Killing Keiko

by Mark A. Simmons

  Greg wasn’t satisfied. Probably most that night weren’t, and they shouldn’t have been. But I had convinced Charles that I could handle the situation. By now, he was willing to put his wager on my approach, even if he didn’t understand completely, so poor was my tact in debating the topic in the open forum. Even though my stubborn insistence was fundamentally sound, I wasn’t completely without fault in my earlier dismissal of Stephen’s fleeting reference to the dingy used for play in Oregon.

  What I did not know that night, I soon learned through ongoing review with Stephen, Tracy and Brian. The blue raft in Newport was more central to the behavior than I had realized. Although this discovery was relevant, it didn’t change our approach. It just meant that it would be harder to extinguish than I anticipated. Keiko wasn’t just hitting the boat out of frustration born of predictability in his walks; it was a long-standing behavior that had been part of a game in his Oregon facility. The object of the game for Keiko was to knock his trainers off the raft, often completely capsizing the boat-like toy.

  When an existing behavior, such as knocking the blue raft, or in this case the Draupnir (guilty by generalization), is directly rewarded, and rewarded in a variety of ways, that behavior doesn’t just go away when it is no longer reinforced. Before it completely goes away, it increases in frequency and intensity. This effect is called “extinction burst.” I did not offer this information to many of the staff. I knew it would only reignite the fires of hasty quick-fix solutions, all of which would actually lead to the exact opposite result. Determined to see it through, I knew I needed to be glued to every walk session and diligently work to countercondition behavior other than hitting the boat as deftly as I could possibly manage.

  Unwanted Behavior

  Under the dictates of release, much of what defined Keiko during his eighteen years with humans would have to be forgotten or replaced. As the project wore on, the use of DRA became a fundamental cornerstone to achieving the impossible. This translated to presenting reinforcement for almost any behavior that was “other than” or incompatible with Keiko’s sedentary behavior or seeking human attention.

  The immense sphere of influence over Keiko’s behavior grew each day and with it the team’s responsibility to govern those influences seamlessly. Life in the bay represented the first “dress rehearsal” for transition to the open ocean. Everything we did in Phase II was setting the stage to prepare Keiko for the grand step. We had to think about not only what types of behavior we wanted to encourage and what we wanted to reduce, but also every possible persuasion that Keiko was subjected to at any given time.

  The results were remarkable. After a relatively short period focusing on the formidable principles of learning, Keiko began showing signs of becoming an independent animal. He also literally never stopped swimming. There were times that we were unsure whether or not this was entirely healthy. Unless a storm drove him to float on the leeward side of the bay pen where he was shielded from the current, he never stopped moving. No doubt this activity level certainly pushed his stamina to new heights, but it could also introduce harmful stress.

  We expanded our criterion, looking for inventiveness displayed by Keiko; things beyond simply moving. This could be rubbing on rocks that crept out from the cliff’s footing or the inquisitive following of nervous birds on the water’s surface. Provided that Keiko was not seeking us or watching the passage of boats and, of course, that he was not altogether sedentary, almost anything could be targeted by the HDS cannon.

  Soon Keiko showed little to no interest in our whereabouts. He seldom paid heed to boats in or out of the bay. He often disappeared for five minutes or more beneath the surface close to the eastern rock walls. We never discovered exactly what he was doing, but whatever it was, it wasn’t seeking human attention. Remarkable as the results were, the changes in Keiko were still far removed from a whale capable of survival on his own. It was one thing to produce these changes in Keiko within the context and confines of the bay and entirely another to transfer the new Keiko to a completely foreign world, one without the benefit of our involvement.

  Throughout Keiko’s life he was taught to follow. In another time and place he might constitute the world’s best employee, ever dependable in following precise direction. However, we needed Keiko to learn to take initiative. More, we needed that initiative to become a permanent change in his life. The latter part of this equation speaks to the importance of “reinforcement schedules.”

  Schedules are the key ingredient in producing lasting changes in behavior. The interval, ratio, and variability of reinforcement can produce sustainable change, create unwanted dependency or completely eradicate a particular behavior. Like many advanced areas of science, the particulars of this process are enough to give one a nosebleed. Suffice it to say, in the later stages of Keiko’s preparation for a life of independence, the careful management of how and when he received reinforcement consumed our every thought. If the independence we were seeking to shape didn’t transfer to his new world, Keiko wouldn’t have the slimmest chance of survival.

  Imagine a child learning to keep his room clean. Mom or Dad can offer the child a reward each time he cleans his room. However, stopping at this step in the process only makes the child expect a reward each time he cleans his room. As soon as that reward is no longer offered, he quickly reverts to sloppiness. In order to establish the act of cleaning his room as a self-sustained change, the circumstance of having a clean room must become reinforcing “in and of itself.” Initially, that child is rewarded each time he cleans his room. Next the rewards become variable and intermittent, but each reward is preceded with positive activities in the clean room. Over time, the “clean room” itself becomes the reward, and the child “feels good” about having a clean room. The state of having a clean room is intrinsically rewarding, and the behavior of keeping it clean becomes a long-term change in the child.

  In Keiko’s case, the “clean room” was staying in the open ocean with or near wild whales. We needed to make this environment “intrinsically” reinforcing for Keiko. If only it were that simple. Bound by the ethical responsibility not to deliberately interfere with or influence the wild whales, we could not directly reinforce the whales or Keiko when in their presence. However, we could “clear the mechanism.” We could minimize the value of Klettsvik Bay in Keiko’s world and create a desire for stimulation that we hoped might be fulfilled by his wild cousins.

  We prepared for this as early as May 1999, when we began reducing the amount and variety of stimulation in Keiko’s life inside the bay. In effect, we systematically made his day-to-day world in the care of man sustaining, but boring. In fact, it was downright solitary confinement. Certainly the transition from the bay pen to the expanse of the bay initially offered Keiko some rather interesting adventures. But eventually the novelty of the bay was lost, and it became just as static as any form of containment where variety and stimulation are no longer supplemented by his human caregivers. This absence of variety in Keiko’s life effectively created an enormous hole that theoretically “wanted” to be filled.

  I always referred to the months approaching summer as “the mean season.” By design, it was a period empty of the traditional things Keiko was lifelong dependent upon for daily stimulation. This period was difficult for the staff as well, so long accustomed to varied and playful interactions with Keiko. Distancing ourselves from that which we adored, for the sake of his survival, though understood, ran afoul of our natural inclinations. For some, whose understanding of the process fell short, it was downright mean. As the staff struggled with letting go, Keiko himself became indifferent.

  Innocence Lost

  If finalizing the permit for release was the only outstanding item required to begin voyages to the open ocean, life would have been grand. As it was, multiple pieces of the puzzle remained unfinished. We were not yet ready to leave the bay halfway house. Boats were not fully equipped, at least not to the standards Michael required, and n
o one would question Michael’s tedious demands on maritime preparedness. Bay pen and barrier net maintenance faithfully consumed their share of time, and of course the challenges of managing Keiko’s needs and navigating through conflicting activity surrounding him were never-ending tasks.

  Nevertheless, we had done our job well … too well. Keiko moved ceaselessly. In fact, at times it seemed the only thing that might stop him was a heart attack. Again we adjusted our focus, but the delicate balance teetered from one aberrant behavior to the next. It was like trying to steer a jet at Mach II with only a rearview mirror.

  In the middle of our efforts to navigate this deprived state, one thing was clear; Keiko’s inward struggle was just beginning. His world was upside down. Those things that had always yielded human affection and attention no longer produced the expected result. Everything he had known was now elusive at best, at worst, absent any form of acknowledgment. What feedback could be resolved in his new world was detached and uncertain. The bay itself offered little to the benefit of living things. No warmth, no acceptance, not even recognition. The distance between Keiko and the world around him was palpable. We had sought to create a void. That much we did, and the success of it was hard to endure.

  As Icelandic daylight steadily stretched to its zenith, the world’s most famous whale began to transform. In the staff’s relatively short time with Keiko, he had been known for his playful and affectionate nature. Here, after less than three months into Phase II, neither his disposition nor his physical appearance represented the Keiko they once knew. His morbidly obese body became lean and muscular. The characteristic floppy dorsal fin, which previously laid over and rested against his body now twisted into a half corkscrew pulled upward and away by the constancy of his movement. His friendly curiosity in anything human was replaced with cold disinterest.

  So stark in contrast was this whale to the famous Keiko, the change was apparent even to those who had never met him. On one such occasion, my wife, Alyssa, traveled to Vestmannaeyjar. Nearing summer and the prospect of open ocean exposure, my rotations on-site were increasing, and the only way we could see each other was for her to come to me. Less than thirty-six hours before her arrival on the island she had been working with eight other killer whales at SeaWorld of Florida. I was looking forward to her contrasting assessment.

  Eye of the Tiger

  Tilikum was over twenty-two feet in length and weighed in at nearly 11,000 pounds. Like Keiko, he had come from Icelandic waters. Collected around the same time the two males were also very close in age. Unlike Keiko, Tilikum had been in the company of other killer whales throughout his entire life with man. Further delineating the two, Tilikum had killed before. Subjected to subpar training methods and unrehearsed in the etiquette of whale and human water interaction, Tilikum had drowned a trainer in his pool at Sealand of the Pacific in Victoria, British Columbia. Barely a year after the death he was acquired by SeaWorld and moved to its Orlando park. Alyssa worked with the infamous whale daily.

  Known as “Tili” by his immediate trainers, he was a very dangerous animal. Not because he was inherently aggressive by nature, but because he was exactly the opposite. Much like Keiko, Tili was approachable. In fact it could be said his disposition was friendly. But knowing his history, no one judged this whale by his cover. Perhaps most frightening was the fact that Tili had never learned how to treat humans in the water, something taught to almost every killer whale in the care of man at a very early age. This missing link, a haunting attribute for any killer whale, was multiplied by his sheer size, notably larger than Keiko. But this alone was not the only ill-fated trait that lent to a menacing state of affairs regarding Tilikum.

  In his adolescent years, his trainers had inadvertently mis-handled the use of toys in his environment, namely their retrieval. As a result, Tili became violently possessive of any object that entered his domain. Tilikum’s abrupt Jekyll and Hyde posture apparent when he seized the occasional barrel or rope toy sent chills down the spine.

  In other ways Tilikum was very much a typical bull killer whale. He learned quickly, displayed the usual overzealous interest in females and was remiss of intimidation. The only element in Tilikum’s world that gave him pause was the dominant alpha female in the social group of whales.

  These characteristics defined an animal that required tireless concentration from those that worked with and around him. This was the bull killer against which Alyssa would involuntarily measure Keiko.

  She arrived to the island of Heimaey in the afternoon. Having made the trek from Keflavik to the small local airport in Reykjavik and on this one fortunate occasion, weather on her side, she was spared the wild ferry ride in favor of the commuter flight. Expecting to transition into open ocean work soon, we had held back the full complement of staff. Our ranks were unusually thin. Nonetheless, I managed to get off the pen in time to pick her up at the island airport.

  Alyssa is always smiling. More than just a mouthy grin, she smiles with her eyes, in fact, with her whole being. This brilliant expression always warms my soul. It was her smile that had me spellbound when we first met and the same one with which she now greeted me on Heimaey. Clad in her winter apparel, her long dark hair pouring down over her turtleneck sweater, I was restored by the sight of her as she walked across the tarmac from the small plane.

  Alyssa is a striking woman. A quality of her Eastern-Bloc ancestry, she is a strong woman. She can handle herself alongside any man of like size. Just as easily she can waltz with elegance at a formal banquet; the mannerisms and bearing of a true lady. I had far exceeded my station in wedding such a partner. Stunning by any measure, she did not lack choice. Yet I was ever confident in the union. Defying any disproportion in physical appeal, it was our friendship that bound the two of us. In our past we had proven to be a powerful team, she, the finisher and I, the starter. We complemented each other in both life and work. I found myself wishing more than anything that she could be at my side deciphering each challenge and fulfilling the epic task at hand.

  Avoiding the mundane topics of our domestic lives, we spent the evening on a brisk tour of the island. We then carried on sharing our fascinations of the northern land through dinner at Lanterna, the finer of the limited few dining experiences. We kept the evening short in anticipation of an early start to the following day and what would be her first experience “walking” a killer whale alongside a boat.

  The next morning I went to the bay pen at daybreak with the opening crew. Alyssa remained asleep at the hotel. On her clock, it was only just midnight. During this phase, the Behavior Team was continuing desensitization work with auxiliary boats, which required no small amount of communication between the vessels navigating carefully within the bay. The objective was to simulate the formation that would carry us to sea. Alyssa listened intently as the chatter choreographing the first walk-session of the day emanated from the base monitor and echoed throughout the hotel’s concrete walls and tile floor.

  At sea, the Draupnir and Keiko would always be shadowed by a support vessel. This was important for myriad reasons, not the least of which was to protect the nucleus of the walk from curious third-party boats. In rehearsals, we frequently assumed the neutral posture with the Draupnir, encouraging Keiko to leave the walk-boat and explore. Here in the bay, where we had control of the mock boat traffic, we could ensure that Keiko would not receive disruptive attention from the assortment of watercraft. With each passing week, we continued to introduce additional variables, eventually even attempting to draw Keiko’s attention away from the Draupnir during walks or when he was free swimming in the bay. Careful in our estimations and each successive step, Keiko began to understand that boats, aside from the distinctive walk-posture of the Draupnir, were nothing more than backdrop.

  By midmorning, Greg and the Sili fetched Alyssa from the harbor and brought her out to the bay pen. Cheating every e-mailed description of the harsh conditions in Iceland, and particularly Klettsvik, the day was flat calm. Roc
k edifices surrounding the bay were cast in bright sunlight, crisp edges and hard shadows exaggerated the angular surfaces. Vibrant green mountaintops were full of a congregation of birds taking roost and chattering softly. Klettsvik was in rare form.

  After a short tour of the skeletal man-made pen, she joined me on the Draupnir for a continuation of the morning’s practice walks. Alyssa wore a borrowed Mustang survival suit. It was the polar opposite of her usual close-fitting wetsuit I had been accustomed to seeing her wear at SeaWorld. She was lost in the Pillsbury lumpiness shouted in bright orange, but cute nonetheless.

  “Couple things….” I had waited until after we boarded the Draupnir. “If he approaches the boat or even when we’ve called him to the platform, we don’t give him any type of attention, not even eye contact. Only the person designated to work him from the walk platform has any direct interaction, even then only when the platform is out.”

  Alyssa didn’t require a lengthy explanation. She was already familiar with the conditioning plan that I constantly bounced off her through e-mail and phone conversations. Still, I was careful to treat her no differently than the rare guest who accompanied the walk-boat from time to time. Alyssa confirmed her understanding with an eager smile and nod. She had her hands stuffed in the pockets of the Mustang suit, arms locked straight and her shoulders pulled up around her neck. She looked as if at any second she might start twisting side-to-side and batting her eyelids. “Where do you want me to be?”

  This time Michael responded. “You can stay in the pilothouse with me; if you want you can stand just inside the aft doorway. You might get a better look from there.” His tone and posture carried an air of “preferred guest” about them. I was greatly appreciative of Michael’s welcoming nature toward Alyssa. The few previous guests of the Draupnir during walks were there by mandate, members of the board or grace-and-favor appointments for local government or media. Even those were few and far between. We were very shielding of attention surrounding Keiko, especially at this late stage in the release.