tracy … “A pregnant pause. “You point him out this time, same as before. This time Tom, you get on the platform in the bay and slap as soon as she points.”

  Turning slightly away from Tom and Tracy, Robin lifted the handheld to his mouth. “Hallur, we’re going again.” The notice had been given before each effort throughout the morning.

  Responding to Tracy’s slap, Keiko remained mostly horizontal in the water column as he approached. He knew what was coming, and this was an easier position than turning vertical and upward toward Tracy. As his right eye lifted slightly and made contact with Tracy’s searching expression, she pointed him toward Tom and the gateway, then moved fluidly toward the gate as if saying, “Follow me” with her whole body.

  Keiko dove below and out of sight. There was no white water evidencing a hard turn away, but he had gone deep enough that not even the glowing white portions of his markings were visible in the tealike depth. On the bay platform, Tom slapped.

  Keiko was nowhere to be seen. A minute passed. Still there was no sign of the whale. Robin searched the bay expectantly, encouraged by the prolonged disappearing act. If Keiko was deep and looking at the gate, he didn’t want to miss the chance to encourage him.

  “Slap!” he yelled in Tom’s direction.

  Tom had been looking back over his left shoulder as he sat on his knees on the nylon-webbed platform, his right hand steadying the fish bucket at his side. As he turned about face and leaned down on his left arm preparing to slap, Keiko surfaced almost hitting Tom’s face with his bulbous black rostrum. Instead of slapping, the athletic Tom smoothly transitioned from raised hand to placing a target on Keiko’s nose at once blowing his whistle. A continuation of the same fluid movement, he turned and began grabbing a ball of herring with both hands, triumphantly plopping them with a thwap into Keiko’s cavernous mouth. Only then did he take the time to give cheer. After all, Tom knew he was on camera.

  “Think he’ll do a behavior?” Robin was directly behind Tom leaning over the yellow plastic railing. He finally looked relaxed, his faded blue jeans, blue sweatshirt and black fleece vest now appropriate for a more casual mood.

  “Only one way to find out,” said Tom.

  Tom finished feeding Keiko a few generous handfuls of fish, then standing, he bridged again and fed him a second time, as a quick “thanks” for not leaving when he stood up. Keiko’s eyes were wide and alert. Clearly his presence in the bay was tentative. Tom shuffled a few inches to his right and made a dramatic sweeping gesture, smacking his left outstretched arm down to his extended right arm, as if a Florida Gator fan taunting their opponent. The signal was asking for a tail-lob.

  Keiko moved to his right, lined up at the surface, took one long delaying breath and then began slapping his tail flukes on the surface as he swam a counterclockwise circle. In the expanse of the bay, this behavior looked ridiculous. It wasn’t the tail lobbing that was odd, it was the diameter of the circle Keiko swam … almost precisely the size of the bay pen’s confined north pool. Set in the sheer enormity of this new environment, the small course clearly illustrated Keiko’s unfamiliarity with the new bay to even the most untrained eye.

  Tom kept the session short, not wanting to lose Keiko by pushing his threshold for the unknown. After a few more quick behaviors and a marquee side breach, he p
ointed Keiko back into the bay pen. Asking Keiko to go back to a familiar place at just the right interval, Tom was making use of a learning process common in everyday life, rewarding the unknown with the known.

  Media and bystanders left satisfied for the time being; however, sessions continued that afternoon repeating entry and exits to the bay. It was clear both from the protracted effort to get Keiko to the bay and his choice location between sessions, that he was not at all comfortable with the new accommodations. For this and many other reasons, not the least of which was our own discomfort with the yet unpracticed bay operations, the gateway was closed. Keiko spent this night and a few more inside the bay pen as usual. Three days later, I arrived back on the island and debriefed with Robin and Tom. In vivid detail they related Keiko’s successes.

  In the few short days following the debut, they had continued increasing exposure to the bay and had a few opportunities to reinforce Keiko for going to the bay of his own free will. Even so, it was abundantly obvious that the bay would require focused conditioning. Keiko’s “mansion” was not yet the preferred locale that it was believed it would be.

  The circumstances of Keiko’s introduction to the bay created a frustration that boiled in my gut like a hot cauldron. I never spoke up; it was far too late for that, and I knew it would only generate friction between Robin and me. He would take the responsibility; he didn’t shy from such things, but that wouldn’t unshoot the gun. Still, it was not easy to let go of my disappointment. The forced introduction placed continued dependence on human direction, and at the same time it sacrificed the chance to capture self-motivated exploration from Keiko.

  Every time I let it go, figuratively, I could only circle back to the missed opportunity and how rare it was in our quest for his freedom. Nevertheless, it was only March, and we were in the bay. That fact, independent of any other consideration, was worth a great deal.

  Boy in a Bubble

  Sadly, “I told you so” turned out to be the flavor of the first week of Keiko’s access to the bay. We saw a complete setback from every expectation (or wishful desire) as a further set of complications reared its ugly head.

  Keiko made no bones about his preference for the old familiar bay pen over that of his new playground. In the first few days of bay operations, he would only leave the pen at our behest. Given the freedom of choice, he would nest himself in the confines of the north pool, the innermost sanctuary of the bay pen. Never mind the open gateway and wide open expanse of the bay there for the taking. Repeating much of the structured conditioning of his first separation to the medical pool, we leveraged every possible tool at our disposal to encourage Keiko’s voluntary exploration of his new digs, this time without forcing the issue.

  Yet one more trait that challenged every notion of survival, Keiko was quick to shut down in the face of repeated failure. There was no doubt in my mind that the initial process of exposure to the bay had cost us dearly. At the heart of the matter, the process had demonstrated how Keiko adapted to change. We wanted a whale that would eagerly dive into new environments, chomp at the bit, seek out fresh and undiscovered territory and show extreme curiosity toward other living things (apart from humans). Instead, what we had was a withdrawn, neurotic introvert; dependent on our direction at every turn, void of even a spark of life at the onset of new challenge. Not what one would expect from a whale called “killer.”

  The best we could hope for was to set the stage, pique his interest in the bay, lie in wait and insure that nothing hindered each tentative step forward. Then, taking advantage where only a fingerhold existed, we provided familiar reward for each ventured and voluntary act that resembled the whale we envisioned for release. It was excruciatingly slow going at first. But the tenants of learning reign supreme. For each meticulous step forward, when all the elements are combined unfailingly, behavior will follow the path well laid.

  By the third day of access, we were just beginning to see the fruits of our tedious watchful labor. Following sessions where we asked Keiko to the outside platform, he began to linger, whereas prior sessions had ended with his immediate return to the pen. Other times he would venture out of the pen on his own, making a brief appearance in the bay. The appearances were hardly worthy of report, but enough with which we could wield our trade: consequences that revived interest, shoring up his confidence and boosting repeat and prolonged performances.

  Our rally was short-lived. On the fourth day, Keiko lost all interest in the world around him. Food held no value. In or out of his spartan accommodation, it didn’t matter where or how it was offered. Trainers, his broken and distanced family, stirred nothing in the whale. He only sat motionless, the black of his melon camouflaged in the undercarriage of the pen’s structural pipe. Keiko’s only movement was facilitated by the undulating surface swell of the bay pen’s interior. Something was very wrong, and this time it wasn’t herring heavily laden in fat.

  Just like illness in people, animals experience the same wax and wane of unpleasantness. In the breaks between whatever was taxing our athlete turned patient, we were able to get enough attention from Keiko to draw a blood sample. That afternoon, Robin ran the sample to the local hospital. It would be enough to get a basic read on that which we could not solve by observation alone. As we had expected, Keiko’s blood work showed a spike in his white blood cell (WBC) count. Not a nominal spike, his WBC was elevated to concerning levels.

  Pinpointing the exact cause of an illness via blood sample results is an art form. Sure there are usual suspects that typically indicate the more well-known ailments. But in most cases, the best one can hope for is a general idea of the nature of the affliction or at least clues enough to prescribe effective treatment. In this case, based on various key results in his blood panel, Robin and Dr. Cornell consulted by phone and determined that the condition was likely an infection. The culprit could have been in his stomach, his urinary tract or any number of skin or other commonly affected areas of his body. Nevertheless, given all the metrics at his disposal and the observations of Keiko himself, Robin believed the ailment was respiratory in nature. Although he was not a trained veterinarian, Robin had an uncanny Sherlock Holmes’ ability at solving medical mysteries, particularly as they related to marine mammals.

  Respiratory issues are not to be underestimated. Killer whales in particular are masters at masking illness. Their sheer size and substantial reserves make them formidable warriors, capable of sustaining serious illness over much greater time periods than humans can comprehend by comparison to our own fragile vessel. Even in the full-blown later stages of pneumonia—without routine clinical evidence—outward signs in a killer whale can easily elude the casual observer. But the condition is no less serious regardless of how obscure the symptoms. In fact, by the time the internal tidal wave of infection reaches a level where visual evidence presents itself, the condition is often so widespread that recovery is against the odds. Sadly, these are the hallmarks of many a stranded animal with which we had more encounters than we cared to recall.

  In the face of a potentially life-threatening infection, priorities change rapidly. We didn’t throw the book out the window as it related to Keiko’s rehabilitation, but we also didn’t attempt to make any progress. For the time being, the bay would have to wait. Our new goal was to get enough food to Keiko to prevent dehydration. We also used food to administer medication. Without delay, Keiko was put on a regimen of Tribrissen, a fairly focused antibiotic used to treat respiratory tract infections, and amoxicillin, a more moderate spectrum antibiotic that provided insurance against untold possible bacterial offenders. Our first hope was that we had caught the freight train before it gained too much steam.

  During the following three weeks we nursed Keiko slowly back to health with guarded optimism. Though he responded initially to the dynamic duo of Tribrissen and amoxicillin, necessary adjustments in treatment became apparent as his WBC again elevated after weeks of initial positive response. Believing the condition was clear
ly related to a bacterial infection, a much more potent antibacterial called enrofloxacin was prescribed to replace the original cocktail. By March 24, 2000, nearly six weeks following the initial scare, we finally saw both clinical and outward signs that Keiko was out of danger. As would be expected, his treatment was maintained for a period beyond the proverbial finish line, well long enough to eradicate whatever mysterious villain had overwhelmed his immune system. Despite our delicate but growing distance from a weakened state, the Behavior Team was quickly back to advancing Keiko’s acclimation to the bay.

  By the end of March, although Keiko remained largely disinterested in food, he began to gain confidence within the expanses of the bay. As the progression into Phase II unfolded, it seemed no time at all, and we were back on the fast track in pursuing the formidable challenges in pursuit of release.

  The Test

  The operations team had been pining for a real test of the barrier net. Within the first weeks of Keiko’s access to the bay, they got what they wanted, handily. It didn’t take a pronounced storm front. Rather the customary winter weather of Klettsvik was all that was necessary to flush out the more notable aspects of the net’s weaknesses. Unyielding winds and inconstant currents in early March took their toll, tag-teaming the barrier net from surface to bottom and in between. The varied exposure offered a gradual demonstration of the net’s Achilles’ heel and afforded Mighty Mo sporadic lulls in weather to make adjustments.

  Over the course of three such days, the team anxiously inspected its creation, following a contrasting three days of assault from the elements. Damage unseen from the surface nonetheless abounded in the murky depths. Where the team had worked at intervals to shore up the weaker points of the net’s anchoring, Mother Nature worked tirelessly to wear them away. Helicals that had been driven two feet into the dinosaur-aged bedrock were uprooted like frail weeds. Anchors on both sides of the net had been moved as if they were but toys. The “big ass” chain that laid straight the bottom length of the net was now serpentine in its course between the rock faces that framed Klettsvik Bay.