Two clicks of the radio from each confirmed their receipt of the message.
Stephen dropped the recall transmitter into the water off the stern of the Draupnir, closest to Keiko’s distant position. We made eye contact, and I nodded.
“Recall,” Stephen announced.
We waited.
“Draupnir—Sili. Any response?”
“Can’t tell, Draupnir, we’ve lost visual,” came the reply.
Robin didn’t want to chance it. “Try the recall again.”
Again Stephen hit the recall tone. Again we waited. It seemed forever scanning for a visual, but it was also a fair distance, and Keiko wasn’t known to sprint back to the Draupnir at the beckon call of the tone. It would take time for us to become accustomed to how long was too long. This time we didn’t need the recall a third time. Keiko finally showed up at the Draupnir, having evaded our searching eyes during his commute. He surfaced at the platform on the starboard side without lifting his head. We had been so consistent in delivering his reinforcement on or below the surface that he very seldom lifted his head to acknowledge the world above the surface.
Upon the reunion, confidence among the release team also returned. Conversation bent to the excitement and success of his outward interest in the pod of passing dolphins. Had we let it, the scene might have elicited a search and recovery party among the boats in formation that day. As it was, Robin stifled the knee-jerk need to curtail Keiko’s first real adventure, and in so doing, preserved the neutrality of man-made things.
Less Jeff, Robin and myself, the staff’s acceptance of the unexpected exercise seemed feigned at best. The idea of release was still so intuitively contrary to the usual mandates of caring for an animal. Nonetheless, at least the two or three of us were genuinely ecstatic at Keiko’s display of curiosity. Until now, we had never seen evidence of the extrovert animal we had hoped to discover. Keiko’s outward curiosity that day was at least a morsel we could hang our hat on, something akin to the type of animal that could someday find the means to survive on his own. At least that’s what we chose to believe, and for the time being, it was a welcome shot in the arm.
In the world of man, the release project floated on a sea of paperwork. As we amassed time at sea, others worked to conclude the final release permit, one that would give us the means to introduce Keiko to his kind. That day was nearing, and everything we did now was a step in the direction of freedom; freedom not from the bay or bay pen, but freedom from the tethered half-release of the walk-boat. Though it was a mechanically brilliant means by which to transport Keiko to sea, we also knew the Draupnir and the constancy of our presence with him at sea was a hindrance to his survival. The longer we continued these paired adventures, the more he became dependent on our guidance.
Transference
Bringing together animals that have no history together can be treacherous, even if they are of the same species. In the field of wildlife management, it is understood that social acclimation is a gradual process, especially among highly social animals, such as killer whales. In an ideal setting, the new animal is first introduced to the unfamiliar environment. In Keiko’s case this was the open ocean. Once the animal gains experience and familiarity with that environment, he is introduced to the target social group. Again, in a perfect world scenario, the animals are introduced one at a time until they have met each individual in the group. At each introduction, the newbie’s presence is paired with something positive, like food. In the simplest form, every time the new guy shows up, good things happen. Over time, the positive association transfers to the new member of the social group.
However, we could not directly reinforce the wild killer whales each time they met Keiko. Though that was precisely what I wanted to do, such blatant influence of the wild animals flew in the face of every ethical consideration in wildlife management. It was impossible to pair a food source with Keiko without also creating an association with man, upsetting the wild animal’s natural avoidance of man-made things.
Because we had no control over whether or not Keiko would be accepted by the wild whales, the best we could manage was to reinforce Keiko when the wild whales were nearby. Even so, we had to be careful not to provide much of Keiko’s food associated with the Draupnir or for returning to the bay. Too much of the former and Keiko would become hopelessly attached to the walk-boat. Too much of the latter and we’d end up with a whale expertly trained to return to the bay. The plan was to shift this balance over time and repeated exposure gauging each measured step based on Keiko and his intended family.
While nothing about the plan was ideal, we gambled that repetition would win the war. By providing the bulk of Keiko’s daily food requirement each time the wild ones showed up, over and over again, this positive history would eventually “transfer” to the act of staying near the other animals.
In stark contrast, the majority of the FWKF assumed that Keiko “wanted” to be in the wild and would “instinctively” choose his kind. As if a sort of magic, they believed instinct would spontaneously kick-in and override a lifetime of social isolation and human relationships.
The concept of instinct is, at best, obscure and largely misconstrued. The word instinct is often used to describe behavior that we don’t fully understand. It connotes a hidden, hardwired ability or skill. In reality, most of what guides an animal’s behavior is learned. Shortly after birth, the capacity to learn, and to adapt to an ever-changing world, becomes the dominant factor at the center of survival. Without this important amendment to “instinct,” animals or people would never endure beyond their first days or year of life.
Keiko’s unusual history with man was the driving force behind his motivation and the choices he would soon make. It was highly improbable that the adopted son would instantly prefer his biological lineage over that of his twenty-year foster family. For all intents and purposes, the wild whales were animals foreign to him.
By design, the walk-boat was at best a temporary step in the path to freedom. It was a one-way means of transport, a prompt that needed to be faded before it became a crutch. The ocean-walk rehearsals were beneficial in exposing Keiko to his new home. But it was time to move beyond this half-step. It was time to begin the social acclimation process.
Events played in our favor. After just three weeks of open ocean rehearsals under the tempered approval, we received the green light to introduce Keiko to wild killer whales. The timing could not have been better. We were willing and Keiko was as ready as he would ever be. Sunday, June 18, 2000, was the day selected for the grand introduction.
As expected, anticipation ran fervently through the hierarchy of the release campaign swelling from Santa Barbara in the east all the way to Iceland. Despite every forensic evaluation of Keiko and the ebb and flow of his tenuous achievements, most considered this day would end in dramatic fulfillment not unlike the sunset scene portrayed in Free Willy. The event received the same pomp and circumstance of a presidential inauguration. All we could do was not enough to prevent the circus that converged on the small island of Heimaey. The project moved forward now on its own schedule, shaking loose a series of events set in motion years earlier.
10
First Contact
A week before the big day, the purposeful introduction of Keiko to wild whales, we met in Jeff’s room on the penthouse level of the hotel. The meeting was between Charles, Robin, Jeff, Jen and me. We were deciding the final protocols for introduction: boats and their assignments, proximity of same and the details of each party’s responsibility on the water and in the air. This discussion was intended to finalize the step-by-step process as we discussed every angle and possible result.
Most of the plan was agreeable and had already been exchanged in rudimentary form through numerous e-mails among the five of us. The nucleus of the flotilla would be the Draupnir and Keiko, supported by Heppin to watch our back and prevent third-party vessels from encroaching on the introduction. Two additional boats would be needed, a
lthough Robin and I both were reluctant to agree. The Viking II would serve to locate and track a wild pod, communicating back to the Draupnir so that positions could be coordinated. Yet another vessel would be full of VIPs the FWKF board had to accommodate, a collateral obligation to significant donors. Lastly, the helicopter would be used to film the event and provide additional bird’s-eye spotting. But as the discussion continued, other plans emerged that were new to Robin and me.
From day one of our involvement, Robin and I had always viewed Keiko’s meeting with his wild brethren as a process, one that would require an unknown quantity of time and repeated exposure. We were very much alone in this perspective. Charles and the FWKF board firmly believed that this was it; that Keiko’s first introduction was a one-way ticket and he would not be returning to Klettsvik with the Draupnir. When we argued our point, the persistent counterpoint always began with, “Yeah, but what if he leaves …?” or “We need to be prepared.” These “eventualities” dictated that the introduction would be treated like a one-off event, requiring full documentation of Keiko’s release just in case.
Robin and I quickly became distressed by the growing number of vessels and helicopter required to accommodate an entourage of paparazzi, all driven by the notion of Keiko swimming off into the sunset. Our only victory, we refused to allow a diver in the water to film the interaction between Keiko and the wild pod, initially insisted upon by Charles. His agenda largely focused on the creation of an award-studded documentary. After all, film was the lifeblood of Jean-Michel and Ocean Future Society. For our part, we wanted nothing more than what was absolutely required. If left to us, the introduction would consist of no more than the Draupnir and one support vessel. Losing that battle, we were both already on edge about every other aspect of the process as it unfolded.
Next was deciding where each boat would be positioned in the flotilla’s waterborne configuration and the helicopter’s flight path. If we couldn’t keep the boats out of the water altogether, we were bound and determined to put them at such distance that they would be rendered just as innocuous. Charles and Jen met our first proposition of several miles with heated resistance. Charles couldn’t capture the footage he desperately wanted from such distances. Similarly, Jen could not record the data she needed and which represented the pinnacle of every other data point collected in the path leading up to this day. Jeff supported Jen in her insistence on the data collection, calmly and periodically offering counterpoint. Jen was more outspoken on the issues.
From Robin’s and my perspective, there would be many more opportunities for collection of footage and data. The initial exposure to wild whales needed to be positive at best and at worst a relaxed low-key event. To us, this first introduction was nothing more than testing the waters; the outcome of which we would evaluate and refine the process of ongoing encounters. In his own way, Robin tried to suggest as much, but to no avail. The stigma of “release” as a finality stubbornly persisted.
Robin had been on-site for an extended period. Exhausted and irritated from the strife over every decision of late, he became as a pressure cooker reaching its limit. Perhaps a character flaw, Robin would often push himself to extremes during field projects of this nature, willing himself forward on insufficient sleep and the sustenance of Snickers bars, coffee and cigarettes. Although I’d only seen Robin blow his cap on scant few occasions, this was the perfect storm and what ensued would mark an unforgettable and regrettable conclusion to our meeting that night. As the night played out, every frustration Robin locked within himself over the past months surfaced, and all at once.
The layers of this soured onion were slowly peeled back. Soon, it became apparent that Jeff and Jen had been supporting a variety of objectives for the initial introduction, none of which Robin or I viewed as setting Keiko up for success. Those plans were almost exclusively focused on research and to some degree, Charles’ independent hopes and desires for unrivaled documentary footage that would put Ocean Futures Society in the history books. It was exactly as if they were changing the game plan, presenting a new playbook at the most critical time in the fourth quarter of a closely matched Superbowl. The realization hit Robin like a ton of bricks. By his assessment, they had intentionally deceived him, withholding information that they knew he would not support and thereby removing him from the decision. Robin took it as a personal offense.
Jen attempted to explain, but she was paraphrasing directly from the mouth of Robin Baird, an orca researcher from the Pacific Northwest, who had zero knowledge of the complex processes at work in Keiko’s rehabilitation. Baird had no working understanding of the behavioral protocols, the progress we’d made, or the plan that got us there. It was the same plan that dictated a continuation of precise conditioning steps. Baird wanted genetic data on the wild pod, and Jen was compelled to agree. Among other facts and figures, they wanted to know the lineage of the pod that Keiko would join.
Though the prospect sounded reasonable, genetic data requires tissue, and that tissue is obtained by means of a crossbow mounted biopsy dart. The device would likely render a person hospitalized, but to a killer whale it would be the equivalent of a pinprick. An additional objective involved the use of suction cup tags. These are very basic recorder tags that remain only temporarily on the whales and float to the surface for retrieval after the suction cup loses its grasp.
In either case, the concept of harassing or exciting the wild pod just before they met Keiko was unfathomable. We knew with certainty these greedy demands were going to upset the whole experience for Keiko as well as the wild whales. Why couldn’t they see it?
Months of pressures and disagreements exorcised themselves before us as Robin reacted to both the perceived deception and the invasive plan in one impassioned explosion. Most of the fallout rained down on Jen. She sat in an overstuffed chair near the east window wearing sweat clothes and socks with her legs folded comfortably beneath her. In this position she had no escape from the torrent.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Robin screamed at her, standing so close his accusatory finger was inches from Jen’s face. “You call yourself a scientist and say all you want is what’s in Keiko’s best interest, but you have no idea what’s in his best interest!”
Robin’s face was beet red. Veins protruded in his neck as he paced away from Jen and then back again. “I’m so sick and tired of hearing this shit about ‘what’s in the best interest of Keiko’ when no one here has any idea what that means!”
Robin never cursed. I had never before witnessed this version of Robin. Only seconds had passed and the rest of us were still trying to reconcile his initial reaction.
“Robin,” I said, trying to interject.
He didn’t hear me or chose to ignore the call and continued: “I can’t believe you’re persuaded by this Baird guy who knows nothing about what Keiko’s been through or how we’re preparing him behaviorally! How in the world can you consider tagging the whales as not harassment right before they meet Keiko!”
Both Jeff and Jen tried to interject but at this point Robin was not listening to anyone. He continued, his words forced through clenched teeth as he glared at Jen. “He is not going to swim off with those whales! You want to turn this into a circus at the most critical time … after all we’ve tried to do here, fighting on every point and every step … I’m so sick of your shit!” he spit the words out in utter disgust, every other word almost unrecognizable as they were ejected with such heightened intensity and volume.
He then turned on Jeff who was offering explanation, as much to distract Robin’s attention from Jen. Robin momentarily peered at Jeff with a look of disbelief on his reddened face. Nothing Jeff said offered any reprieve. “You guys have been planning this crap for months, and I’m just now hearing about it? Right before we’re taking him out there?” He flung his arm out, indicating the ocean in the distance. “This is complete bullshit, Jeff, and you know it!”
At this Robin had his hands out
in front of him, palms up. By his tone and his posture he was incredulous, as if unable to accept that anyone could be so deceptive. That anyone could be so deceptive to him. Jen tried to respond. But through her tears and Robin’s yelling she could not string together a complete sentence.
Behind Robin and to his left, Charles attempted to impose reason. “Robin … Robin …” he was begging him to stop. Charles’ eyes were inflamed and red, the fervid atmosphere overtaking his otherwise stoic composure.
Robin ignored Charles and kept after Jen, the target of his anger. Though Jen’s stance in the debate was in stark contrast to mine and Robin’s, the resulting attack had far more horsepower behind it than the topics on the surface necessitated. It was indeed the outlet of every frustration, failure, debate and ongoing conflict Robin had buried within himself for a long time leading up to this night. A commonality we all shared; the emotional investment, isolation and pressures conjoined bringing out the best and the worst in us.
Months earlier, the undercurrents were already apparent. Charles sent a note to Robin urging him to seek open dialogue between the four of us. He had suggested that we all four meet in Seattle—outside of the project setting—and come to agreement, or at least mutual respect, of each other’s objectives. Due to the demands of the project, the kumbaya meeting never took place. It was unrealistic to expect the four of us to meet off-site. At least two of us needed to be on-site at all times, and over the past five months, that had been mostly Robin and me. In contrast to our schedules, Jeff and Jen had been sent on increasingly frequent expeditions elsewhere on behalf of Ocean Futures. The prolonged separation only served to expand diverging paths between the two duos.
Above all, the nagging insistence of this first introduction as a single “event” only continued to fan the flames of disagreement, which now became a towering inferno.
Killing Keiko Page 30