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Authors: Mark A. Simmons
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muscle car. If it was blowing at eighty knots offshore, Klettsvik Bay funneled
the wind and amped that up to 120 knots sustained with gusts even higher. Not this
day though. This day, my introduction to Klettsvik, it was deceivingly calm.
As we tied off to the bay pen, I could tell it was roughly the size of Shamu Stadium’s
main pool (a pool at SeaWorld Orlando of which I was vastly familiar, nearly 200 feet
long and well over 100 feet wide), different shape, but about the same surface area
for Keiko. My interest in the pen was short-lived. I would get plenty of time to analyze
the structure later. Right then I was singularly focused on seeing Keiko. On the entire
approach to the pen I had been scanning the surface for the familiar round black melon
(or forehead) of a killer whale. The way the bay pen was constructed, muchof the work area was two or more feet above the surface of the water and blocked the
view. We reached the pen, tied up the boat and disembarked. At once I began walking
across the middle bridge when finally I saw him.
The last two years of my life had been school and work. Purposefully intertwined,
the two undertakings had parlayed into the start of a new business. Of great purpose
and without pause, I had buried myself in the pursuit of altruistic possibility, tempered
by equal amounts uncertainty. In this no-man’s land, a by-product of the entrepreneurial
endeavor, I had long felt a certain lack of security, as if my feet were not fully
touching the ground. It was as if at times I couldn’t get the right balance or traction.
Amidst this feeling, enter Iceland and the Keiko Release Project: yet more uncertainty
and now the supplement of vastly foreign surroundings. In the earliest hours of the
morning the feeling is altogether reminiscent of childhood, when perhaps one stays
too long following a sleepover at a friend’s house. All is well, but in idle moments
there is a longing for the security of familiar things.
This is where I was when I first met him. This was the feeling and state of my being
that was so thoroughly vanquished at my first sight of Keiko. The all familiar black
sheen; his movement so efficient and so smooth that barely a ripple escaped on the
surface as he ascended; a recognizable breath that played like music to my ears; and
then his gradual descent again leaving only the serpentine flow of his muscled back
to follow. All this I knew. This I knew well. I immediately felt at home again.
Lesser Things
I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to get my hands on him, see what he was made of … get
a feel for his particular brand of bull killer whale character … look at his eyes.
What did we have to work with here?
I considered the variety of killer whales in my recent past.
Was he most like Kanduke, Kotar or Tilikum? Maybe Taku? Was he mischievous like Taima
or a scary-smart Gudrun? Hopefully he wasn’t a Winnie—that would never fly for a release
.
I had heard so much about Keiko’s history, and studied every available morsel of information.
But what cannot be read in a profile, history book or scientific paper is the kind
of drive an animal has … whether or not the “lights are on.” To be overly anthropomorphic,
was he an extrovert or introvert? Outgoing or antisocial? Inquisitive or indifferent?
All of this and so much more had a critical influence on a project of this nature,
and I wanted to know all of it in one divine moment of enlightenment. Of course this
wasn’t possible, and my impatience would just have to be suffered. It would take time.
Robin and the staff started me off with a tour of the bay pen.
Damn, can’t you just leave me alone? I’m on the brink of a human to whale mind meld
here!
The pen was literally two donuts joined in the middle by a square rig that completed
the necessary deck space for the research shack on one side and the dive equipment
locker on the opposite. The
the wind and amped that up to 120 knots sustained with gusts even higher. Not this
day though. This day, my introduction to Klettsvik, it was deceivingly calm.
As we tied off to the bay pen, I could tell it was roughly the size of Shamu Stadium’s
main pool (a pool at SeaWorld Orlando of which I was vastly familiar, nearly 200 feet
long and well over 100 feet wide), different shape, but about the same surface area
for Keiko. My interest in the pen was short-lived. I would get plenty of time to analyze
the structure later. Right then I was singularly focused on seeing Keiko. On the entire
approach to the pen I had been scanning the surface for the familiar round black melon
(or forehead) of a killer whale. The way the bay pen was constructed, muchof the work area was two or more feet above the surface of the water and blocked the
view. We reached the pen, tied up the boat and disembarked. At once I began walking
across the middle bridge when finally I saw him.
The last two years of my life had been school and work. Purposefully intertwined,
the two undertakings had parlayed into the start of a new business. Of great purpose
and without pause, I had buried myself in the pursuit of altruistic possibility, tempered
by equal amounts uncertainty. In this no-man’s land, a by-product of the entrepreneurial
endeavor, I had long felt a certain lack of security, as if my feet were not fully
touching the ground. It was as if at times I couldn’t get the right balance or traction.
Amidst this feeling, enter Iceland and the Keiko Release Project: yet more uncertainty
and now the supplement of vastly foreign surroundings. In the earliest hours of the
morning the feeling is altogether reminiscent of childhood, when perhaps one stays
too long following a sleepover at a friend’s house. All is well, but in idle moments
there is a longing for the security of familiar things.
This is where I was when I first met him. This was the feeling and state of my being
that was so thoroughly vanquished at my first sight of Keiko. The all familiar black
sheen; his movement so efficient and so smooth that barely a ripple escaped on the
surface as he ascended; a recognizable breath that played like music to my ears; and
then his gradual descent again leaving only the serpentine flow of his muscled back
to follow. All this I knew. This I knew well. I immediately felt at home again.
Lesser Things
I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to get my hands on him, see what he was made of … get
a feel for his particular brand of bull killer whale character … look at his eyes.
What did we have to work with here?
I considered the variety of killer whales in my recent past.
Was he most like Kanduke, Kotar or Tilikum? Maybe Taku? Was he mischievous like Taima
or a scary-smart Gudrun? Hopefully he wasn’t a Winnie—that would never fly for a release
.
I had heard so much about Keiko’s history, and studied every available morsel of information.
But what cannot be read in a profile, history book or scientific paper is the kind
of drive an animal has … whether or not the “lights are on.” To be overly anthropomorphic,
was he an extrovert or introvert? Outgoing or antisocial? Inquisitive or indifferent?
All of this and so much more had a critical influence on a project of this nature,
and I wanted to know all of it in one divine moment of enlightenment. Of course this
wasn’t possible, and my impatience would just have to be suffered. It would take time.
Robin and the staff started me off with a tour of the bay pen.
Damn, can’t you just leave me alone? I’m on the brink of a human to whale mind meld
here!
The pen was literally two donuts joined in the middle by a square rig that completed
the necessary deck space for the research shack on one side and the dive equipment
locker on the opposite. The
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