Killing Keiko (33 page)

What I did not know that night, I soon learned through ongoing review with Stephen,
Tracy and Brian. The blue raft in Newport was more central to the behavior than I
had realized. Although this discovery was relevant, it didn’t change our approach.
It just meant that it would be harder to extinguish than I anticipated. Keiko wasn’t
just hitting the boat out of frustration born of predictability in his walks; it was
a long-standing behavior that had been part of a game in his Oregon facility. The
object of the game for Keiko was to knock his trainers off the raft, often completely
capsizing the boat-like toy.

When an existing behavior, such as knocking the blue raft, or in this case the
Draupnir
(guilty by generalization), is directly rewarded, and rewarded in a variety of ways,
that behavior doesn’t just go away when it is no longer reinforced. Before it completely
goes away, it increases in frequency and intensity. This effect is called “extinction
burst.” I did not offer this information to many
of the staff. I knew it would only reignite the fires of hasty quick-fix solutions,
all of which would actually lead to the exact opposite result. Determined to see it
through, I knew I needed to be glued to every walk session and diligently work to
countercondition behavior other than hitting the boat as deftly as I could possibly
manage.

Under the dictates of release, much of what defined Keiko during his eighteen years
with humans would have to be forgotten or replaced. As the project wore on, the use
of DRA became a fundamental cornerstone to achieving the impossible. This translated
to presenting reinforcement for almost any behavior that was “other than” or incompatible
with Keiko’s sedentary behavior or seeking human attention.

The immense sphere of influence over Keiko’s behavior grew each day and with it the
team’s responsibility to govern those influences seamlessly. Life in the bay represented
the first “dress rehearsal” for transition to the open ocean. Everything we did in
Phase II was setting the stage to prepare Keiko for the grand step. We had to think
about not only what types of behavior we wanted to encourage and what we wanted to
reduce, but also every possible persuasion that Keiko was subjected to at any given
time.

The results were remarkable. After a relatively short period focusing on the formidable
principles of learning, Keiko began showing signs of becoming an independent animal.
He also literally never stopped swimming. There were times that we were unsure whether
or not this was entirely healthy. Unless a storm drove him to float on the leeward
side of the bay pen where he was shielded from the current, he never stopped moving.
No doubt this activity level certainly pushed his stamina to new heights, but it could
also introduce harmful stress.

We expanded our criterion, looking for inventiveness displayed by Keiko; things beyond
simply moving. This could be rubbing on rocks that crept out from the cliff’s footing
or the inquisitive
following of nervous birds on the water’s surface. Provided that Keiko was not seeking
us or watching the passage of boats and, of course, that he was not altogether sedentary,
almost anything could be targeted by the HDS cannon.

Soon Keiko showed little to no interest in our whereabouts. He seldom paid heed to
boats in or out of the bay. He often disappeared for five minutes or more beneath
the surface close to the eastern rock walls. We never discovered exactly what he was
doing, but whatever it was, it wasn’t seeking human attention. Remarkable as the results
were, the changes in Keiko were still far removed from a whale capable of survival
on his own. It was one thing to produce these changes in Keiko within the context
and confines of the bay and entirely another to transfer the new Keiko to a completely
foreign world, one without the benefit of our involvement.

Throughout Keiko’s life he was taught to follow. In another time and place he might
constitute the world’s best employee, ever dependable in following precise direction.
However, we needed Keiko to learn to take initiative. More, we needed that initiative
to become a permanent change in his life. The latter part of this equation speaks
to the importance of “reinforcement schedules.”

Schedules are the key ingredient in producing lasting changes in behavior. The interval,
ratio, and variability of reinforcement can produce sustainable change, create unwanted
dependency or completely eradicate a particular behavior. Like many advanced areas
of science, the particulars of this process are enough to give one a nosebleed. Suffice
it to say, in the later stages of Keiko’s preparation for a life of independence,
the careful management of how and when he received reinforcement consumed our every
thought. If the independence we were seeking to shape didn’t transfer to his new world,
Keiko wouldn’t have the slimmest chance of survival.

Imagine a child learning to keep his room clean. Mom or Dad can offer the child a
reward each time he cleans his room. However, stopping at this step in the process
only makes the child
expect a reward each time he cleans his room. As soon as that reward is no longer
offered, he quickly reverts to sloppiness. In order to establish the act of cleaning
his room as a self-sustained change, the circumstance of having a clean room must
become reinforcing “in and of itself.” Initially, that child is rewarded each time
he cleans his room. Next the rewards become variable and intermittent, but each reward
is preceded with positive activities in the clean room. Over time, the “clean room”
itself becomes the reward, and the child “feels good” about having a clean room. The
state of having a clean room is intrinsically rewarding, and the behavior of keeping
it clean becomes a long-term change in the child.

In Keiko’s case, the “clean room” was staying in the open ocean with or near wild
whales. We needed to make this environment “intrinsically” reinforcing for Keiko.
If only it were that simple. Bound by the ethical responsibility not to deliberately
interfere with or influence the wild whales, we could not directly reinforce the whales
or Keiko when in their presence. However, we could “clear the mechanism.” We could
minimize the value of Klettsvik Bay in Keiko’s world and create a desire for stimulation
that we hoped might be fulfilled by his wild cousins.

We prepared for this as early as May 1999, when we began reducing the amount and variety
of stimulation in Keiko’s life inside the bay. In effect, we systematically made his
day-to-day world in the care of man sustaining, but boring. In fact, it was downright
solitary confinement. Certainly the transition from the bay pen to the expanse of
the bay initially offered Keiko some rather interesting adventures. But eventually
the novelty of the bay was lost, and it became just as static as any form of containment
where variety and stimulation are no longer supplemented by his human caregivers.
This absence of variety in Keiko’s life effectively created an enormous hole that
theoretically “wanted” to be filled.

I always referred to the months approaching summer as “the mean season.” By design,
it was a period empty of the traditional things Keiko was lifelong dependent upon
for daily stimulation.
This period was difficult for the staff as well, so long accustomed to varied and
playful interactions with Keiko. Distancing ourselves from that which we adored, for
the sake of his survival, though understood, ran afoul of our natural inclinations.
For some, whose understanding of the process fell short, it was downright mean. As
the staff struggled with letting go, Keiko himself became indifferent.

If finalizing the permit for release was the only outstanding item required to begin
voyages to the open ocean, life would have been grand. As it was, multiple pieces
of the puzzle remained unfinished. We were not yet ready to leave the bay halfway
house. Boats were not fully equipped, at least not to the standards Michael required,
and no one would question Michael’s tedious demands on maritime preparedness. Bay
pen and barrier net maintenance faithfully consumed their share of time, and of course
the challenges of managing Keiko’s needs and navigating through conflicting activity
surrounding him were never-ending tasks.

Nevertheless, we had done our job well … too well. Keiko moved ceaselessly. In fact,
at times it seemed the only thing that might stop him was a heart attack. Again we
adjusted our focus, but the delicate balance teetered from one aberrant behavior to
the next. It was like trying to steer a jet at Mach II with only a rearview mirror.

In the middle of our efforts to navigate this deprived state, one thing was clear;
Keiko’s inward struggle was just beginning. His world was upside down. Those things
that had always yielded human affection and attention no longer produced the expected
result. Everything he had known was now elusive at best, at worst, absent any form
of acknowledgment. What feedback could be resolved in his new world was detached and
uncertain. The bay itself offered little to the benefit of living things. No warmth,
no acceptance, not even recognition. The distance between Keiko and the world around
him was palpable. We had sought to create a void. That much we did, and the success
of it was hard to endure.

As Icelandic daylight steadily stretched to its zenith, the world’s most famous whale
began to transform. In the staff’s relatively short time with Keiko, he had been known
for his playful and affectionate nature. Here, after less than three months into Phase
II, neither his disposition nor his physical appearance represented the Keiko they
once knew. His morbidly obese body became lean and muscular. The characteristic floppy
dorsal fin, which previously laid over and rested against his body now twisted into
a half corkscrew pulled upward and away by the constancy of his movement. His friendly
curiosity in anything human was replaced with cold disinterest.

So stark in contrast was this whale to the famous Keiko, the change was apparent even
to those who had never met him. On one such occasion, my wife, Alyssa, traveled to
Vestmannaeyjar. Nearing summer and the prospect of open ocean exposure, my rotations
on-site were increasing, and the only way we could see each other was for her to come
to me. Less than thirty-six hours before her arrival on the island she had been working
with eight other killer whales at SeaWorld of Florida. I was looking forward to her
contrasting assessment.

Tilikum was over twenty-two feet in length and weighed in at nearly 11,000 pounds.
Like Keiko, he had come from Icelandic waters. Collected around the same time the
two males were also very close in age. Unlike Keiko, Tilikum had been in the company
of other killer whales throughout his entire life with man. Further delineating the
two, Tilikum had killed before. Subjected to subpar training methods and unrehearsed
in the etiquette of whale and human water interaction, Tilikum had drowned a trainer
in his pool at Sealand of the Pacific in Victoria, British Columbia. Barely a year
after the death he was acquired by SeaWorld and moved to its Orlando park. Alyssa
worked with the infamous whale daily.

Known as “Tili” by his immediate trainers, he was a very dangerous animal. Not because
he was inherently aggressive
by nature, but because he was exactly the opposite. Much like Keiko, Tili was approachable.
In fact it could be said his disposition was friendly. But knowing his history, no
one judged this whale by his cover. Perhaps most frightening was the fact that Tili
had never learned how to treat humans in the water, something taught to almost every
killer whale in the care of man at a very early age. This missing link, a haunting
attribute for any killer whale, was multiplied by his sheer size, notably larger than
Keiko. But this alone was not the only ill-fated trait that lent to a menacing state
of affairs regarding Tilikum.

In his adolescent years, his trainers had inadvertently mis-handled the use of toys
in his environment, namely their retrieval. As a result, Tili became violently possessive
of any object that entered his domain. Tilikum’s abrupt Jekyll and Hyde posture apparent
when he seized the occasional barrel or rope toy sent chills down the spine.

In other ways Tilikum was very much a typical bull killer whale. He learned quickly,
displayed the usual overzealous interest in females and was remiss of intimidation.
The only element in Tilikum’s world that gave him pause was the dominant alpha female
in the social group of whales.

These characteristics defined an animal that required tireless concentration from
those that worked with and around him. This was the bull killer against which Alyssa
would involuntarily measure Keiko.

She arrived to the island of Heimaey in the afternoon. Having made the trek from Keflavik
to the small local airport in Reykjavik and on this one fortunate occasion, weather
on her side, she was spared the wild ferry ride in favor of the commuter flight. Expecting
to transition into open ocean work soon, we had held back the full complement of staff.
Our ranks were unusually thin. Nonetheless, I managed to get off the pen in time to
pick her up at the island airport.

Alyssa is always smiling. More than just a mouthy grin, she smiles with her eyes,
in fact, with her whole being. This brilliant
expression always warms my soul. It was her smile that had me spellbound when we first
met and the same one with which she now greeted me on Heimaey. Clad in her winter
apparel, her long dark hair pouring down over her turtleneck sweater, I was restored
by the sight of her as she walked across the tarmac from the small plane.

Alyssa is a striking woman. A quality of her Eastern-Bloc ancestry, she is a strong
woman. She can handle herself alongside any man of like size. Just as easily she can
waltz with elegance at a formal banquet; the mannerisms and bearing of a true lady.
I had far exceeded my station in wedding such a partner. Stunning by any measure,
she did not lack choice. Yet I was ever confident in the union. Defying any disproportion
in physical appeal, it was our friendship that bound the two of us. In our past we
had proven to be a powerful team, she, the finisher and I, the starter. We complemented
each other in both life and work. I found myself wishing more than anything that she
could be at my side deciphering each challenge and fulfilling the epic task at hand.