| Summary: | Griffin had been receiving letters for weeks, and they painted a vivid picture of Namu’s impact on those who had seen the famous orca. “We are sorry that Namu is dead,” wrote seven-year-old Christopher. “I wish that you will get another whale.” A little girl declared, “I will mention in my prayer tonight for God to send Namu safely to Heaven and for God to watch over him always.” “We are so grateful we saw Namu only a few weeks ago,” wrote one local family. “He was so beautiful and gentle.” “Without our friend Namu, the waterfront will be a lonely place,” added a mother in Seattle. “We hope you will consider getting another whale.” The notes helped, but Ted Griffin hadn’t been himself since his friend’s death. The process of forming the first close human bond with a killer whale had produced an intense emotional high, and the animal’s death sent him into a spiral of depression. Usually frenetic, the aquarium owner found himself listless and untethered from reality. “At first I told myself he would come back, as I had believed my father would after he died,” he later wrote. “I had never faced the reality of death as a fact of life.” Try as he might, Griffin couldn’t pull himself together. “I wanted to shed my burden of guilt,” he reflected. “I had brought Namu into the polluted water where the bacteria had killed him. My loved one died tragically, and indirectly by my own hand.” As the weeks went by, his children became confused by their father’s behavior, and Joan grew worried. Friends suggested that he try bonding with another whale, but they might as well have urged him to replace a lost spouse or child. Something in Ted Griffin had died with Namu. Nearly fifty years later, he sat with me at his dining room table and tried to convey this change. “After Namu died, I kept trying to find that connection,” he explained. “I kept hoping for it with another animal, but I couldn’t find it.” So he turned his mind to business.
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