Killing Keiko (38 page)

“What’d I tell you? See, you need me here to keep you from going crazy.”

“You’re the one that makes me crazy.”

Our verbal joust was evidence of a relaxing posture onboard the
Draupnir
. Amidst our exchange, we heard the familiar call of the gate and watched as Blair
and Dane pulled the guillotine gate back into closed position, tying off the leads
when they were done. Keiko didn’t so much as cast a glance in the direction of the
rattling gate.

“
Sili
—Bay Pen. Gate secured.”

“Affirmative,
Sili
. Thanks,” Tom replied from the pen.

“Michael, let’s move the
Draupnir
inside,” Robin voiced. Then from the radio,
“Draupnir
—Bay Pen, we’re coming over the boat gate. Inside the bay we’ll do a short walk once
or twice around the pen and call it a day.”

“Copy that,
Draupnir,”
crackled back over the radio.

We concluded the approximation with a routine walk within the bay. This time we delivered
the majority of Keiko’s primary reinforcement—food—back in the bay enclosure. For
now, it was important that we insure his reliable return. In the very near future,
this balance would deliberately be reversed.

The dry run had gone almost perfectly. From Charles down, we were full of ourselves
at the success of the day’s trial. At least for this one brief night we would not
have a care in the world. That evening, the red wine flowed in abundance.

As the saying goes, “Time flies when you’re having fun.” It’s even faster when bookended
by mounting pressures and looming deadlines. Our short night of celebration quickly
faded to a fleeting memory. The following day we had much to prepare for the full-scale
walk to sea. Blasting in the harbor was set to take place in less than thirty-six
hours. The next walk was not a rehearsal. We would go much farther than the mouth
of the channel and be at sea for an unknown length of time. It was one thing to circle
around within the shipping lane and another entirely to circumnavigate the island.
Literally and figuratively, the farther we got from the relatively predictable bay,
the more variables we could encounter. Any concern over Keiko was upstaged by apprehension
of third-party vessels, weather and currents. Added to these somewhat unmanageable
variables was the overriding directive to not expose Keiko to other killer whales.

May marked the beginning of the seasonal presence of many black-and-whites in and
around the chain of islands, and no one knew how far away from other whales was far
enough. It would take all of our man power and constant communication to ensure that
we didn’t stumble unexpectedly into a pod of orca as we rounded Heimaey away from
the blasting site.

May 25, 2000: Weather continued to hold in our favor. Shortly after first light, everyone
met at the harbor. A few were clinging to their morning coffee mugs to warm their
hands. Others were fast at work transporting pelican cases. And our tired little red
truck was making busy trips to and from the hotel and the fish warehouse. The uncharacteristic
early morning hustle and bustle of loading boats, delegating assignments and last-minute
checks created an atmosphere uncommon on the project.

Stubbornly, the inspired vision of Keiko swimming off at his first chance of escape
lingered. The unspoken insinuation was tangibly evident by the determined resolve
to document every element of the day, and more so, by sentimental reflections and
bold wagers shared in hushed sidebar conversations. Dispelling
everything that had preceded this bold new day in the project, some scant few still
believed more in the Hollywood adaptation than that of the storied life which lay
before them.

It was 0830 hours: The
Sili
set out of the harbor first. She would transport Brian and Tom to the bay pen, then
exit the bay and assume her position on the barrier gate as she had done just two
days before. Next out was
Heppin
, piloted by Greg and crewed by Smari, our fearless Icelandic head of security. Any
third-party interference at sea was his responsibility.

Onboard
Draupnir
, packed to the gills, were Robin, myself, Tracy, Charles, Jeff, Jen and Michael.
Keiko’s food for the day occupied almost the entire aft deck space, crowded around
the engine compartment in several well-iced buckets. Outside of the amidships cabin,
the aft deck constituted the driest portion of the boat. Emptied “pelican” cases left
from camera and recording gear were nestled inside the pilothouse and on the foredeck.
Navigating the length of the
Draupnir
was made possible only by walking on her sponson while gripping the pilothouse, lest
we be thrown overboard in the pronounced pitching of the boat while at sea. No matter
the weather, this was the North Atlantic and her vast depths translated into a highly
articulate surface even in the best of conditions.

Except for Charles and Michael, everyone wore his customary splash suit or Mustang
survival suit, the only attire that would keep a person alive long enough to be rescued
from the frigid waters. The bright yellow or bright orange of the survival gear bespeckled
the decks of each craft, granting a semiformal appearance to the nonuniform flotilla
of vessels making up the walk-formation.

Siti, his father and Ingunn comprised our land-based lookouts, filling the waterborne
gaps in communication. Their primary responsibility was to spot killer whale pods
in the vicinity of Vestmannaeyjar and relay their location and heading to the
Draupnir
. They would also provide cell phone backup if by chance the walk formation was out
of marine radio range from the island base.

Finally, perhaps the most anticlimactic yet vital position in the chain of responsibility
was standing alongside the harbormaster and coordinating the exact moment of the blasting.
This duty was entrusted to the wise and reliable diplomacy of Gummi. The plan did
not stop short of distance alone. Taking no chance, we would ask Keiko to spyhop at
the instant of the blast to doubly ensure that the event would not spook the Big Man
while so far from our base sanctuary. Gummi had to communicate that moment with precision.

Identical in form and function, we began Keiko’s first adventure to his home waters
just as we had rehearsed two days prior, only this time we did not stop at the mouth
of the channel.
Heppin
was our scout, ensuring the way forward was clear of shipping traffic and/or killer
whales. She advanced out of the channel and immediately turned to port on a north-northeast
heading, roughly a half nautical mile off our bow. The
Draupnir
, with Keiko in step, emerged from Klettsvik next, crossing the disorganized chop
at the top of the channel. After securing the gateway and picking up the bay pen crew,
Sili
brought up the rear of the formation. The least seaworthy of all the boats, the
Sili
would be an exhausting ride for her passengers.

As we rounded the northern most point of Heimaey, the waves turned to a following
sea that slightly outpaced the
Draupnir
, the distance between the peak and valley of each almost twelve feet. Without skipping
a beat, Keiko moved out, away and clear of the
Draupnir’s
lee, riding the sizable swells on each downward run.

From my position on the platform, I had the most remarkable view of Keiko’s first
foray in the wild blue yonder. Immediately a natural, he swam with the current on
the rise of the swell, then placing his flukes in an upward position, sailed effortlessly
down the other side. The vision was surreal. Within the vastness of the clear surface
and deep blue depths beneath, Keiko was again dwarfed by his surroundings. Watching
him on the waves, more proficient at each repetition, our charge looked as if a child
on his first playground slides.

“That’s unbelievable. He’s totally riding the waves!” I exclaimed to anyone within
earshot.

“Man, you gotta love that. He looks right at home,” Michael added through the open
porthole of the pilothouse. “Look at him.”

Peering over his shoulder up at the crow’s nest, Jeff asked, “Jen, are you getting
this?”

“Yep, although it’s going to be nauseating to watch,” she replied as she tried to
steady herself and thus the helmet-mounted camera. In her position atop the pilothouse,
the fore-and-aft pitch of the
Draupnir
was greatly exaggerated.

In the background, Michael radioed to the support boats, describing the scene for
their mutual benefit. The engine pitch of the walk-boat vacillated between the uphill
effort followed by a downhill idle as she navigated atop each passing swell. Keeping
her on a straight line was not easy, as the following seas continually attempted to
turn her broadside to the waves.

Turning further to port, we steadily made our way to a more northwesterly heading,
staying only roughly half of a kilometer from shore. At this, the swells breaking
around the eastern extents of the island laid back down, the following current gradually
faded to a minor chop in the northern lee of Heimaey. Keiko then had to work to stay
abreast of the walk-boat.

Thus far, we were holding about four to five knots. As the walk turned from wave-riding
enrichment to slogging exertion, Keiko slowed and repeatedly gravitated to the underside
of his man-made escort. Here he could ride the
Draupnir’s
slipstream created by the hull pushing through the water. This would not do. If he
were to survive the open ocean, he would not have a crutch by which to traverse the
grand distances required for survival.

“Robin, can you reach the target pole?” I asked, my free hand outstretched in anticipation.
“I’m going to reposition him, keep him about ten feet from the side where he can’t
cheat off the boat.”

“Let me know when you want me to toss fish,” Robin relayed. He knew I would not be
able to simultaneously work the target, hold on to the platform’s topline, and toss
food to Keiko.

“Okay, on the first bridge for sure, then I’ll stretch it out. We’ve got a long ways
to go.”

At the prompting request of the target, Keiko obediently shifted position and touched
the small buoy with his rostrum. The achievement was not made easy by my clumsy effort
to hold the target steady between the chop and the awkward pitching of the platform.
I bridged, and Robin immediately tossed a herring about six feet in front of Keiko.
He completely ignored the herring that swiftly disappeared in our wake.

“Let’s try again. I’ll get the target completely clear before you throw the herring
so he’s not focusing on me.”

On the second attempt Robin threw the herring with more force, causing a better disruption
in the surface when it landed. This one Keiko grabbed.

We carried on this way for the better part of four or five nautical miles. At random
intervals, I prompted Keiko’s position further out from the
Draupnir
, anticipating when he might attempt to ride in her slipstream. Periodically, we’d
provide the occasional herring or two, but mostly we only gave the familiar “thanks”
of the whistle bridge. We needed to save the majority of Keiko’s feast for his return
to Klettsvik. We also learned that a slower pace was more conducive to keeping Keiko
in the proper position off the starboard side of the boat. At lower speeds, there
wasn’t much of a slipstream by which he could take advantage.

Shortly after 1030 hours, over an hour at a steady pace of three to four knots, we
reached the northwestern most point of the island, our plotted destination for the
blast avoidance. The
Draupnir
took up a stationary position but did not assume the neutral stance of encouraging
exploration. This time, we kept Keiko at the platform in preparation for the blast
in Klettsvik.
Heppin
and
Sili
stood off approximately a quarter nautical mile in opposite directions. The crew
of each vessel was intently watching the watery horizon surrounding the vicinity for
other boats or killer whales. So far so good. The water’s surface was calm enough
to make sighting of other marine mammals ideal. Our land-based lookouts spotted
a small pod of wild whales during our trek. Luckily, they had been on a steady northern
heading moving well away from our location.

Charles was on the cell phone, presumably with Gummi, coordinating our readiness and
awaiting the countdown from the harbor master. From the extended platform, I put Keiko
through the paces, requesting a battery of voluntary husbandry behaviors. The exercise
was partly a test of his attentions in the new environment and partly to keep him
focused on me. Not knowing the exact timing of the blast, I needed to keep him close
and ready to engage in the spyhop we had planned.

“One minute,” Charles advised Robin, holding the cell phone to his ear.

At that, I held Keiko close by the platform, his rostrum on the flat palm of my hand,
targeting him in a ready position with his head up and above the surface. This forced
him to move his body into a vertical position.

“Thirty seconds,” Charles continued.

“Count down from ten please,” I requested. It would take me that long to get Keiko
to respond to the target.

“Ten—nine—eight—seven—”

Extending the target out from the side of the boat, I tapped Keiko’s rostrum lightly
and moved the target no more than a foot and a half above his head. The request was
high enough to clear his ears above the surface, but not so high that he couldn’t
hold the position for a sustained few seconds.

“Four—three—two—”

The timing was just right. Keiko responded in coordination with Charles’ relayed count
and rose from the water touching the outstretched target. The brilliant white of his
underside lit up in the sunlight as he reached high enough to bring the top third
of his giant black pecs out of the water. He held the position, undulating his body
to remain in contact with the target, dutifully awaiting the expected whistle bridge
for a job well done.