The Mother's Day Demonstration at Miami Seaquarium:

You Trap us in Your Shabby Park, Humiliate Animals, Spread Misinformation. But Mess with our Picnic? That's Just... Dirty.

I'm new to activism in any form. Like most people I have opinions, some strong, and like most people I don't do much about them. Because of my interest and amateur study of Killer whales, I did feel compelled to do something about the plight of one captive orca, Lolita. I went to Miami to a demonstration on Mother's Day, walked around in weather Mad Dogs and Englishmen would shun, and met first hand the variety of citizens who are moved enough to take action against a situation they consider cruel and unjust to one innocent animal.

Garrett Deals With the Heat

I first met Howard Garrett at his brother's house on San Juan island a few years ago. Ken Balcomb is best known as the orca uncle of the Southern community, cataloging dorsal fin and saddle patch images of the Killer whales in Washington state's Puget Sound and constructing a painstaking genealogy while studying their behavior. The Balcomb house is usually full of students and researchers, but this night I was invited along to Howie's farewell party by researchers Robin Baird and Sasha Hooker, with whom I had spent the day chasing after their radio tags in a little rubber boat. The wine and big soft sofas and warm company at the party were just the cure for the deep chill that comes with eight hours of salt water boating.

Our conversation turned from the wild whales we'd seen, to captives. Howie was driving a one-ton truck the next day onto the red-eye ferry to drive to Miami to dedicate a full time effort at a campaign to acquire, rehabilitate and release the former Puget Sound resident whale known Lolita.

We maintained an email correspondence and I followed his work with the people who were determined to keep Lolita captive and protect their lucrative marine park businesses. He never lost his cool, never lost his respect. This part of his character amazed me. I'd have come unglued at the fools, bastards and bullies he routinely deals with in very short order. He cleverly took multiple paths of diplomacy and action to do what he had to do to get Lolita out of that tank. He devised win-win programs to replace the live whale shows with equally lucrative exhibits, he fought the permit process that would expand Miami Seqaurium into a more profitable place, he spoke to school groups and kept people posted over the internet.

Three things came together at one time: I got enough miles for a frequent flyer ticket, I started this magazine and needed good stories, and Howie organized a peaceful demonstration in Miami.

So THIS Is Show Biz?

I shared a room with Rosie Freeman in a nice location in the deco district of Miami Beach. We were two blocks from Howie, and two blocks from the beachfront digs of one of the demonstration's kindest sponsors, a Latin dance place called Mango's. We met with Rand and Caroline Koppel for lunch. Rand, a criminal lawyer from Texas had asked his mother what she wanted for Mother's Day, and she chose the demonstration in Miami. So there they were.

We decided to see Lolita in her last performance of the day at the Seaquarium, to check out what her situation really was like. We paid over $23 apiece, which galled us tremendously. The park was a bit shabby, with poor signage, so it took some time to find the whale tank. We took seats high up in the bleachers and couldn't see Lolita, which gives the impression she might be in an adjacent tank, which there wasn't one. The tank is 80 feet long. Lolita is 22 feet long. The tank is 20 feet at its deepest point, and 10 feet deep through most of the rest of it. She shares the tank with four white-sided dolphins, who she doesn't like very well, according to an intern there. The four dolphins are large animals who would have been poorly accomodated even without sharing a tank with a Killer whale.

The show began with loud music, the trainers came out, and Lolita followed about a third of the commands given to her, performing listlessly. Rand, Caroline, Rosie and I were stunned and appalled to see the lifestyle Lolita has endured for decades.

After the performance we went to the tank to see her. She was floating like a sunken log behind the trainer's platform and wouldn't come up. Rand and I headed out of the stadium slowly. "You know what galls me most of all?" he grumbled. "That we paid this place 80 bucks." If only we'd met Sandy Taylor, who arrived the next day.

It took some doing to get out of the Seaquarium's maze of exhibits. The signage was no better to exit than to get in. At one point I fell behind and looked at a tiny lettuce-strewn manatee tank which holds four adult manatees. Rosie asked Rand where I was. "Oh, she's back there chewing off her own foot trying to get out of this trap."

Saturday night was spent leafleting and passing out postcards on the trendy open Lincoln Mall. Rosie, the most energetic campaigner any of us had met, discovered two things in her interactions with people: Most of them mistook Lolita for Keiko and thought she was already free, and most of them who were against freeing Lolita were under the impression that she would just be tossed out into the ocean like a bucket of chum.

The Demonstration Draws a Crowd of Threatening, Malcontent Riff-Raff (most of whom forgot to bring sunscreen.)

Sunday morning we ran some errands to complete some big plastic banners that Sandy had made, then went to the Seaquarium. The police arrived before noon to help us stay on public land. The caterer showed up with lemonade and cups. Families showed up with hand-made signs. Washington state's Secretary of State Ralph Munro and his family showed up, Ralph wearing a whale hat. In all there were about 200 people, who held signs and banners, and walked up and down the grassy area.

Many passing cars honked in support. Some waved the finger. The Miami Seaquarium cancelled the noonish Killer whale show. A woman showed up on the police side of the barricade asking about the demonstration but refusing to join it. The woman was Laura Singer, Lolita's first trainer. Laura brought pictures of the six-year-old Lolita and of Hugo, another orca from the Pacific Northwest. captures. At the time Lolita was kept in the tiny manatee tank I'd seen the day before. Singer agreed that it was time to retire Lolita, but didn't think repatriation was the answer. Perhaps a better tank. How about a sea pen or a protected cove? Ralph Munro asked. She agreed that would be good. Munro looked at his watch. You could still walk with us on this side of the barricade for 15 minutes. She shook her head no and smiled. Ten minutes left, he persisted. No again. She stayed on the Seaquarium side and talked to us, a representative of the small grey halfway house between captivity and freedom.

There was a picnic at a place called Jimbo's afterward. A dozen of our cars went down the dirt road to the park, joined by another dozen Harley-riding guys going to Jimbo's for beer and bocce ball. (No. Really.) There was a police officer waiting for Howie to arrive. Someone (hmm.) had lodged a complaint that the picnic had no permit. The officer informed the caterers that they might be jeopardize their license. The officer informed Howie that he might be breaking the law. The officer had a word with Jimbo himself. Howie's defense was that we were just a bunch of acquaintances having a picnic, no sanctioned organized event was going on. The officer almost sighed. "I'll file a report." And he left.

After the picnic we went back to the hotel and watched the tv news for coverage of the demonstration. Four local channels had something on it. The haughty reporter who sneered his way through our demonstration gave a sneering report. Sandy came into our hotel room to watch the news with us just about the time Rosie took a shoe out of my hand, as I was about to hurl it at the snootbucket newsguy's televised face.

Sandy Gets Civilly Disobedient.

Sandy had gone to the Seaquarium after the picnic by herself. She paid her $23 and caught Lolita's 4:30 performance. After the show she went over to the tank and held out a picture of a Killer whale for Lolita to see. Lolita was underwater and probably didn't see it, especially because a few trainers rushed over and told Sandy she couldn't do what she was doing. "I paid to see the whale," she said. They tried to hustle her out of the arena, explaining that there was a demonstration that day that upset their schedule and they didn't want any trouble. A guard came over to escort her away. She emphasized that she was a paying customer. They said she'd get a refund. So Sandy not only got out of the place without the rambling we had done, she got her money back. We nearly kicked ourselves for not thinking of that ourselves. I almost didn't want to tell Rand.

I had an afternoon flight the next day, but was determined to see some of Miami's night life... we had dinner outdoors on Ocean Drive, danced at Mango's where the people and music welcome even stiff pasty Scandinavian girls with no moves. The next morning we went to a middle school to hear Howie talk to a library full of pre-teens about Killer whales and Lolita. Some of the kids decided to start a petition and do something about the whole thing.

I ended the weekend with the impression that in a city so warm and accepting, support for Lolita is just a matter of contact, and freedom is just a matter of time.

For more on Lolita, and to hear her family and see a video of Lolita in her tank, check out the NEW Free Lolita web site

For a campaign overview, see the Lolita Come Home Page

For the latest on Keiko, go to Jean-Michel Cousteau's Ocean Futures site

Next month, an interview with trainer Laura Singer, and news about San Diego Sea World's Corky, the other surviving captive Killer whale from the Pacific Northwest.

Leslie Strom (left, with Rosie Freeman, trying hard not to sweat) prefers the cold and wet climate of Seattle but wishes it came with that sexy Latin music and water warm enough to swim in without a wetsuit.