Killing Keiko (5 page)

Following a week of debate on the issues surrounding the infamous release, Robin and
I agreed that he should at least visit the project and find out more. By mid-February
1999, he accepted the invitation. The Free Willy/Keiko Foundation (FWKF) flew Robin
to Iceland to meet with project leads, evaluate Keiko and the people closest to the
reintroduction effort, and learn as much about the project and the people as seven
short days would allow.

Our primary concern at that time was deciphering the organization in charge. In other
words, who was “behind the curtain,” and what were the stated and unstated motives?
We needed to know that life and death decisions would be made with Keiko’s best interests
at heart, even if those decisions eventually conflicted with what the organization
had sold to the public. Like any undertaking that costs
money, raising it requires a clear goal, marketing and a return on investment. This
project was funded by private wealth and children’s piggy banks from across America
and Europe.

We knew quite clearly what the public and private donors had been spoon-fed, which
was nothing short of a convoluted Hollywood version of life. We knew promises had
been made and reputations were on the line. What we didn’t know was how the people
at the helm would respond if Keiko didn’t make the cut. After all, the movie
Free Willy
convinced the world that releasing a whale was as easy as plopping it in the open
ocean.

Robin and I understood rather well who some of the more colorful characters were on
the project’s board of directors. These were the quintessential antagonistic animal-rights
activists that were famous for shockingly crass and ignorant statements, even outright
lies, about zoos, animals and individuals. By their actions or their words, these
were not rational people; nor did they advocate moderation or collaboration. Their
ilk were notorious for statements such as, “The life of an ant and that of my child
should be granted equal consideration,” and, “Phasing out the human race will solve
every problem on earth, social and environmental.”

These specific groups that had come to manage Keiko’s release represented the antithesis
of the zoological community. It was clear that association with this project would
constitute a defection from many respected relationships in our profession. Still,
we had vowed to cross these boundaries, not to employ the same tired and hostile political
strategies in dealing with them, nor allow such barriers to prevail at the expense
of an animal we had the opportunity to help. Throughout Robin’s first visit and our
distanced communication, we toiled with the makeup of the organizations behind the
project, but our exchange always gravitated toward a solution. Even if neither of
us would outright admit it yet, we both wanted to tackle the challenges facing this
project.

At the heart of the issue, Robin and I felt we were different. We thought, perhaps
foolishly and maybe idealistically, that we could
be collaborative. To some degree we welcomed the challenge to educate and hopefully
bridge the gap in philosophies that had created the Keiko Release Project.

Above all else, our primary concern was that Keiko’s best interest would be the priority.
Assuming a focus on Keiko and his needs could be verified and the basis for sound
decision-making entrusted largely to us, Robin and I were convinced that we could
much improve Keiko’s chances of success.

Although the usual suspects in the fanatical faction of the animal rights movement
were definitely involved in the Keiko Release Project, fortunately they were contained
at the board level or stayed on the periphery of the project, well away from Klettsvik
Bay, Iceland. Ironically or poetically, people with a zoological background were the
frontline running the operation. Surreal in many ways, they had employed the very
people they campaigned against in order to facilitate Keiko’s release to the wild.

This was true from the start, including Keiko’s first journey from Mexico to Newport,
Oregon, throughout his care there and onto his transport to Iceland. Keiko was constantly
under the supervision of individuals from the zoological community. This was very
odd and always stood out to me like a huge elephant in the room; one that no one dared
discuss openly.

At the time of our initial contact with the project, the actual personnel attending
to Keiko’s day-to-day care in Iceland were individuals with whom Robin had worked
in the past—namely Jeff Foster and Peter Noah, the two on-site project managers. Jeff
and Peter both shared an animal background not unlike that of Robin’s and mine. They
were not raised in the culture of anti-captivity supporters and were therefore down-to-earth
in their approach to the project and us.

Their way of thinking about Keiko’s release was based on their experience, not a philosophy.
Jeff and Peter’s leadership stemmed the radical tide, and to a certain extent, made
the project palatable. Ultimately, the people and the perspective emanating from the
frontlines with Keiko made our decision for us.

Upon Robin’s return to Orlando following his initial visit, Dave and I commenced lengthy
and relentless interrogation. Dave was our third in the “three amigos” makeup of our
new company. He shared a similar background with me, having worked with killer whales
and studied behavioral sciences. It was our job to take what Robin reported—his evaluations
and opinions—and put all of this into a reintroduction outline and formal proposal,
a plan deeply rooted in behavioral rehabilitation or the systematic reprogramming
of Keiko.

Once completed, this proposal was presented to Ocean Futures Society (OFS), a newly
formed nonprofit born of a joint alliance between the Jean-Michel Cousteau Institute
and the FWKF. OFS was the front line in the management of Keiko’s day-to-day needs;
however, they answered to the FWKF board on all things “Keiko.” Our proposal represented
a vast divergence from their previous approach and placed the principal focus of Keiko’s
release on behavioral modification. It also positioned our company as subcontractor
to OFS for implementing the plan.

Apparently OFS found some favor in our outlined plan of reintroduction, but exactly
what I do not know. To our dismay, the project’s head veterinarian, Dr. Lanny Cornell
and the board of directors did not consider that
behavior
had anything to do with Keiko’s preparation for release. This shortcoming left a
cataclysmic gap in their concept of Keiko’s introduction to the wild. Amidst all the
management inadequacies apparent thus far, including lack of experience with killer
whales and the absence of a structured release plan, this was the Grand Canyon of
them all. They blatantly failed to recognize or even consider the impact of Keiko’s
life over the past two decades and his learning history. Quite simply, they believed
that Keiko would “figure it out.” Much like the flatbed trailer scene in
Free Willy
, in which Willy was backed into the sea from a boat ramp, the leadership of the FWKF
believed Keiko’s release was primarily logistics, just getting him to Icelandic waters.

Dr. Cornell had formerly been SeaWorld’s head veterinarian in the 1970s and ‘80s;
the only individual early in the project with any killer whale zoological experience
worth noting. Lanny, however, was a veterinarian. While trained and studied in marine
mammal medicine, he knew very little about shaping behavior. It was a classic case
of Maslow’s hammer: “If all you have is a hammer, then everything is a nail.” Our
experiences with Lanny in the past attested to his approach: behavior was treated
with drugs, not conditioning, and behavioral science was fool’s play. In fact, the
project’s staff at that time referred to much of Lanny’s direction as “voodoo science.”

To say Lanny is well known for his loathing of animal trainers would be an understatement.
In his previous career at the helm of SeaWorld veterinary care, he was also known
as a bit of a bully. Sadly, there had been no shortage of stories recounting his notorious
intimidation tactics.

This sordid history left no question in our minds that Dr. Cornell had played an enormous
part in dismissing behavior as having any relevance in Keiko’s rehabilitation. Early
on, we often pondered the apparent discrepancy,
Why then had Lanny been the very person to invite Robin’s involvement?
More than a decade had passed since the two had worked together. It’s most likely
that Lanny was oblivious of Robin’s professional evolution, which had brought about
a very different attitude on the subject of behavioral science. In fact, Robin had
come to consider behavior a critical foundation in the care of marine mammals, most
especially one such as Keiko.

Even so, despite the heavy focus on behavior at the heart of our proposal, something
about our outlined reintroduction plan provided an opening. As a result, and to our
surprise, Robin was requested to return to Iceland in March, this time for a thirty-five-day
tour. On this visit he would become actively involved in privileged day-to-day operations,
notwithstanding the lack of any formal engagement. We had multiple exchanges during
his first two weeks back, mostly concerning Keiko, Robin’s observations,
changes he made to daily interactions and his overall assessment of the operation.

Although Robin didn’t specialize in behavioral science, he was adept at evaluating
and recognizing effective and ineffective applications and describing the need for
behavioral modification. Over the course of his second tour in Iceland, he was able,
through example and education, to convince the decision makers that additional behavioral
skill sets were desperately needed. By April, I received an itinerary for my first
tour to Iceland. Robin had convinced OFS to fly Dave and me to the Vestmannaeyjar
project site. Due to other demands on our schedule, I was to go first, and Dave would
join us a week later.

Map of Vestmannaeyjar showing the location of Keiko’s bay pen
.

I once read that to truly experience Iceland, all one needed to do was to sit inside
a walk-in freezer with coffee and a newspaper while burning a one hundred dollar bill.
There is much more to Iceland than this spiteful commentary lends, though it is not
entirely without justification.

Arriving into Iceland by commercial jet requires little effort to imagine what astronauts
must witness on a lunar landing. The Keflavik International Airport is about an hour’s
drive southwest of the capital city of Reykjavik (ray-ka-vik). Flights originating
from the United States arrive in the early morning, just as the sun crests the horizon.
Coming in on final approach, there is nothing but volcanic rock as far as the eye
can see. There are no trees, not many buildings to speak of and no color, not even
the white of snow.

Keflavik is surrounded by pulverized black volcanic rock, slightly larger than gravel.
Like many parts of Iceland, the area is frequently subjected to high winds, winds
that single-handedly challenge all forms of vertical existence leaving behind a harsh
and uninviting landscape. I would soon discover that the winds around Keflavik were
only a mild introduction to the North Atlantic.

The Keiko Project was located in a small island chain southwest of the mainland referred
to by foreigners as the Westman Islands or better known to locals as Vestmannaeyjar
(vest-man-air). Keiko’s base of operations was located on Heimaey (hi-may), the largest
and only inhabited island in the fifteen- to eighteen-island chain. There are only
two ways to get to Heimaey: by ferry or small plane. Both
terminals are located near Reykjavik and require a very expensive one-hour cab ride
from the international airport.

Weather permitting, the preference was to catch the twenty-five-minute flight to Heimaey
onboard a nineteen-seat turboprop commuter plane. Otherwise the only remaining alternative
was the four-hour ride to the small island aboard the Eimskip ferry.

Unfortunately, when the commuter flight wasn’t flying it was usually due to severe
weather conditions (a fairly common occurrence). This also meant the ferry crossing
would be on par with Disney’s “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride,” with the rough seas tossing
the ferry like a toy in a bathtub. As luck would have it on this maiden voyage, weather
and schedules were on my side—I made the commuter flight to the island. Nevertheless,
throughout the remainder of my involvement in the project I would get to know the
ferry quite well.

I arrived in Heimaey at noon on April 27, 1999. My first dose of Icelandic adrenaline
came on the small plane’s turbulent landing. I am not a fearful flyer, but nothing
about this approach was reminiscent of any landing I had experienced before, even
in the smallest of planes. It just so happened that the runway, positioned in line
with the prevailing winds, was not in line with the prevailing winds this particular
day. The pilot had to approach the runway into the wind and almost perpendicular to
the short landing strip, accentuated by sheer drops on both ends. At roughly 250 feet
or so above the runway, the pilot spasmodically pitched the plane hard to port and
dove toward the ground. Immediately, I was looking out my window and could see nothing
but asphalt. I might have lost everything in my system, had there been anything in
it. As fortune would have it, I don’t eat when traveling, a complementary quirk that
has served me well.