Killing Keiko

by Mark A. Simmons

  Robin went the only place left to go—to a personal affront. “You have no idea what real research is and you call this a research project! If any of this crap was out there among colleagues it would be a complete embarrassment!” he said.

  Charles, who had been trying to diffuse the situation, now took sharp offense at the personal attack on Jen. He sprang from his chair and was standing almost between Robin and Jen. “That’s enough. Robin, you need to stop, walk away. I’ve had enough—it’s enough of this.” Charles’ words came out cracked and uneven. He furrowed his brow and with that carried off a fairly stern and menacing expression. Both Jeff and I were still caught in the headlights and unable to form adequate responses. It had only been a minute, maybe two. I believe each of us thought Robin just needed to “get it out” and hoped that the conversation would return to civility.

  Robin turned and stormed out of the room slamming the door with deafening force as he crossed the hall to our shared suite. I was suddenly aware that the space had become uncomfortably warm. Bewildered, I glanced at Charles and Jeff without an answer to offer. Jeff was first to speak. “Mark, I think you need to calm him down. He needs to calm down … or he’s going to have a heart attack or something.”

  “Yeah, I’ll talk to him,” I said, as I paced toward the door, unsure of what I could do or say.

  Charles stopped me, “Wait—just hold on. Give it a minute. I don’t think …”

  But he was cut short as Robin reentered the room much as he had left. This time he spoke with less volume. His rectitude laser-sharp, he had much frustration left to purge. In his brief absence something resonated, some haunting realization that reignited the fire.

  “We are not going to make this into a fiasco, I will not allow you to go out there and undo everything we’ve been trying to accomplish!” Dropping his voice to just above a conversational volume he continued, “Charles, you and I have talked about this; we’ve talked about keeping this first introduction to a minimum of required personnel and boats. How can you support this?” It wasn’t a question as much as it was an accusation. “It’s the same bullshit we have had to deal with all along—that Keiko is going to swim off into the sunset! I expect this shit at the board level, but not here.”

  The breakdown continued at the same intensity for a few moments longer still, defenses and offenses repeating themselves. Finally Robin went back to his room, a phrase of disgust and disappointment left lingering in the air. Stunned, we sat motionless. Jeff turned facing the kitchenette. I had been standing, leaning against the counter the entire time. He glanced at me as he poured a glass of red wine, casting a defeated smile along with a raise of his eyebrows.

  After a few moments, Jeff broke the silence in his distinctive soft tone. “Wow! I don’t know what to say to that? Is he okay?” The question was addressed to me as if I were Robin’s keeper. There was sincerity in Jeff’s questioning concern.

  “I don’t know. I’ll talk to him, but I think we should leave him alone for a while.” Even I was hesitant to go in the other room.

  Among the four of us remaining, the conversation continued where it had started. This time Jeff carried the ball in support of Baird’s wish list and in defense of research objectives. I didn’t say much. At once I felt any continuation was a betrayal to Robin. In fairness, it would betray my own opinions as well. I had stoked the fires sure enough. In all of our exhaustive discussions, Robin and I played out every scenario we could creatively dream up. With each supposition, I was vehemently opposed to any excess activity surrounding the spotlight event of Keiko’s first encounter with wild whales. My representation of the likely outcomes was never candy coated with Robin. Confronted with what he viewed as indirection from those he trusted, and emboldened by my staunch position on the conditioning goals, the disclosures laid in our lap that night—just days before the introduction—were all it took to set him off with such ferocity.

  The four of us never truly resolved our differences. The following days came and went with little ongoing exchange. Yet somehow we managed to work together. By and large, our conversations were limited to project needs. The days of personal well wishes and small talk had vanished, especially between Robin and Jen.

  Jeff could not state his case then, but had defended his position in support of the tagging and documentation that night with reason. A clear and present fear existed, prompted by agendas and board members bent on twisting Keiko’s release to their benefit. He suspected there was premeditated intent to leave Keiko on his own out in the ocean regardless of the initial result. Jeff believed the only insurance that would protect Keiko was complete documentation of the introduction on every conceivable level.

  Had the four of us trusted each other, so much would have turned out differently in days and months that followed. We were the front line. In defiance of any misaligned objectives of the board or Charles or anyone in between, to a person and each in our own way, not one of us would have allowed negligence to reach Keiko. Our experiences and our roles were very different, but we all shared a common vision of Keiko as the priority. Nevertheless, we had failed to recognize the one true antagonist in Keiko’s venture to freedom. With a long-standing influence over the project, the antagonist would become readily apparent soon enough.

  The Big Top

  June 18, 2000. At morning’s first full light, the harbor was already bustling with activity. Boats and crews were assigned. The meeting of boat captains was under way. The last-minute communication protocols reviewed. Walk formation maps were set out and boat and helicopter positions acknowledged. Everything was carefully and meticulously laid out, checked and triple checked. Equipment was staged on each vessel—from cameras, batteries, and film to the all-important sat-tag, charged and ready for a potentially record-breaking journey across unknown distance and time.

  The entire release team was on-site, pushing the envelope on the allowed days in-country. Even the risk of overdrawing on the bank of expatriate days did not matter to project management; they considered the prospect of this being many a person’s last rotation a very real consequence of the day’s intended activity. Even so, the full compliment of staff proved manageable. At least every one of the regular cast was familiar with the mandates surrounding Keiko. His walk formations now fell into sync with ease. But it wasn’t that simple. Heimaey was now host to a variety of newcomers, all there to be a part of history, intent on witnessing the glorious finale to a world-renowned animal welfare event.

  On this day, arguably the most delicate of any venture to sea yet, we prepared to escort Keiko to his own kind under the attached scrutiny of five waterborne vessels and one aloft; a veritable floating and flying parade around the waters of Vestmannaeyjar.

  Assessing the scene in the harbor, I could almost taste the same feverish hostility that Robin had vented just a handful of days before. Give an inch, and they’ll take a mile, I had thought. The detailed progression we painstakingly erected and fought to protect was becoming a circus, a show for spectators everywhere I looked. At the back of the line behind every ego and agenda stood Keiko, the featured act.

  It was Tom who revealed the first in a series of ruinous impacts that painted the slippery slope already unfolding. During the loading of boats, he had seen crossbows among the assorted equipment stowed onboard the Viking II, the tracking vessel charged with locating and identifying the ideal pod for introduction. They intended to either attach suction cup-tags or biopsy dart the wild whales—or both.

  Beyond the already overbearing presence of the Viking II tailing their every move, the idea of harassing the wild whales with forceful attachments was beyond comprehension. It was the treacherous result of a clear divergence within the project’s leadership, an ironic twist of fate.

  Jacques Cousteau himself set up many a vivid camera shot that drew the world’s attention, cultivating an insatiable fascination with the ocean and her inhabitants, myself included. When I grew older, it saddened me to learn that many of the famous e
xplorations and purportedly candid encounters were staged, orchestrated for film, many times at the expense of the starring animal.

  Ocean Futures, the organization on the frontlines of Keiko’s release, was a documentary filmmaker as well. By its nature, the organization was predisposed to “getting the shot.” So it would be that the very subject of their interest and his needs would likewise be dismissed in the heat of the moment. They protested animal captivity, likening it to abuse and genocide. They saw themselves as great protectors; their mission without reproach, but they were in fact the first and worst offenders.

  As we stood ready on the docks of Heimaey’s harbor, we knew any chance we had of stopping the intended assault on the wild whales had vanished, both by the hostility of the first discussion and the limited time with which to redress the issue at this late hour. Robin instructed Tom to simply observe and report. He couldn’t put the onus on Tom now for an earlier failure to find compromise on the matter. Equally as discouraging, Robin knew this was but another aspect of a suffocating agenda deeply rooted and expanding rapidly. Literally and figuratively, we continued to fall back, retreating to the only vestige we could control: the walk-boat and Keiko himself.

  Breaking Dawn

  Viking II was required to participate in the fateful introduction. Her role as tracking vessel was to locate and identify the ideal pod that Keiko was to meet. In this capacity she was first to put to sea, several hours in advance of the walk-formation. Captained by Siti, the Viking II carried with her Robin Baird, the orca field researcher intending to biopsy the wild whales. Also in her crew were Dr. Lanny Cornell and Tom. It was Tom’s duty to provide guidance to Siti in following the protocols specific to the Viking II and her station during the encounter.

  Our lone eye-in-the-sky, the sleek modern helicopter with call sign Zero-Nine-Zulu carried Charles, Jeff and the videographer. Their job was to keep perspective on the field of play from far above. In the final agreed plan, Zero-Nine-Zulu had to remain at a minimum of 500 feet off the deck or above the water’s surface. Viking II, with the assistance of Zero-Nine-Zulu would locate a pod of whales, then track that pod communicating their position. Though we knew more would be attempted, Viking II’s assigned duty was no more than to identify the make-up of the target pod and track their calculated heading, thus allowing the Draupnir to assume an accurate position in the path of the wild pod and at the appropriate time.

  Shadowing Viking II at a minimum of one and a half nautical miles was another borrowed vessel. This was the tour boat Vikingur, which had frequented the no-fly zone near the barrier net over the past many months, always playing a game of cat and mouse with our patience.

  Tour operators on Heimaey promised their patrons a peek at Keiko, the world’s most famous whale. Although we pleaded with the owner to respect the distances we required, he always pushed those boundaries, at times putting his bow almost on top of the barrier net’s buoy line, thus giving his guests a front-row view of the release project. The Vikingur was our own private paparazzi, repentant after each offense and yet constantly duplicating the affront for the benefit of paying onlookers. Of course we went to great lengths to eliminate any form of unintended enrichment created by the intrusion. But there were times that Keiko would sit just opposite the barrier net, looking up at the touring spectators piled to one side, listing the boat and lending themselves to every form of visual spectacle imaginable for the whale in training.

  Now, on the inaugural introduction to wild whales, the pesky Vikingur was awarded the lofty position of VIP boat. She carried the bulk of project spectators, favored appointees, agents, regulators and anyone to whom OFS and the FWKF owed favors. To me, she was nothing but another unwanted vessel, tangible evidence of the lack of understanding that ran fathoms deep. What should have been the most minimalist venture to sea was by all accounts drastically upstaged with the presence of man and man-made things.

  Completing the flotilla were Sili and Heppin. In their usual roles, the two smaller vessels would surround the Draupnir and Keiko at a half-mile distance. Their duty, as always, was to shield our star from third-party interference. On land, two teams of two traversed the island by vehicle and relayed information when necessary from their land-based viewpoints. Often, the island natives fulfilling these roving positions would be the first to spot nearby pods, as they were well acquainted with the wild whales’ habitual routes around the island chain.

  Passing the better part of the early morning, the Draupnir and Sili were tied up to the bay pen while Heppin waited patiently in the harbor for her call to action. Time seemed to pass quickly while our minds were full of speculation and constantly interrupted by the tedium of final preparation.

  Among those details was the all-important fastening of the satellite tag to Keiko’s dorsal fin. Jeff had become the informal master of ceremony in handling the sat-tag. It was his responsibility to ensure that it was mounted properly and that the electronics were active before Keiko could leave the bay enclosure.

  Jeff had gone out earlier in the morning onboard Zero-Nine-Zulu and successfully located a nearby pod of whales. Once Viking II was in position to track the pod, Jeff returned to the bay pen to affix the sat-tag to Keiko’s dorsal. Sili stood ready to spirit him back to the harbor on his return to the helicopter once we completed the attachment.

  Jeff and I called Keiko to the outside of the north pool of the bay pen, the calmest waters that day in the lee of Klettsvik’s incoming tide. The procedure was well-practiced. Keiko obligingly floated motionless while we toyed with his dorsal fin and the tag. In only a few short minutes the tag was readied. At that, the last of the morning’s details were completed. The team and Keiko were eager to get under way.

  Nearly six miles away the Viking II trailed in the wake of a wild pod close to the western shore of Heimaey. The animals were moving east-southeast, toward the southern point of the island, toward us.

  We had begun the day just after dawn. It seemed like noon, yet it was barely eight in the morning. Any sense of the clock was confused by the early arrival of the sun on our horizon. It was time to get Keiko to sea.

  Provocation

  Members of our team later filled us in on what was happening from their positions during the debacle. Onboard the Viking II, Tom stood at the starboard gunwale near the forward pilothouse. He was taking in the scene as Robin Baird prepared a suction-cup tag. Tom was conflicted. Throughout the morning he watched as Siti was instructed repeatedly to get closer and closer still to the wild whales. He knew they were violating the introduction protocols. He also knew he was powerless to stop them. Lanny did what Lanny wanted to do, and Robin Baird gave no heed whatsoever to Tom’s polite attempts to dissuade the deliberate rebuff. Tom doubted that either of them had even reviewed the introduction plan; much less would they bend to his authority.

  Tom was part of my team, the Behavior Team. That association alone rendered him as no more than a nuisance in Lanny’s view. More to the point, Lanny likely knew or suspected that we had placed Tom on the Viking II for no other reason than to baby-sit the motley crew.

  Time and again, Lanny demonstrated little to no regard for what had come before him. It seemed that he cared nothing for the grand plan of introduction and even less for the months of meticulous work implementing that plan. He was fond of mentioning Bobo the pilot whale, a release he himself had orchestrated more than a decade earlier. It was a release for which he alone claimed resounding success; this despite U.S. Navy documents evidencing Bobo’s repeated aggression toward divers and the resulting necessity of euthanizing the whale. By his estimation, he was the lone expert on release.

  Thus it was, the Viking II relentlessly followed on the perimeter of the wild pod of whales, encroaching as close as they could manage and making repeated attempts to place suction cup tags on those within range. They succeeded on two accounts, mounting the tags on a larger female and a younger animal, probably an adolescent, judging by its size. Throughout the morning, when the wild
pod surfaced, each animal in the small group took multiple breaths to recharge their oxygen supply. Then the pod “sounded,” diving deep, abruptly changing direction and running for a distance before another series of group breaths betrayed their new heading. The Viking II continuously adjusted her course, rejoining the pod. Without realizing it, Tom was grinding his teeth. The zigzag pattern and successive sounding of the wild whales demonstrated clear avoidance of the Viking II and her pursuit. He couldn’t even radio the Draupnir to advise her crew of the situation. Lanny kept the only handheld radio on his person. He could use Siti’s radio in the pilothouse, but any form of report to the Draupnir would incite a riot if it had any meat. Tom did the best he could, waiting and watching.

  The pod consisted of at least one unmistakable bull, formidable in size. He easily dwarfed Keiko in physique and prominence, verified by his towering dorsal fin methodically cutting the water as if a giant dark blade. Fulfilling his protective role, the male repeatedly placed himself between the Viking II and the rest of his pod. Two or three others appeared to be adult females. At least two were mothers, made abundantly obvious by the very small calves glued to their side and riding in the larger animal’s slipstream. The would-be white patches on one of the calves were a dark mottled orange, a pigmentation common only on the most recently birthed. This calf is no more than a month old at best, Tom guessed. The troublesome dance between the wild pod and the Viking II went on for hours. Their jagged and disjointed course led the entourage in a general eastward heading, toward the southern tip of Heimaey.

  From his broad perspective aboard Zero-Nine-Zulo Jeff examined the scene below. In company with Charles, he watched as the Viking II traveled nearly on top of the wild pod. Looking out over the expanse closing between the Draupnir and Viking II, he said, “This is not the right group to introduce … too many moms and babies.”