Killing Keiko

by Mark A. Simmons

  Over the months following September and lingering onward through the New Year of 2002, one by one the original expat staff rejected the downturn in compensation and living conditions. Jeff and Jen never returned from their winter stateside, unwilling to accept not only the personal impact, but also the drudgery of managing the project on a shoestring budget. Jeff, in particular, was adept at fieldwork; he knew what it meant to work under such strained conditions. In another time and place he might have agreed to the reductions, but Iceland and the Keiko Release Project made the proposition a different beast. It was death by a thousand cuts. They were asking the impossible.

  The crew compliment now heavily vested in Icelandic staff. Jim became the soul individual remaining with any experience in animal sciences worthy of note. Those who had previously been in a security role, namely Ingunn, and others who were operations oriented, became the animal specialists charged with Keiko’s daily care. It fell to Jim to orchestrate and educate the assorted band of characters. So swiftly had the atmosphere shifted that it warped what were otherwise stable routines, previously made possible by the seasoned cast of expats. Although the original release team had been limited in experience to largely that of the Keiko Release Project, at least they had each been familiar with zoological care. As important, they were well acquainted with existing procedures and protocols, having been amidst the evolution of Keiko’s release spanning almost three years of Icelandic operations. The rather blunt transition to a well-meaning, though ill-equipped, staff was a staggering concept. In practical application, it drained Jim in ways he had not anticipated.

  At Charles’ instruction, Gummi, the ever-loyal and ever-present business manager, sourced additional local experience in an attempt to shore up the operation. That winter, Thorbjorg Kristjansdottir, an educator at a small marine-life facility in Reykjavik was hired on to assist. Called “Tobba” by her closest friends, she constituted the best of what local experience could be had.

  Iceland is not home to an extensive and sophisticated marine zoological presence as in the case of the United States. While many Icelanders have been near killer whales throughout their lives, their exposure is that of observers, not deeply involved in the day-to-day care of such animals. This truth is not a slight against the qualities of Icelandic people. Iceland simply did not possess the foundations or institutions that demanded relevant experience vital to a project so highly specialized as the release of a lifelong captive bull killer whale.

  By hiring locally, Charles could alleviate the costly expectations of specialized U.S. experience. But in the trade-off, he modified a key element, the very foundation of a project that epitomized the most complex undertaking in the history of marine mammal sciences. Thus, the lofty multimillion dollar world-famous Keiko Release Project was effectively reduced to a shadow of what it once represented.

  Tobba was unwittingly launched into a position well beyond her professional understanding and skill level. Any normal human being would jump at the opportunity of a lifetime such as it was, and Tobba reacted no differently. On the surface, she conquered the basic daily tasks required of her and she did so with dependability and commitment. What Tobba lacked in experience, she made up for in her affection, eventually love, for Keiko.

  Jim and Tobba worked together through early winter at the end of 2001. However, the downsizing of the project’s backbone of experience eventually bore too deep for Jim to reconcile. Though he made attempt, his insistence at bringing back at least a portion of the original crew fell on deaf ears. No matter what the reasoning, nothing turned the tide of shrinking financial resources.

  Jim began to see the administrative decisions taking recognizable form in the field. Weighted against the absolute stagnation he had witnessed in the prior season of introductions, Jim sensed the project was heading for a brick wall. Over the months that he toiled, it was Keiko alone that laid like a heavy mist over what was otherwise resounding clarity. Like so many before him, his conscience ultimately demanded his departure from the project, though not withstanding every attempt to convince himself otherwise. It was the hardest decision Jim had ever faced. Unlike his colleagues, his departure represented the final exodus of experienced management. The decision cut deeply into any chance Keiko had at survival. It was no longer just a question of success at freedom, it was now a question of basic existence, most especially during the tenure of human custody.

  On the day of Jim’s departure, May 5, 2002, the weather grounded the commuter plane, forcing him to endure the four hour ferry ride to the mainland. On its course to the open ocean, the Eimskip ferry passed Klettsvik Bay granting Jim his last vision of Keiko, thus bringing a remarkable chapter of his life to an unceremonious close.

  Excerpt—Jim Horton’s personal journal

  May 5, 2002

  The ferry is moving now and I look with admiration at all of the old fishing boats and ships, some ancient and rusting, some tied up alongside each other cramming for space, some still loaded to the gunnels with last night’s catch, setting so low in the water they look like submarines. Ah, the stories they could tell, braving some of the worst seas in the world. I pass the cliffs leading to the bay pen, now covered in lush green moss and suddenly I forget all of the reasons for my leaving and am in awe at the beauty while hundreds of sea birds fly about, crying out as if to say goodbye. I climb up to the top of the ferry and stare out at the bay pen and look for Keiko, I think back to all the early morning shows I put on for all of the other staff who were passing by on the ferry for their very last time, getting their last glimpse of Keiko, waving teary eyed, and then they were gone. No morning show for me as I slowly cruise by, Keiko is very sick, again, but this time the worst ever, having spent the last four days just floating at the barrier net, He may very well be on his way out this time and I carry his blood back with me in hopes of finding the problem. I see Ingunn on the roof of the dry house, the little hut on the pen that I had spent so many hours riding out hurricane force winds. She waves and I wave back and once again the butterflies in my stomach begin to flutter about. I have grown to love Ingunn, a single mother of three, petite, yet tough as nails, she started out as night security and then became the only Icelandic killer whale trainer in the world, I leave Keiko in her hands, she being the only one left now that has a relationship with and the rare experience of being the only one remaining that Keiko trusts. I didn’t see Keiko, which was probably better anyway. I didn’t say goodbye to him either, for some reason it always seems harder to say goodbye to animals than friends, perhaps because they cannot speak the comforting banter of well-wishing and it’ll be all rights that always makes saying goodbye to someone just a little easier.

  Cobbler, no further than the sandal

  In the aftermath of Jim’s departure, the project’s executive management recognized at once the cataclysmic gap in experience left behind. Charles had been deeply ingrained in the frontline of release operations since shortly after Keiko’s arrival in Iceland. He understood better than most the downward spiral in the quality of hands-on leadership. The dumbing-down of the project was palpable to him. He had lived it, he had orchestrated it. Charles had been devoutly loyal to OFS founder Jean-Michel for many years. And though his desire to see the project forth in excellence was in many ways genuine, financial battle lines had been drawn. He now focused on the survival of OFS and protecting his dear friend’s name.

  Ultimately, OFS relinquished control of the project to HSUS. For OFS the transition was a fire escape. Financially the weakest among the trio of organizations invested in the project, OFS could not sustain the cost of leadership any longer. Effectively, Charles’ management of field operations was callously handed over to the supervision of Dr. Naomi Rose, a lead biologist for HSUS. The wealthiest of animal rights organizations HSUS had been financially involved in the FWKF since before Keiko’s move to Iceland.

  Naomi was notoriously outspoken. Interminably confident in her perceptions, made righteous by what ostensibly rivaled
that of a holy mission, her views and her tactics were known within the zoological community. Contrary to the stereotypes of the animal rights continuum, Naomi looked like a fourth-grade teacher, who had just walked off the canvas of a Norman Rockwell schoolyard painting. Her fair-skinned complexion was outlined by bobbing dark hair with graying highlights. Short and a bit plump, she was not physically adapted to fieldwork nor did she instill confidence in those who worked around her with any regularity.

  Some would say that in her view of the world, zoos and aquaria represented no more than vile trafficking in animals, an assured genocide carried out by evil perpetrators remiss of conscience. If there was a means to her end, her convictions afforded her great latitude in whatever it took to reach that end. By her actions and her words, she seemed to hold killer whales in higher regard than most other forms of life, animal or human. While the study of killer whale natural behavior was her claim to career fame, her Ph.D. was based on a hundred or so hours observing killer whales in the wild. Naomi had no more experience in the daily care of a killer whale than does a visitor to a SeaWorld park.

  Trainers were of no value to Naomi. She believed release was a biologist’s domain, and this rightfully and fittingly hers. From the perch in her watchtower, her view of the project was unwavering. She would show them all it could be done, that she could release even the most difficult candidate. She would show them. She would win. Come hell or high water, Keiko would be deemed freed. In Naomi’s world, no other outcome existed.

  In prior years, Naomi had been no more than a casual guest to the Icelandic base of operations. Her cursory visits to Heimaey in the course of Keiko’s rehabilitation had been infrequent. Although she masterminded operations going forward in a more active role, Naomi was not the boots on the ground field leader. To fulfill this vacancy of seasoned leadership, HSUS hired former whale trainer Colin Baird (no relation to Robin Baird). A Canadian in his thirties, Colin’s experience with killer whales stemmed from a decade working as an animal trainer at Sealand of the Pacific in Victoria, British Columbia.

  Sealand of the Pacific, an antiquated facility, was a remnant of a 1970s ideal in marine life presentation. The small facility was literally a semi-open watercraft no larger than Keiko’s bay pen. Only it was not solely limited to housing Sealand’s three killer whales, their marquee attraction. In fact, the floating facility moored in a Victoria harbor shared its space with a number of sea lions, a seal exhibit and guest entrance/gift shop. Killer whale housing within the wooden vessel was limited to two pools. The main a rectangular pool contained by a double-walled seine net pursed at depth, the other a small medical pool scarcely large enough for an adult whale to turn about.

  Categorically outdated, Sealand was long overdue for its place in the history books. But it wasn’t the size of Sealand or its age that were most notable in the context of Colin’s resume and newly acquired responsibility over Keiko. What seeped through the cracks of Sealand’s history was the arcane training practices employed on and around her decks. In an ironic twist of fate, little difference existed between Colin Baird’s alma mater and the Mexican home where Keiko’s journey began.

  Sealand’s animal trainers were people, and like most people, good natured and genuine in their affections for the animals in their care. But donning the hood does not a monk make. Like many facilities before her, Sealand’s methodologies were passed down through the ages, their origins steeped in the trial and error of early pioneers in animal training. They did not get into the water with their killer whales. They could not. A product of deprivation, social isolation and punishment, the whales with which Colin cut his teeth in animal training were lost to them through the mix of pseudo-science techniques applied; methods disguised in the old-school language of the trade.

  This description is not in its entirety a fair evaluation of the whole. There is little doubt that caregivers at Sealand loved their animals and committed themselves to providing the best care with the tools they inherited. Nonetheless, an acute shortfall of many facilities like Sealand presented supreme consequence in Keiko’s plight; the lack of a sophisticated and empirical understanding of the principles of learning.

  In the annals of zoological history, in-water interactions with the world’s top predator were the impetus behind the advancement of applied behaviorism. So impactful was the early development of in-water interactions with five-ton predators that the very foundations of animal training were erased, only to be rewritten in the manifest of applied science. These advancements in animal behavior and learning far surpassed the one-dimensional practices first employed in marine mammal care. Today, they form the backbone of zoological sciences in the specialized care of countless species. As profoundly important as this understanding is, it cannot be understated as related to leadership of the release effort.

  Defying this critical foundation, Keiko’s release moved forward with what would equate to third-string experience piloting a jet at twice the speed of sound. On the grandest stage, amidst a delicate phase of the introduction, HSUS gambled with mankind’s most ambitious animal reintroduction and the fate of a world-famous whale.

  Tainted by the restrictive dictates of budget, their decisions now laid waste to every fragile accomplishment that hung in the balance. This period marked the greatest of many monumental shifts in the course of the Keiko Release Project. Profound under-currents yet to be revealed began their trajectory here, in the aftershock of HSUS assumed custody over the project. An unspeakable alternative belayed by the unyielding agenda of Naomi and the naïveté of her field commander, Keiko was silently stripped of choice.

  14

  Opposing Forces

  In earlier seasons, despite other varied alterations in strategy, the staff had maintained the devised neutral position of the walk-boat when Keiko was in the vicinity of wild whales. As agonizingly painful as it was to wait sometimes hours for the whales to clear, it was a prime directive not to interfere. Many of the staff outside the behavior team failed to understand the crucial significance of this directive. Even the starting of the engines or slight movement of the boat at the wrong time could and would influence Keiko’s behavior. His history and bond with the walk-boat was unavoidably made stronger still when it became the only source of familiarity in his strange new world. This, compounded by his first traumatic encounter in the wild, made the walk-boat such a powerful stimulus, it became both the path and the barrier to his freedom. We continued to closely follow his doomed saga through communication with our contacts, who provided detailed accounts.

  During the third and final season of walks and introductions hosted from the Icelandic base of operations a fatal flaw in judgment betrayed the very goals of the hard-won ocean walks and each chance encounter with wild orca. In the emerging season of 2002, decisions made on the high seas surrounding Vestmannaeyjar became practical, dictated by hands-on people, albeit ill-equipped to understand the roads traveled and the necessary path ahead. Among them Michael Parks, big of heart and unquestionably devoted to Keiko’s success, was a boat captain by trade. The staff considerably reduced, Michael now played a substantial role in deciding the daily routine between Keiko and the wild pods. Initially hired on as a laborer in the building of the bay pen, Michael became the only common thread with more time on location than any other single individual.

  In Michael’s world, things got done by action, not sitting idly by and hoping for the best. To him, the inaction of drifting in neutrality while Keiko floated nearby at the surface yet away from the wild pods was nothing if not an asinine waste of time. Why sit here and allow him to float while the wild pod disappears over the horizon? We need to get him back to the whales, as many times as it takes. These thoughts dominated Michael’s disposition toward the task at hand. The more he could get Keiko close to the wild pods the better. There was no sense in sitting idle or waiting, it was that simple. After all, waiting for what?

  As a result of the seemingly innocuous adjustment in protocol, Keiko amass
ed more time in the company of wild whales than he had in all prior seasons combined. Yet those unions were always facilitated and prolonged by the overbearing edicts of the walk-boat. Each time Keiko departed from the wild whales, no time was wasted; the walk-boat promptly guided Keiko back to the company of his would-be acquaintances. Outwardly, their approach appeared to shift the balance. Keiko began spending more time away from the walk-boat in the wake of each shepherded introduction. In reality, the delicate balance of learning betrayed what the eyes could measure.

  Immediately returning Keiko to the wild whales each time he decided to leave them set together a series of incessant consequences—consequences that lent to Keiko’s avoidance of the walk-boat.

  In the presence of the wild whales, Keiko learned (was taught) that rejoining the walk-boat resulted in a mandated return to the pod. The conflicting elements at work set the conditions for learned helplessness, a trait long dominant in Keiko’s disposition. So it was that he neither joined the wild whales, nor returned to his mother ship. Without knowledge of the invisible forces at work, Michael’s call to action taught Keiko to place himself safely in no-man’s land, in the purgatory between acceptance and avoidance. Keiko became an interloper; a lone whale denied his station, denied a welcoming home.