Killing Keiko (27 page)

Keiko, severely cut and scraped, is shown here approximately a week after his first
encounter with ice floes in the fjords of Norway. Photo: Zsolt Halapi

Children in Halsa, Norway get into the water with Keiko. Photo: Per-Tormod Nilsen

Keiko’s burial site in Taknes Bay, Norway, photographed not long after his death.
Photo: Jan Vimme

The entirety of the Marine Operations team was on-site for the first time since the
bay pen was constructed nearing two years prior. Some of them had become so accustomed
to working apart from each other on opposite rotations that getting together under
one roof, so to speak, became as uncomfortable as a family reunion. Both excitement
and uneasiness hung over the water.

Among the mild contentions, Greg Schorr and Michael Parks each vied for lead dog of
Marine Operations. Normally, they served on opposite rotations. Greg was so affable
by nature one would have to make a considerable effort to alienate him. Michael, on
the other hand, had a way of getting under the skin of his workmates. Nonetheless,
Michael was the senior of the two and boasted easily twenty years on Greg. Despite
his offenses, unintended as they were, Michael’s experience was highly respected.
He was “captain of the ship.”

Somewhere in his early forties, Michael’s full head of boyish black hair, easy smile
and frequent “knowing” smirk, along with a drawl when he spoke, set forth the traits
of a western rancher. But it didn’t take long working with Michael to recognize the
salty dog sea captain underneath. He had wisdom in his eyes, the product of seasoned
experience gained on the decks of Alaskan trawlers. On-site in Iceland he lived by
himself, apart from the other expatriates on the team. In his own distinctive way
Michael was a loner.

During the installation of the barrier net, activity surrounding Keiko’s bay pen abounded.
Our challenge was to take advantage of
the downtime in between work hours, the limited windows where we could avoid direct
association with so much human activity. As weather was the antagonist to Mighty Mo,
so too was the constant presence of Mighty Mo to Keiko’s conditioning goals.

The following provides perhaps the most succinct description of the barrier net particulars:
High performance polyethylene netting technology, 283 meters long, sixteen meters
deep. More than forty rock helical or spiral anchors embedded, grouted into rock and
epoxied. “Big ass” chain running the length of the bottom-line from east to west,
eight to eleven deadweight anchors on the northern and southern sides and nearly 200
individual 350 kgs lift-capacity buoys affixed along the surface line.

The concept of putting a “gag” on the mouth of Klettsvik Bay and her gusty, wild temperament
was laughable to most every engineer interviewed during the pursuit of the outlandish
solution. Nonetheless, an animal need dispossessed by technical challenge was a combination
Robin could not resist. His stubborn persistence that it could be done transported
the barrier net from concept to reality. Through Woods Hole ingenuity and a host of
hardened Nordic contractors, installation of the net finally began in earnest late
December 1999.

Over the course of eight weeks, Mighty Mo labored. Under pressure of limited weather
windows, availability of working vessels—in some cases makeshift equipment—and back-to-back–to-back
dives, the team struggled forward.

Certainly the mathematics of the barrier net’s design was of paramount importance,
but no amount of immaculate engineering could replace the dedication of Mighty Mo
to effect its installation in the predictably unpredictable conditions. This crew
of Marine Operations personnel had been through hell and back, compliments of Klettsvik’s
vile temper. More than anyone, they truly understood the extreme tests the barrier
net would have to endure. They also took to the task of its installation without pause.
There
was no shortage of the impossible, improbable and downright ludicrous tasks thrown
at the team day, night (mostly night) and amidst the worst of conditions. At times
it seemed Hell Hounds mercilessly terrorized the effort as if we were attempting to
close the gates of hell itself.

Proud or stubborn, perhaps both, Mighty Mo wasted no time on conjecture about whether
the job could be done, only
how
it would be done. They had become so adept at the art of problem solving; not one
of them realized how well they worked through myriad issues facing the installation.
Only a bystander could appreciate the tenacity with which they erected this giant
underwater sail.

Much of the work was made possible from the favorable deck of a commercial catamaran
called the
Hamar
. Her aft deck almost the size of a tennis court, she was well equipped for the task.
Heavy lift davits, wenches and air compressors lined her gunnels in the working area.
The cabin and pilothouse were reminiscent of a well-used machine shop, a grimy luxury
after the team completed long nitrox dives and took the occasional break to thaw their
bones. (Nitrox is a gas mixture of nitrogen and oxygen used to extend dive time, usually
in commercial diving operations.)

Winter water temperatures reached as low as thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit. Even their
dry suits thickly layered underneath could not resist the sieging cold for long. Each
of the Mighty Mo team members took his turn, each pushing himself too far. No one
wanted to be “that guy,” even though the weight heaped on his shoulders was far from
reasonable. The deadness of cold seeped into their bodies so slowly, so surely, that
when their hands stopped bending to their will, the exposure had already taken its
toll. The core of the body becomes so desperately frigid that it literally takes days
to recover.

Such were the ongoing conditions throughout the installation of the barrier net. Affixing
the net to the rock walls and sea floor was finally completed in early February 2000,
but the barrier was not yet functional. Much like the construction of a building or
house,
the big work completed left behind a tedious list of finishing touches.

The surface line of the net spanning almost 800 feet across the bay had to have a
visual barrier above the surface. This meager addition announced the presence of the
net to unsuspecting boat traffic. As importantly, it would deter Keiko from pushing
the top line down and swimming over the net, a skill he had learned long ago. Another
significant modification, authorized boats needed to be able to traverse the net for
passage to the bay pen and the almost daily task of bay pen maintenance. The solution
involved a boat gate consisting of several solid foam core cylinders conjoined at
each end with eyebolts. Their centers spun on an axis, thus permitting boats to power
up and over the buoyant black Caterpillar gate, as they gently rolled beneath conveying
a rather peculiar waterborne “speed bump.”

Over the course of the barrier net’s existence, this boat gate would hold up marvelously,
working almost to perfection. But not every boat in our collection was fit for the
crossing. Mastering the entrance to the bay in the smaller and lighter
Sili
, equipped with a single outboard motor, was a spectacle to observe. Getting it right
required an exact amount of ramming speed timed with lifting the prop clear of the
water just before hitting the boat gate. Too little momentum and the boat ran aground
on the black cylinders, bow down and prop impotently clear of the water. In weather,
this routine was at times welcome entertainment for spectators on the bay pen awaiting
their replacements (and no less so for Keiko).

By mid-February, the barrier net had become a reality. What would come next seeped
into the consciousness of every soul on-site with finality. Expanding operations to
Klettsvik itself constituted the most significant step toward release since Keiko’s
move to Iceland more than a year and a half earlier. No one had stopped long enough
to absorb what the barrier net represented, so lost were we all in the hectic battle
to accomplish the impossible. Returning staff were immediately taken by the sight
of it, but more so by the way it defined the bay. The enormity of the
new enclosure seemed staggering, its breadth and width dwarfing the bay pen and balancing
what was previously so inadequate amidst the overreaching heights of the sheer rock
walls surrounding Klettsvik.

The achievement breathed new life into Keiko’s rehabilitation and the release team.
People were starting to believe in each other. The culmination of Keiko’s day-to-day
progression combined with conquering the closure of the bay was an awakening. In the
simplest form, there was a solid release plan, and we had proven unwavering in our
pursuit of that plan. Our emergence into Klettsvik Bay marked the beginning of Phase
II and a release plan taking explicit form.

In the background of activity surrounding the barrier net installation, the Behavior
Team began the first steps of live-fish conditioning. At first, the goal was merely
to confirm Keiko’s willingness to eat live fish. Thereafter, we planned to incorporate
live fish into his diet on a random schedule. Contrary to popular belief at the time,
we had no intention of transitioning to a complete diet of live fish, or even providing
it with any regularity. The topic had long been debated within the release effort.
Some equated Keiko’s eating of live fish with survival, a singular assurance that
he could exist on his own.

Robin and I hummed to a different tune. Killer whales, like many other socially complex
mammals, forage and eat cooperatively. The aspect of eating live fish was to us nothing
more than a novelty that had to be introduced and rehearsed until it became a familiar
part of Keiko’s life. We argued, somewhat emphatically, that successful integration
with other whales would introduce the opportunity to forage; that observational learning
would prevail; and that Keiko need only have experienced the odd feel and texture
of many types of live fish beforehand. Regardless, the idea of live fish as the be-all,
end-all criteria for release never fully disappeared from the conversation. This particular
component of
survival had been so overplayed in the media that the organizations responsible could
not avoid the ranking question.

Never one for being shy in sharing my opinions, I challenged the FWKF’s decree that
eating live fish was a decisive factor in Keiko’s survival. I called into question
the folklore that Keiko had eaten live fish in Oregon and again early after his arrival
in Iceland. Based on everything I had seen and knew of Keiko, his disposition, the
trials we ran, and stories abundantly offered by the original staff, I knew the prospect
that Keiko had hunted down and devoured live fish was highly exaggerated and done
so to satisfy donors (or as likely to dispel detractors). It’s one thing to eat a
disoriented and lethargic fish and entirely another to chase down a dinner that has
its own ideas on survival. The distinction of how
live
the live fish actually were was never expounded on in the public arena.

On one occasion, I was assigned by Charles to do an interview for CNN Europe. The
suggestion was made that I answer the inevitable question affirmatively, that Keiko
was indeed eating live fish. During the actual interview, I sidestepped the issue
providing more explanation of the unimportance than any direct confirmation on the
subject. It was the last interview in which I was asked to participate.

After extensive over-planning, we finally had a means to keep fish alive on the bay
pen and a source to provide the sacrificial haddock, cod or pollock with regularity.
Initially we introduced the “not-so-live” fresh fish at the expected time of reinforcement
when Keiko normally received thawed herring. After he ate the new fish he immediately
received his familiar diet, thus reinforcing the new food type. Gradually, we left
the live fish more and more lively, exercising our skill in variable levels of fish
stunning with a rubber mallet. It was an imprecise method at best. More than a few
foggy fish made a fast getaway when plopped unceremoniously into the bay next to the
giant predator. Keiko eventually convinced me that he was willing and capable of eating
the wiggly fish, but he never exhibited a predatory response, even when given ample
opportunity. He preferred his haddock lightly stunned.