Authors: Mark A. Simmons
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 “bones” of the bay pen and the outer rings were made of
large, high density, foam-filled plastic tubes called HDPE, thirty inches in diameter.
The black tubes were straight sections of various lengths and bolted together via
enormous flanges on each end. These tubes provided the buoyancy and the structural
integrity that kept the bay pen in one piece. However, flexible to a point, they also
allowed movement. The bay pen would literally undulate and swell with each passing
wake like a crowd at a football game doing the “wave,” a contorting ripple that warped
the pen from end to end and side to side. This happened in weather, of course, but
also in calmer waters with the passing of shipping traffic in or out of the channel,
often a dozen or more times per day.
The pen was anchored by a series of ship anchors, several tons each, that ran off
in many directions. They were not visible from the surface, but later in the project,
I would get a good look during maintenance dives. The first impression is that of
a completely tangled mess, but they were, in fact, a systematically balanced and tensioned
mathematical wonder that kept the pen from complete annihilation in pretty insane
weather and currents. The operations team constantly worked to achieve the ideal tension
equilibrium amassed
between the maze of cables. If one side or line was off by just enough, the resulting
imbalance could swiftly break the pen to pieces.
A very course grid work made of fiberglass called “Chemgrate” was laid horizontally
about a foot or so above the structural tubes. This constituted the deck and made
the bay pen walkable. The surface coating had to be super rough in order to provide
a stable foot-grip, but if any ever fell on it, they might fare better dragging their
face across a cheese grater. Outside of the main deck areas in the middle of the pen,
the grate only provided about a two-foot-wide passage around the expanse of the two
main pools. Exterior handrails made of the same high-density plastic kept us from
being blown off the deck and into the bay, but nothing offered protection from taking
a plunge into Keiko’s side of the pen.
Underwater, nets hung from all sides beneath the structural tubes that formed the
shape of Keiko’s pools. They completed the pen’s confinement perimeter. The bottom
of the facility, about thirty feet deep, was also netting, but attached to the vertical
net walls by a large concrete ring underneath, constituting the entire diameter of
each of the two main pools. The rings weighted the net, maintaining the pool’s shape
and providing somewhat of a sea anchor to the structural integrity of the pen itself.
At low tide, the suspended bottom of the bay pen was only a couple feet from touching
the ocean floor. During high tide, it might extend as much as twelve to fifteen feet
from the bay’s floor, stretching the anchor cables to their fullest. There were times
that this extensive variation occurred in minutes rather than hours at the hands of
many violent storm surges that plagued Klettsvik Bay in the winter months. The befuddling
matrix that formed the anchor system was actually the front line in the bay pen’s
survival.
The “research shack” was out of this world. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect
to find such plush accommodations on the pen. Heck, I was even amazed that there was
power, or at least hardwired power! I expected things to be run from a generator.
Nothing doing, and although they had a backup generator the size
of a Volkswagen behind the dive locker, the main power and a phone line were run along
the bottom of the bay straight out from the town. They even had Internet access!
The light green research shack was like something found on a construction site, only
this one was in much better shape. Measuring approximately thirty feet long by ten
feet wide, there were only two doors to enter or exit: one on the end and one roughly
in the middle of its length. There were windows, too, but only at the southern end
providing views of Keiko’s pool, the harbor to the southwest, and the cliffs to the
east.
We entered through the door in the end and walked into a bunking room that doubled
as a “wet room,” an area for disrobing survival suits after the routine dousing from
the elements. From there a small foyer and bathroom joined the wet room to the “dry
room” where the staff spent a majority of its time. The dry room had a small kitchenette
with sink, running water, a coffee maker, microwave and cabinets full of more dishes
and kitchenware than I had in my first apartment. At the back end of the dry room
was a bank of video screens, about nineteen in total, providing images from all around
the pen, including a few from underwater. There was also audio recording equipment
and a few hydrophone hookups that allowed the staff to listen to or record underwater
sounds through submerged microphones.
One of the hydrophones was connected to a speaker, always providing the constant low-level
underwater sounds, echo-like bumps and grinds of the ever moving bay pen. Under the
window facing Keiko’s pool, a low counter provided desk space and included shelves
above. There was a lone computer for staff use on the pen sitting beneath the east-facing
window looking out toward Keiko and the interior of the bay pen. There were even blue
and white flowered Midwest-style curtains. Three cafeteria-like chairs completed the
accommodations.
Very cool
, I smiled. As a person from the animal field, I was not used to having all these
work-related toys. After a brief tour of the bay pen housings, including an explanation
of the records taken
on Keiko, ethogram data recorded on Keiko’s activities, and various other procedures
and protocols, we went out on deck to watch a training session with Keiko, the “Big
Man,” as I would come to call him.
Stephen Claussen slapped the water’s surface, the signal for calling Keiko over to
where he stood at the pool’s edge. Stephen was the lead trainer on this particular
staff rotation. Stephen had gained his whale experience caring for Keiko in Oregon.
He was full of nervous quirks. At times Stephen would unknowingly rub his hands together,
one balled inside the other as if the evildoer in a cartoon escapade. Other times
he would do it consciously, acting out the backdrop of a twisted comment. He was an
immensely funny guy. His sense of humor was often a great and welcome equalizer in
the middle of our newness, dampening the uncertainty pressed upon the staff. Stephen
and I became fast friends.
The session was painful to watch. I had never seen such a slow whale. It was as if
I was watching a fully loaded dump truck double-clutch through thirteen gears to get
moving. Keiko, when he finally came over to Stephen, didn’t even lift his eyes above
the waterline. This posture is analogous to a person who “just-woke-up” dazed and
with his or her eyes half shut.
Hello? Are you hearing me?
One can never be sure.
Stephen stood slightly hunched over, his chin almost on his chest as he peered down
at Keiko. He nervously talked to him, his whistle bridge clenched between his teeth,
narrating the more obvious while he pondered his next steps. (A “bridge” is an audible
whistle signal that “bridges” the gap between the completion of a correct behavior
and the whale receiving reinforcement.) Stephen’s posture didn’t lend much to a professional
appearance. Instead, the way he carried himself made his clothes, the same apparel
most of us wore, appear on him just a bit more disheveled.
Stephen moved ahead with his session plan, asking Keiko for a few behaviors. Among
the menu of trials he gave the signal for a
behavior they called an “innovative.” Having no idea what I was watching, the session
seemed to drag on with no end in sight. I was like a five-year-old sitting in church,
fidgeting and struggling to pay attention. An eternity seemed to pass before the session
was finally over. At last, Stephen stood upright, gave yet another signal with both
hands, then promptly walked away from the session.
Afterwards I walked up on the bridge that connected the two main decks of the bay
pen, the best vantage point to observe both the north and south pools. Keiko stayed
right where they ended the session for a minute or so, and then turned slowly on his
side violently throwing his head down, mouth open all the while and shaking one massive
pectoral flipper wildly in the air. Rolling back to an upright position he took one
explosive breath and started a slow counter clockwise swim in the north pool. W
hat the hell was that all about?
I wondered.
The odd behavior I had witnessed after the session ended was referred to as “thrashing”
by the staff. To me, it appeared like frustration, a temper tantrum. Apparently, this
was something that occurred with regularity and not necessarily during or immediately
after training sessions. Sometimes it occurred seemingly at random, but always during
normal daytime work hours. To my knowledge, the thrashing behavior never occurred
at night or when trainers were ordinarily not present.
Standing atop the bridge I pondered every possible factor that might surround this
odd behavior. I stared down at Keiko as he returned to his presession spot and slowly
drifted to a stop at the surface. The sight of him broke my train of thought. If I
didn’t know better, I would have thought this was a pregnant female. I had seen fat
dolphins before, but never a fat killer whale. From directly above, he looked like
a giant guppy with his dorsal muscle ridge framed against a bulging undercarriage.
Wow! I wanted to talk to Robin badly, but with the staff around and not wanting to
insult my new acquaintances, there wasn’t much I could say, at least not yet.
Where I came from, killer whales were wickedly alert, fast and bright-eyed. In the
training environment, a trainer gets what he or she pays for … meaning that behavior
follows reinforcement. Further, dominant traits of an animal in a training scenario
often betray the tendencies of the animal’s trainer or trainers. They are clues to
where the majority of effort has been focused (sometimes with purpose and sometimes
completely unwittingly).
Think of a dog that jumps on its owner every day when the owner arrives home. The
owner says “no” in a stern voice. Nevertheless, without fail, the dog continues jumping
on its owner each day. Simply put, the owner is a reinforcing quality in the dog’s
life. Regardless of what the owner says when the dog jumps, the dog is getting attention
from its owner, so the behavior is strengthened.
In this context, the word “reinforcement” refers to what happens immediately “after”
a behavior to strengthen or increase the likelihood that the behavior will occur again.
Not all consequences are reinforcing. Punishment for instance, has the opposite effect,
reducing the behavior it follows. Specifically, reinforcement is said to “reinforce,”
strengthening the specific behavior it follows. If the consequence of a behavior causes
that behavior to increase in frequency then that outcome is reinforcing (empirically
defined). More to the point on Keiko, if “slowness” is reinforced, the result is a
lethargic animal. On the other hand, if an atmosphere of high energy is cultivated
by consistently reinforcing quick responses and attentive behavior, the result is
a highly engaged and responsive animal.
“S
d
” is the designation for Discriminative Stimulus. It is a specific signal that requests
a specific response or behavior from the animal. S
d
’s can be hand signals, like sign language, or they can be audible signals or even
environmental cues, like opening a door or turning on lights. Keiko did not know any
audible or other forms of S
d
. The vast majority of his learned repertoire was based on hand signals.
Behavior is a science; the application of behavioral modification (or training) is
equally exacting. Among the many tenants of this practice, a trainer should not provide
a signal or S
d
asking for a response that he cannot reinforce or does not intend to reinforce. At
the end of training sessions with Keiko, the staff would signal to Keiko that they
were finished. It was the same signal that I had seen Stephen use. By giving Keiko
a signal that they were “breaking” from the session (or ending the session) Keiko’s
caretakers presented an S-delta, a signal that indicates reinforcement is no longer
available. In fact, theoretically, the signal itself becomes negative because it communicates
to Keiko, “I’m leaving you now and taking my reinforcement with me.” To Keiko’s trainers
it was a courteous, simple communication. To Keiko, it set the stage for frustration.
Think of a toddler when he first recognizes the cues that Mom is leaving.
Schedules can also lend themselves to aggravation. If a session schedule is so routine
that it becomes predictable, added to a “breaking” signal (delta), frustration can,
and eventually will, escalate to its close neighbor, aggression.
There were many signs that Keiko’s training stemmed from trainers with a background
of pseudo-behavioral experience. These trainers, great of heart and talented in areas,
never understood the science of behavioral modification, but rather, had techniques
passed down to them through the school of hard knocks.
Another misguided construct involved that of the “innovative” behavior. This was a
signal that was given to Keiko, and in response he could do (was supposed to do) whatever
he wanted. The only requirement was that he could not do the same behavior twice in
a row. Each time, he had to do something unique in order to receive reinforcement.
They believed this was a fun interaction; that it stimulated Keiko to be creative
and independent. In reality, it was yet another gray area of confusion for Keiko:
no clear criteria, no clear direction and no consistency in the result. Spontaneity
has its place in life, but not as a trained behavior. The two are mutually exclusive.
The “innovative” was only the tip of the proverbial
iceberg. In fact, most of Keiko’s training interactions were, to borrow from Douglas
Adams, “somewhat similar to but totally unlike” behavioral modification, leaving in
their wake a host of aberrant and self-destructive habits in Keiko.