throughout
Europe. This hostel was amazing. They had somehow leased a dormitory-like building
from the local fire department. It had an entry foyer with a couch and a couple well-worn
but welcoming chairs, a full kitchen, men’s and women’s bathrooms with multiple showers
in each, several dorm-style bedrooms, and an enormous common area reminiscent of a
small gymnasium with a pool table in the center. Near the far end and close to the
kitchen was a dinner table fit for twelve with a white dry-erase board mounted on
the wall right behind it.
There was a Partridge Family-meets-NASA feel about the place, warm in some ways, technical
and clinical in others. Camera and recording equipment dominated another large table,
and the entire front wall of the common area was covered by winter gear from parkas
to fleece undergarments and even the occasional dry suit for diving in frigid waters.
Most of the space against the wall was packed with Mustang survival suits—bright orange
full-body survival suits that made the inhabitant look like the Pillsbury Doughboy
no matter how thin the person wearing it. The suits were not much smaller hanging
on the rack.
I don’t know what I expected, but this was not it. In the small world of fieldwork,
one does not naturally assume that a project is well funded or that everything needed
to do the job is actually provided. On the contrary, minimum creature comforts, the
sharing of gear and a constancy of fighting for equipment and funding are the norm.
Here, this was not the case. I had never been involved in animal-related fieldwork
as well-equipped as the Keiko Release Project.
Congregating in the front foyer, Robin introduced me to the first handful of rotational
staff at the time. Jeff, in his mid-forties, was laid-back and right away disarming.
In fact, he wassimilar to Robin in that capacity. Hair boyishly long enough to cover his ears, Jeff
had a ruddy face that spent most of its time smiling, a smile that could easily turn
into a shit-eating grin. He reminded me of that kid on the block that always finds
trouble, the same one I couldn’t resist hanging out with.
After getting to know Jeff over the course of the project, I would refer to him as
a “whaleboy,” the marine version of a Wild West cowboy. While effective in a multitude
of ways, Jeff was a wrangler, the kind of person that shoots from the hip, nontechnical
and nonanalytical but extremely competent just the same. He was gifted with an uncommon
sense that allowed him to advance in his profession; yet, if asked to explain how
he accomplished things he was often at a loss to adequately describe his actions or
teach his skill to an heir apparent. In my experience, this was a common trait among
those that do versus those that talk. Yep, “whaleboy” fit Jeff nicely.
Jen and her younger brother Greg were equally as disarming. Greg, the outdoor type,
seemed adequately competent. His posture and enthusiasm revealed an eager-to-please
youthfulness. He was young enough (early twenties) to be taken at face value with
no ulterior motives or hidden agendas. A good-looking sort, Greg seemed to model the
same boyish style as Jeff, sandy-brown hair over the ears but not quite below the
neck. Greg’s role in the project focused primarily on marine operations, making sure
the bay pen was stable, piloting various watercraft and maintaining support equipment.
I liked him right away. Jen and Greg were so well established in working together,
it was almost impossible to tell they were brother and sister had it not been for
the nights of heavier wine drinking when the childhood name-calling came out along
with other gregarious banter.
Jen and I would eventually, simultaneously, become both adversaries and advocates.
In as much as she was Jeff’s right hand, I was Robin’s, and we would soon be conspiring
to keep operations between the two smooth. Jen
Europe. This hostel was amazing. They had somehow leased a dormitory-like building
from the local fire department. It had an entry foyer with a couch and a couple well-worn
but welcoming chairs, a full kitchen, men’s and women’s bathrooms with multiple showers
in each, several dorm-style bedrooms, and an enormous common area reminiscent of a
small gymnasium with a pool table in the center. Near the far end and close to the
kitchen was a dinner table fit for twelve with a white dry-erase board mounted on
the wall right behind it.
There was a Partridge Family-meets-NASA feel about the place, warm in some ways, technical
and clinical in others. Camera and recording equipment dominated another large table,
and the entire front wall of the common area was covered by winter gear from parkas
to fleece undergarments and even the occasional dry suit for diving in frigid waters.
Most of the space against the wall was packed with Mustang survival suits—bright orange
full-body survival suits that made the inhabitant look like the Pillsbury Doughboy
no matter how thin the person wearing it. The suits were not much smaller hanging
on the rack.
I don’t know what I expected, but this was not it. In the small world of fieldwork,
one does not naturally assume that a project is well funded or that everything needed
to do the job is actually provided. On the contrary, minimum creature comforts, the
sharing of gear and a constancy of fighting for equipment and funding are the norm.
Here, this was not the case. I had never been involved in animal-related fieldwork
as well-equipped as the Keiko Release Project.
Congregating in the front foyer, Robin introduced me to the first handful of rotational
staff at the time. Jeff, in his mid-forties, was laid-back and right away disarming.
In fact, he wassimilar to Robin in that capacity. Hair boyishly long enough to cover his ears, Jeff
had a ruddy face that spent most of its time smiling, a smile that could easily turn
into a shit-eating grin. He reminded me of that kid on the block that always finds
trouble, the same one I couldn’t resist hanging out with.
After getting to know Jeff over the course of the project, I would refer to him as
a “whaleboy,” the marine version of a Wild West cowboy. While effective in a multitude
of ways, Jeff was a wrangler, the kind of person that shoots from the hip, nontechnical
and nonanalytical but extremely competent just the same. He was gifted with an uncommon
sense that allowed him to advance in his profession; yet, if asked to explain how
he accomplished things he was often at a loss to adequately describe his actions or
teach his skill to an heir apparent. In my experience, this was a common trait among
those that do versus those that talk. Yep, “whaleboy” fit Jeff nicely.
Jen and her younger brother Greg were equally as disarming. Greg, the outdoor type,
seemed adequately competent. His posture and enthusiasm revealed an eager-to-please
youthfulness. He was young enough (early twenties) to be taken at face value with
no ulterior motives or hidden agendas. A good-looking sort, Greg seemed to model the
same boyish style as Jeff, sandy-brown hair over the ears but not quite below the
neck. Greg’s role in the project focused primarily on marine operations, making sure
the bay pen was stable, piloting various watercraft and maintaining support equipment.
I liked him right away. Jen and Greg were so well established in working together,
it was almost impossible to tell they were brother and sister had it not been for
the nights of heavier wine drinking when the childhood name-calling came out along
with other gregarious banter.
Jen and I would eventually, simultaneously, become both adversaries and advocates.
In as much as she was Jeff’s right hand, I was Robin’s, and we would soon be conspiring
to keep operations between the two smooth. Jen
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