Killing Keiko by Mark A. Simmons Read Free Book Online

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. Bothterminals 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.
    Eventually this signature landing style would become comfortable, and I would boast
     that Icelandic pilots must be the best pilots in the world. But for this once, it
     left my knees knocking and concluded an adrenaline-packed welcome to Vestmannaeyjar
     that was more apropos than I would yet realize.
    Robin met me at the small island airport, and we embarked on a driving tour of Heimaey.
     The island was fascinating: in many ways seemingly inhospitable, but also beautifully
     quaint. For someone who (at the time) had not traveled the world, it was certainly
     an interesting place to cut my teeth. My first inclination was to believe that I had
     walked right onto the pages of a
National Geographic
pictorial, which after all, wasn’t entirely unlikely. It had every element of the
     old world feel complete with “rugged ole” fishing vessels and “rugged ole” fishermen.
    Much like Keflavik, Heimaey had no trees to speak of; there were the occasional saplings
     planted on the leeward side of individual homes and that was it. The houses and buildings
     were mostly white with colorful tin roofs of red, white or blue, huddled together
     as if to shield each other from the pounding winds that made Heimaey their playground.
     It took a mere glance on aerial approach to discern the island’s most valued attribute,
     its protected harbor, from which the town of densely packed buildings and homes radiated