difference being that
male killer whales I knew would typically eat between 200 and 280 pounds of fish per
day. Killer whales require fewer calories in colder waters. Klettsvik Bay temperatures
hovered around thirty-six degree Fahrenheit during winter months. Frigid water and
Keiko’s reduced activity level meant he didn’t require near the bulk of food I was
accustomed to feeding a whale of his size. Even so, we always took a little more than
Keiko’s set base amount out to the bay pen, inthe event some of the food was dropped or lost in the wind, or if Keiko showed an
unusually strong hunger drive.
With our survival suits pulled down to our waists and the arms tied-off behind our
backs, we crammed into the back of the truck along with the fish buckets and a random
collection of greasy marine gear and engine parts. Our next stop: the staff transport
boat,
Sili
(sea-lee). It was a two-minute ride from the fish house, literally just a few hundred
feet around the other side of the workingman’s harbor.
The
Sili
was small, something you would expect to see on a calm lake in Florida, not the vessel
of choice in transporting equipment and crew in the North Atlantic. She had an aluminum
hull, about twelve to fourteen feet in length with a single outboard motor. Not much
to write home about and overly crowded with even three occupants, but the
Sili
got the job done. On harsh weather days, the
Heppin
would take its place, a much stouter all-weather rescue boat designed expressly to
thrive in Icelandic waters. On this particular morning, my first, all was calm and
welcoming, and the
Sili
fulfilled her role without incident.
Rounding out of the harbor and into the channel, we were greeted by an ever-changing
and inspiring scene. Jagged rock islands, just outside the mouth of the harbor, frame
a distant glacier on the mainland. Defiantly emerging from the ocean’s surface, the
islands look tough, as if they are the last soldiers standing after a centuries-old
battle with the elements. Like the bay, their walls are straight sheer cliffs that
rise up well over 200 feet on all sides, making the island appear as an impenetrable
fortress. Each one is topped with the characteristic Icelandic grass, tall enough
to fall over in mounds, which from the distance appear more like an irregularly shaped
surface covered in a thickening wet moss.
On the milder days, birds dominate the sky above Klettsvik and speckle the mossy grass,
like salt sprinkled on green parchment. The sky was filled with birds of all types,
sizes and shapes, and thousands of them, from the largest gulls I’d ever seen to thedistinctive puffin and impressively large (albeit dull-looking) skua, a predatory
seabird that commands its own air space wherever it patrols. All of this airborne
activity gives Klettsvik Bay its own distinctive sound that, often paired with milder
weather, quickly became a welcoming background ensemble.
The glacier, Eyjafjallajökull (don’t even try to pronounce, unless able to vocalize
on an inhale, this name like so many others in the Icelandic language is not within
English vocal means), perched on the mainland over thirty miles in the distance, provided
the backdrop and completed the most amazing commute to work I would ever enjoy. Every
day the same islands framed the glacier, but somehow in the various lighting schemes
experienced that far north, it always looked different. We never failed to be in awe
of the glacier’s beauty.
On my inaugural trip out to the bay pen, we approached the facility from the east.
The norm was to approach from the west. In either case, it depended entirely on the
wind. We always approached the leeward side of the pen whether that was east, west
or north.
The wind owned Klettsvik Bay. Framed by sheer cliffs on three sides and so near the
mouth of the channel, the bay acted as if a giant turbo scoop on the hood of a late
model
male killer whales I knew would typically eat between 200 and 280 pounds of fish per
day. Killer whales require fewer calories in colder waters. Klettsvik Bay temperatures
hovered around thirty-six degree Fahrenheit during winter months. Frigid water and
Keiko’s reduced activity level meant he didn’t require near the bulk of food I was
accustomed to feeding a whale of his size. Even so, we always took a little more than
Keiko’s set base amount out to the bay pen, inthe event some of the food was dropped or lost in the wind, or if Keiko showed an
unusually strong hunger drive.
With our survival suits pulled down to our waists and the arms tied-off behind our
backs, we crammed into the back of the truck along with the fish buckets and a random
collection of greasy marine gear and engine parts. Our next stop: the staff transport
boat,
Sili
(sea-lee). It was a two-minute ride from the fish house, literally just a few hundred
feet around the other side of the workingman’s harbor.
The
Sili
was small, something you would expect to see on a calm lake in Florida, not the vessel
of choice in transporting equipment and crew in the North Atlantic. She had an aluminum
hull, about twelve to fourteen feet in length with a single outboard motor. Not much
to write home about and overly crowded with even three occupants, but the
Sili
got the job done. On harsh weather days, the
Heppin
would take its place, a much stouter all-weather rescue boat designed expressly to
thrive in Icelandic waters. On this particular morning, my first, all was calm and
welcoming, and the
Sili
fulfilled her role without incident.
Rounding out of the harbor and into the channel, we were greeted by an ever-changing
and inspiring scene. Jagged rock islands, just outside the mouth of the harbor, frame
a distant glacier on the mainland. Defiantly emerging from the ocean’s surface, the
islands look tough, as if they are the last soldiers standing after a centuries-old
battle with the elements. Like the bay, their walls are straight sheer cliffs that
rise up well over 200 feet on all sides, making the island appear as an impenetrable
fortress. Each one is topped with the characteristic Icelandic grass, tall enough
to fall over in mounds, which from the distance appear more like an irregularly shaped
surface covered in a thickening wet moss.
On the milder days, birds dominate the sky above Klettsvik and speckle the mossy grass,
like salt sprinkled on green parchment. The sky was filled with birds of all types,
sizes and shapes, and thousands of them, from the largest gulls I’d ever seen to thedistinctive puffin and impressively large (albeit dull-looking) skua, a predatory
seabird that commands its own air space wherever it patrols. All of this airborne
activity gives Klettsvik Bay its own distinctive sound that, often paired with milder
weather, quickly became a welcoming background ensemble.
The glacier, Eyjafjallajökull (don’t even try to pronounce, unless able to vocalize
on an inhale, this name like so many others in the Icelandic language is not within
English vocal means), perched on the mainland over thirty miles in the distance, provided
the backdrop and completed the most amazing commute to work I would ever enjoy. Every
day the same islands framed the glacier, but somehow in the various lighting schemes
experienced that far north, it always looked different. We never failed to be in awe
of the glacier’s beauty.
On my inaugural trip out to the bay pen, we approached the facility from the east.
The norm was to approach from the west. In either case, it depended entirely on the
wind. We always approached the leeward side of the pen whether that was east, west
or north.
The wind owned Klettsvik Bay. Framed by sheer cliffs on three sides and so near the
mouth of the channel, the bay acted as if a giant turbo scoop on the hood of a late
model
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