Killing Keiko

by Mark A. Simmons

  “Draupnir—Bay Pen/Heppin.” I radioed to the inhabitants of the pen and to Greg onboard the remaining support boat. In the rare calmness of the bay, Sili was tied up to the pen and would sit this one out.

  “Go ahead, Draupnir,” Tracy responded. Greg double-tapped the mic, acknowledging that he was listening.

  “We’re going to move out to the west side and call him directly to the Draupnir. We’ll do a few laps and then go neutral.” Tracy needed to stand by the HDS on the roof of the research shack. Following the earlier routine of the day, Greg would motor about the bay opposite the Draupnir’s location. I continued, “This will be a fairly short one. Probably only two or three nautical miles.”

  Michael maneuvered to position and held steady.

  “Draupnir—Bay Pen. Do you see him?” I asked. It was vital to know where Keiko was and what he was doing before we introduced direct interaction. We had to make sure that Keiko wasn’t following the Heppin, sitting idle or watching human activity in any way. Waiting, I placed the portable recall speaker into the water by draping it over the gunwale and lowering it about a meter deep in the water column. It was a small device, roughly the size of a film canister, only twice as long.

  A few minutes later, Tracy responded from the bay pen, “He’s in the corner, Zone 1, near the boat gate. Maybe rubbing on the rocks there.”

  Even in the best of conditions, it was often difficult to find the twenty-one-foot whale that was dwarfed in the relative vastness of the bay. The sighting could easily be missed unless we were looking in the right direction at the brief interval when he surfaced to breathe.

  I dropped the platform and keyed my handheld radio as I stepped over the sponson and onto the nylon mesh. “Recall.” At 210 pounds, my presence on the extended appendage caused the Draupnir to list to starboard. Saltwater covered my bright orange boots to the ankle.

  We didn’t know how far away Keiko could hear the underwater tone. Just the same he never failed to respond. It seemed forever before he showed up, approaching from the port side of the Draupnir at depth. A somewhat eerie sight, his presence was first evident from the glowing white of his eye patch, disembodied from the rest of him by the turbid water just a couple meters below the surface; a rare vision granted only by the extremely glassy surface of the water.

  “Okay, Michael, ready when you are,” I said.

  The unmistakable thunk of the engines engaging was the only confirmation required. The Draupnir moved ahead, immediately assuming the practiced pace of three to four knots. Keiko, hearing the Draupnir drop into gear anticipated the movement and was already head-down and moving alongside. Alyssa, who had been conversing with Michael, watched from the cabin door. Now silent, I knew without looking that she was watching intently. Although she had kayaked with the killer whales at SeaWorld, this was nothing of the sort. Set within the broad stretches of the bay, it was as close to the open ocean as one could get without actually being there. Knowing Alyssa as I did, I experienced the novelty vicariously, imagining what she must be thinking of the surreal scene.

  As we rounded the southern end of the bay, we increased speed enough to force Keiko into a mild porpoise, akin to a trot. At this speed, he broke the surface high and with purpose for each required breath. In between, he swam in a much more hydrodynamic position a meter or more beneath the water’s surface. At times, Keiko would turn on his side, the undulation of his body accentuated by the glowing disruptive coloration moving back and forth, propelling himself in concert with the Draupnir.

  “Michael, let’s take it down a notch for a bit,” I said. We had been at the faster clip for almost two rotations around the pen, roughly one nautical mile.

  As the Draupnir slowed, so too did Keiko, taking a series of breaths at her side. Alyssa stood fixated, edging slightly outside the doorway for a better look. While she was peering over the side, Keiko surfaced. Rather than taking a quick breath and going back to a head-down position, this time he kept his enormous head above the waterline and for a few brief heartbeats, the deep black of his eye cast a penetrating lock on Alyssa. It was a moment that neither she nor I would forget.

  Later that day over the customary glass of red wine, Alyssa shared her impressions. Her view of Keiko had been colored by my doubting e-mails and descriptions. Yet what she saw in that one day, her singular experience, deceived every portrayal she had heard of Keiko. Alyssa described his gaze as a cold indifference, if not the menacing stare of a killer. But it was more than that, his business-only interaction throughout the walk and subsequent disinterest in the trivial goings-on of humans around him whispered hints of the same royal disposition she had witnessed from wild orca in the Pacific Northwest. The changes in Keiko had been gradual. I had been too close to adequately gauge them.

  Alyssa’s blunt observations of a point in time instantly revealed how far we had actually come. What she described then, the unforgettable gaze of a whale I once believed least like any killer whale I had ever known, was now compared to a wild whale. If I had made the offer, she would not have gotten into the water with the animal, such were her misgivings. This, her trusted measure of Keiko’s temperament, was no small victory. It was indeed everything. Even I, at times certain we were marching to war already defeated, began to believe there might be a very real chance for the Big Man.

  Seldom able to revel in what progress we could measure, the nature of the release effort meant we were constantly unhinged by challenges well beyond those of our own making. Not long after Alyssa’s visit, the project was again subjected to yet another wild curveball; one that promptly dispelled the mundane and ignited our worst fears.

  9

  Welcome to the North Atlantic

  May 19, 2000. Ocean Futures Society Press Release

  Excerpt:

  Ocean Futures Society learned that construction of a pier will occur in Vestmannaeyjar Harbor. The construction would involve blasting and pile driving at a distance less than half a mile from Keiko’s bay enclosure. At this distance, the shock waves and low-frequency vibrations from the construction work could, in Ocean Futures Society’s judgment, pose a risk of physical harm to Keiko.

  Ocean Futures Society (OFS), through interactions with the U.S. and Icelandic authorities, was successful in delaying the blasting required in the harbor until at least May 25th. However, the explosives were already packed into bored-out rock in multiple locations, each several meters below sea level. The construction company’s general manager pleaded with the harbormaster to allow the work to continue. Otherwise, the costly explosives would deteriorate from saltwater intrusion. The overdue need for harbor improvements, required by the fishing fleet within Heimaey and prior to the oncoming season, added urgency. Tensions mounted swiftly, pitting the economic lifeblood of the island against the visiting Keiko Release Project.

  Charles, as the main liaison between the bodily protection of Keiko and grave threats posed by the harbor construction, found himself in a precarious position. Navigating the trio of conflicting objectives would not be easy. We couldn’t knowingly expose Keiko to the deafening underwater blasts. His presence in the bay was only a few hundred meters from the blast site. On the other hand, delaying much-needed harbor expansion threatened to alienate the entire release project from the Heimaey community. This aspect did not bode well because we were so thoroughly dependent upon the small fishing village.

  The most obvious solution, one we were ready for, was to remove Keiko from the bay during the blasting. Unfortunately, the official release permit required by Icelandic Fisheries (and U.S. authorities) was still in process. This was no routine permit, and the high-profile nature of the project on both continents placed an enormous regulatory burden on drafting and approving such a permit. Even if we were satisfied with the contents of our submission, evaluation and approval of such an intricate and unorthodox permit was unlikely to be fluid. Certainly it could not be completed in time for the imposing blasts set to take place a stone’s throw from Keiko.

/>   Anxieties quickly ran amuck within the ranks of the release team. When they first heard about the impending blasting, a few within the organization contemplated keeping the whale right where he was, questioning how truly threatening the explosions would be to Keiko. Others talked about “sneaking” our resident whale out in defiance of regulators if fast-track approval was not given.

  Another solution proposed the use of an underwater air hose filled with pin-sized holes discharging high-pressure air into a “bubble net.” In theory, the bubble net would create a wall of jumbled air between Keiko and the explosions. This prospect, though initially alluring, failed to address the shock waves that would be conveyed through the bedrock making up the entirety of Klettsvik Bay. There were even suggestions to construct a floating rig that Keiko could be trained to slide up on, temporarily out of the water and thus out of danger. A safe position to be sure, but who could guarantee that he would perform the behavior at the right time or stay in the position long enough to outlast the explosions?

  None of the proposed solutions accounted for the unknown quantity of aftershock reverberations, and still others relied much too heavily on chance. To a person, not one of us supported any of the office-based elucidations hurled in our direction. Though they were well-meaning attempts at a solution, we knew without the need of forensic sound testing or scientific analysis that the blasts would be devastating within the parabolic-shaped rock echo chamber of Keiko’s bay enclosure. We knew any outcome that kept Keiko in close proximity to the blast site was a nonstarter. The only alternative worthy of any discussion was taking Keiko as far away as we could from the dynamite and that left only one possibility, the open ocean of the North Atlantic.

  As it goes with imposed threats and impending deadlines, the team pulled together against a common foe. Specifically, the task placed Jen and me in ceaseless collaboration to finalize the permit application. As luck would have it, I was on a preplanned yet brief escape in Ireland with Alyssa. To her dismay, I spent a great deal of our travels around the Emerald Isle on the computer reading daily iterations of the permit draft. Jen owned the research objectives, I the behavioral rehabilitation plan and release criteria. We conspired together on the historical aspects of the project spanning Keiko’s time in Mexico to present. Robin and Jeff managed to piece together the medical history and flushed out the finer points of the all-important intervention portion of the permit, required by the authorities in the event that Keiko did not sustain the criteria which defined his successful release.

  Days and nights melted together, one unrecognizable from the next. Overlying the constancy of permit drafts circulating this way and that, Charles worked with fevered urgency alongside Gummi and Hallur seeking varied strategies between authorities in both the United States and Iceland. In the eleventh hour, the OFS main office went so far as to publish a Web-based campaign. Their intent: to spread public awareness and thus gain government support in protecting Keiko. Here they posted near daily updates of the drama unfolding in Iceland. All the while the harbormaster continued to uphold his hardened assurance that the blast would go off on schedule, with or without our readiness.

  The Piercing

  Returning to Iceland amidst the escalating doomsday scenario, I was accompanied on the final stretch of my voyage by the notorious Dr. Lanny Cornell. Our paths converged outside of Reykjavik at the ferry terminal, the only means by which to reach Heimaey on that particularly foul day.

  Throughout my entire career, which had begun on the heels of Lanny’s unceremonious departure from SeaWorld, I had heard abundant stories about the infamous veterinarian. During those sixteen years in and around the small marine mammal community, I had yet to meet anyone who espoused a fondness for Dr. Cornell.

  Though we had exchanged numerous e-mails throughout the course of the project (a healthy number of them contentious in nature), I had not met Lanny face-to–face since joining the release team. He rarely visited the project site, preferring to have clinical samples carried to and fro by the staff rotating in and out of the states—a practice that was not unlike smuggling contraband. More often than not we didn’t have the proper documentation for biological materials transport. This was but one of many old-school attributes that characterized Lanny’s detached husbandry leadership of the release campaign. Regardless, I was not a person with ready interest in conflict. Our first meeting in person was drawn out by the elongated wait typical of the ferry route.

  He was sitting in one of the connected rows of seats inside the small terminal. I recognized him immediately. He wouldn’t remember, but I had met him just weeks before his forced resignation from SeaWorld almost fifteen years prior. Without a doubt he had aged, though his square jaw and military-style short hair were unmistakable. That he was adorned in very American attire among the mix of European foot-traffic about the waiting area helped.

  “Lanny?” I extended my hand. “Mark Simmons.”

  “Lanny Cornell,” he replied, with little articulation, reminiscent of the stereotyped drill sergeant.

  “How was your trip?”

  “Long, but smooth.”

  He stood, folding the paper he had been reading. “Maybe we should get something to eat. We’ve got a long wait,” he suggested.

  Lanny was tall, at least matching my own height and maybe a fraction more. Despite his advancing age, Lanny was still an imposing figure. In his thick green winter jacket, his fully gray hair and robust frame added to a dominant posture.

  In the terminal café, we each picked from the buffet-style assortment of unfamiliar foods then sat opposite each other at a small circular table. The chairs were more like comfortable reading chairs. Bound in imitation leather, they were low, making me feel like a child at the dinner table. My height was all in my legs. I felt absurdly small sitting in the rounded chair.

  “So how’s Keiko?” Lanny started.

  “Doing pretty well. Better than I expected, to be honest.” I didn’t want to go into any detail knowing that I embodied the one aspect of animal sciences that Lanny could scarcely tolerate—that of animal training. But what I had heard of Lanny from the folklore within the marine mammal community was not yet evident. Although he maintained a businesslike seriousness, no evidence of the disreputable character emerged. I made every effort to avoid the disharmonious undercurrents that were most assuredly lurking just beneath the civil exterior.

  Dodgy small talk wore on for the better part of our wait.

  “I can’t stand the ferry,” I said, avoiding fuller topics. “After the flight I just wanna get to the island and be done with it. This waiting and the four-hour ferry ride drive me nuts.”

  Finally, as if he had been pining for the right moment, Lanny figuratively donned his ill-gotten crown, with pride and jest.

  “Well,” he said, sipping his coffee before continuing, “I decided to keep you company. Normally when the planes’s not running I just walk to Heimaey.” It was a creative way to align himself with Christ, implying that he could walk on water. He left the comment lingering in the air with a straight-lipped smile.

  “Ha,” I croaked, looking at my shoes. “Well, I guess I appreciate the consideration.” It was the least I could do. I had no witty comeback to offer.

  By the time we boarded the ferry I had tired of the effort required in conversing without really saying anything in the process. I excused myself feigning the fatigue of travel and purchased a private cabin where I could sleep off the pitching four-hour ride to the island. Lanny did the same, and we didn’t see each other again until dinner that night at Lanterna where we were joined by Charles and Robin. We were to discuss the project as a whole and the next steps required in getting Keiko safely away from the impending harbor construction. Lanny’s presence was required to surgically attach the tracking tag to Keiko’s dorsal fin.

  Our evening discussion passed uneventfully. It didn’t hurt that we each tempered ourselves with the customary red wine that accompanied a meal of lamb. Topics of weight had
already been discussed over e-mail exchanges with Charles the mediator and go-between. The conversation over dinner was more a rehearsal of tone in the saying than any material change in content. Nonetheless Charles was noticeably more guarded, a manner I was not accustomed to seeing from him. It was as if he expected any moment there would be a clash across the dinner table, the instigator yet to be revealed. However, the dinner concluded without incident and we retired early for the night. Less a few minor jibes in small talk we were able to preserve the tenuous peace.

  The next morning a respectable entourage amassed on the bay pen. We were going to attach the satellite tag, or at least a model of it. Brad Hanson had been in Heimaey just weeks before. Brad was an agent of U.S. National Marine Fisheries Service and had a lot of experience with tagging marine mammals. He was spear-heading the development of a prototype tag for Keiko that we hoped would last much longer than the traditional VHF radio tags. This one was a satellite tracking tag, able to upload data when the long-arching antenna trailing behind broke the surface with Keiko’s every breath. A VHF tag was a much simpler beast, but required a human to be in close proximity with a direct line of sight in order to pick up the intermittent signal. This would never do in the vast expanses of the islands and distances involved so far north.

  Tinkering with the prototype, Brad and Jeff had produced several evolutions of the sat-tag, constantly trying to improve the design to its most hydrodynamic state. This wasn’t an easy prospect: The “guts” of the tag consisted of the core satellite tracking technology, which was not small by any measure. The molded housing had to envelop the sizable mass of electronics while at the same time reducing the tag’s drag. Jeff and Brad worked well together in crafting a workable model.